Hoping for a Tail Wind

First off, honorable mention to Sao Paolo, Brazil. In many way that city could have its own ranking in the top ten or even simply be rolled into this same post as one entry for “BRAZIL”. Really, Sao is better than Rio. Sao is where’d I’d live, Rio is where I’d vacation. I feel like I will have plenty of time to explore the massive cosmpolitan juggernaut that is Sao Paolo – and goddamnit I am on vacation in Rio de Janeiro right now and the weather is absolute titties.

Rio… She dances on the sand, just like that…. um, river? twisting through a dusty lan
And when she shines, she really shows you all she can! Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Gr?… er… Shit. Fuck, my bad… wrong rio! My bad. I do like that song though – just never enough to actually listen to much of what the lyrically-somethingy pop sensation’s Duran Duran had to say. Also, I’ve spent some time along the Rio Grande “River” on my San Diego California to Jacksonville Florida ride — it seemed pretty dry at the time. This Rio, though. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil — is far and away more worthy of a song from the early 1980’s, and really at anytime in my lifetime. Maybe we go back in time and plant the seed to get them to go to Brazil and create a remix with Milli Vanilli and Neneh Cherry.

Butt

Maybe we don’t.

Instead lets jump off of the jump off with the natural beauty. It’s everywhere. Everything. Everyone. Lush green jungle. Jagged black mountains. Crispy white beaches. Do I have to mention the people? Oh did I already? Everyone meant dogs too. They are cuties on leashes. The people don’t like much clothing (neither do the canines I would assume), but they do like fitness. There’s a small gym like setup every other block. People workout while waiting for the bus and shit. Not gonna even get started on the ill upcycled-fabricated gym and weight setup in the city park. I regert not snapping a photo, I was too busy working out. Everyone Brazilian is apparently born with their butt lifted, it’s the rest of the world spending money to do it. We’re just squirrels. The fucking vermin are better looking here. I spend 7 hours on Copacabana beach watching humans and dogs, mostly. They sit. They jog. They just stand and look at the ocean. They surf and play volleyball… well, not the dogs. And I just sit. Sometimes I read. Lin Yutang is schooling me from the grave On Conversation.

When it gets too hot or I get bored, I swim out in the South Atlantic Ocean beyond everyone else and do laps along breaking waves, dodging surfers and probably sharks alike. I become a Harmony Korine-style beach bum, at least for the morning. I’m not here alone, I came with friends. Well right now right now I am alone. Rewind or fast foward to my friends Damon and Riana coaxing me down here for four days. It’s Damon’s idea, and as he and Riana jump at a nice priced direct JFK to Rio flight I tell him I’m in too. Going big as fuck. The three of us hit an Argentina vs Brazil futbol game our first night in town. There’s World Cup implications.

Yet right now right now, they’ve joined my beach Buddha bash and Damon doesn’t beach much. He does like to sleep in, which a valuable skill on vacation which I do not wield. I’m out here at 7am for a couple hours of quiet beach time. By the time they find me, it’s 1 or 2pm and Copacabana Beach is jumping. I am crispy and salty too. I pack up and we head out on foot, in search of more of the most beautiful things Rio has to offer: Culture.

Me thinks that word culture is overused and misunderstood. The dictionary definition of culture is dry and/or obtuse, revolving around words like attitudes, religions, tastes, beliefs and aesthetics. All sort of example-based derivatives. Sometimes the definition is downright confusing, so scientifcially wordy and nerdy that it might constitute the exact goddamn opposite of the word. A “what-the-fuck” is called for. Culture is a living and flowing thing. It is human beings, alive, engaging in human things. Miriam-Web could through sex, drugs and rock and roll right in there with taste in fine arts, humanities, and broad aspects of science in their definition. Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it later.

Damon and I have traveled a ton together. This is the first time his wife Riana has joined us, which is supercool because I was Best Man in their wedding years ago and we all get along like peas in a pod. These are my peoples. Though this is the first time Riana has the pleasure of witnessing both the weird ass shit I say and Damon and I’s consistent debates over the strangest yet sometimes most significant of topics. Lately it’s been AI’s impact on the workforce – and humanity in general. I like to trigger him with words like “unions”, he’s fascinated with “scarcity mindset” and “abundance mindset” and encourages our robot overloads’ arrival.

Timespace continuums intersect and form a four-quadrant matrix depicting this moment. Distinctively, I’m currently nose deep in Brazilian culture. By currently, I mean right now right now. By nose deep, I mean a tropical evening outside in a small plaza, jammed up by beautiful smiling faces and dancing bodies – cheek to cheek and hand to hand in a space known as Pedra do Sal. By Brazilian culture, I mean Samba. This place is a sacred location it is the birthplace and heartbeat of Samba, and I am here I am. Almost by accident. Amazing, nonetheless. I’m pretty sure Damon and Rianna are both drunk off just one drink. I’m jaw dropped at how beautiful each and every women here is. And happy. The vibration is unreal. I’d prefer not to leave if I don’t have to. Is this the abundance mindset?

Pedra do Sal, at Morro da Conceição, is part of a region historically known as “Pequena África” (Little Africa), which originally spanned from current Mauá Square to the Cidade Nova neighborhood areas. Celebrations in slave houses and “forrós” (festivities in which forró – a traditional Northeastern Brazilian music genre – is the central focus) “choro” (“cry” or “lament”- an instrumental Brazilian popular music genre similar to New Orleans jazz) music was performed with flute, “cavaquinho” (small guitar) and guitar.

In slave house’s backyards, rural samba was performed, which included clapping, tambourine, “prato-e-faca” (a percussion instrument which consists of a knife and a plate) which was followed by dance moves. Urban samba in Rio de Janeiro was born from these events, as were popular samba musicians and the old samba ranches. Pedra do Sal was also seen as a sacred place in which African religion devotees would place religious offerings. 

Listed as a historic and religious heritage site, it provided, in the 19th century, stone – which was extracted by slaves – for paving streets and the port of the city of Rio de Janeiro. The area, by the sea, was also a place of salt loading and unloading, a product which was used for leather manufacture and canned meat production. Today, Pedra do Sal hosts lively samba jam sessions by Roda de Pedra group.

Quantum leap your ass to sixteen four hours into manana. Slightly tropical rainy, still warm. We’re hiking our asses up a mountain. There’s a Wonder of the World up there. All up on a cross looking down at the city. Then maybe a train back down. Slowly. Our trek to Christ the Redeemer, one in which I secretly hope to start a new form of moon bombing, is abruptly ended by a guy in what appears to be a Brazilian Army uniform. Other men are dressed similarly so I assume this shit is real. They tell us the trail is closed for today. Not reopening either. Well fuck. That’s not gonna happen, no new moon bomb influencing for me . Yet, after four score and something times around the sun, I now have quantifiable and irrefutable proof that I am indeed irredeemable! Praise Jeebus. Thank you Brazil.