An Hour and Forty-Eight Minutes in Copacabana
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It's early afternoon. I'm sitting in a café across from Ray. We're three blocks away from what might be the single most famous beach in the world, Copacabana, in Rio de Janeiro. We arrived in Brasil about seventeen days ago. Or so, I'm to lazy to count exactly. Brasil greeted us with red, clayish-dirt, lithe, svelte palms, an army of them sun-bathing, sloping into the dense jungle-green hills. The key here is sun, warm sun. Uruguay had sun, but not the warm. Our first stop is Floripa. Florianópolis in full, we plan to stay two or three days. Two weeks later we get a move on. Overnight bus to Saõ Paulo, connect on another and Rio. Back to the café. I'm anxious I tell Ray. Why? I don't know. I just came back from the cyber-café next door, I sent off Myspace and Facebook messages into internet oblivion. And I changed my ticket back. From August 28th to September 18th. I think this is the third time i've pushed it back. Or so, I'm to lazy to count
exactly.
Is it that? Is that I'm feeling a slight financial crunch? All this traveling sans work, responsibility, steady income? Was it the big breakfast? Papaya, ham n' cheese on a roll with jam and guaraná juice, two coffees, a hot chocolate and cake? I need to run. Yes. On the beach. And I am. It's twenty minutes later and I'm walking up to the strand. I can see Paõ de Açucar, Sugar-Loaf. And somewhere nearby is Christ the Redeemer looking over all the Cariocas in Rio, maybe three miles away. Or so, I'm too lazy to find out exactly.
My feet are dipping into soft-cool sand and my flip-flops are in hand. I'm wearing white jersey-shorts and a white-tee. I pull the tee off. I plot my route, and I start running. Immediately I feel liberated, a release flowing through my body. Waves are crashing down and the white crest tickles through my toes. I'm running hard, sprinting and now I'm panting and I stop to catch my breath. The clouds hang suspended above, three thin-ones, absolutely still, as if they too want to admire the view. I look to my right. Three large, tanned, glistening-asses are prominently in my view. I count to confirm. Six cheeks. But one of these cheeks is equivalent to a whole U.S. ass (U.S.D.A rump). Carnal desire sets in, I become an animal, a beast, I want to go over, like a dog sniffing, maybe just to verify, and just go at it. Right there on the beach. Raw animal-sex. One of the girls is looking over, smiling. I smile but get nervous or something and look away and start jogging again. I run to the end of the beach and plop down in the sand, huffing.
There are boats and maybe you can rent them but no one has or is so maybe not. I decide to jog back and out of the corner of my eye I spot something flying at me and I look mid-stride and it's a soccer ball about to pelt me but strangely I turn into Ralph Macchio from the Karate-Kid and do some crazy maneuver and bunt the ball with the side of my foot and I can feel it was a great kick and "opa!" and "oi!" and "legal" or cool and two girls on the beach make some comment in Portuguese and this one kid does this flicking thing with his hand that I take to mean "wow that was cool" and I run on inspired and I've probably never had such quick reflexes nor kicked a soccer ball so well and in this the country of Pele and the most World Cup champions I feel like Ronaldinho if only for twenty-seconds.
I'm walking now and I'm thirtsy but I spot some monkey-bars so I stop and do some pull-ups and walk over to a café and buy a bottle of water and sit and sip and gaze. I ask for a lime at the bar for my water and squeeze it and plop and drink and it's done and I go to the "public" restroom and pay $1.50R (bout 80cents U.S.) and take a leak and wash my hands and the bathroom is the nicest beach-bathroom I've ever used, all sleek with stained-glass and modern. I emerge from the subterranean bathroom and the Calle 13 song Atrevete-te-te comes into my head and I start running again and people-watch and before I know it I'm at the other end of the beach and walking back and I've got $1.50R left and want fresh coconut juice, in Floripa they come to you on the beach and machete-off the top and plop in a straw and fresh, cold coconut juice. I hope it's the same here, but all the coco stands charge $2Reais and I try and bargain and finally find one that'll do it and I hope for the machete, I just feel like it's more menacing, South-American, authentic and just plain cool. No machete but he takes out a hatchet and Yes! Hack the shit out if it! Slice it up! Gimme that cold coconut juice and I Snatch! it from him, and then I purse my lips tight and suck through the small-thin straw and smile coyly and say thank you yes it's very good and meander away. I'm walking back to the hostel and I'll be there in nine-minutes. Or so, I was too lazy to pay attention before to know exactly.
.
It's early afternoon. I'm sitting in a café across from Ray. We're three blocks away from what might be the single most famous beach in the world, Copacabana, in Rio de Janeiro. We arrived in Brasil about seventeen days ago. Or so, I'm to lazy to count exactly. Brasil greeted us with red, clayish-dirt, lithe, svelte palms, an army of them sun-bathing, sloping into the dense jungle-green hills. The key here is sun, warm sun. Uruguay had sun, but not the warm. Our first stop is Floripa. Florianópolis in full, we plan to stay two or three days. Two weeks later we get a move on. Overnight bus to Saõ Paulo, connect on another and Rio. Back to the café. I'm anxious I tell Ray. Why? I don't know. I just came back from the cyber-café next door, I sent off Myspace and Facebook messages into internet oblivion. And I changed my ticket back. From August 28th to September 18th. I think this is the third time i've pushed it back. Or so, I'm to lazy to count
exactly.
Is it that? Is that I'm feeling a slight financial crunch? All this traveling sans work, responsibility, steady income? Was it the big breakfast? Papaya, ham n' cheese on a roll with jam and guaraná juice, two coffees, a hot chocolate and cake? I need to run. Yes. On the beach. And I am. It's twenty minutes later and I'm walking up to the strand. I can see Paõ de Açucar, Sugar-Loaf. And somewhere nearby is Christ the Redeemer looking over all the Cariocas in Rio, maybe three miles away. Or so, I'm too lazy to find out exactly.
My feet are dipping into soft-cool sand and my flip-flops are in hand. I'm wearing white jersey-shorts and a white-tee. I pull the tee off. I plot my route, and I start running. Immediately I feel liberated, a release flowing through my body. Waves are crashing down and the white crest tickles through my toes. I'm running hard, sprinting and now I'm panting and I stop to catch my breath. The clouds hang suspended above, three thin-ones, absolutely still, as if they too want to admire the view. I look to my right. Three large, tanned, glistening-asses are prominently in my view. I count to confirm. Six cheeks. But one of these cheeks is equivalent to a whole U.S. ass (U.S.D.A rump). Carnal desire sets in, I become an animal, a beast, I want to go over, like a dog sniffing, maybe just to verify, and just go at it. Right there on the beach. Raw animal-sex. One of the girls is looking over, smiling. I smile but get nervous or something and look away and start jogging again. I run to the end of the beach and plop down in the sand, huffing.
There are boats and maybe you can rent them but no one has or is so maybe not. I decide to jog back and out of the corner of my eye I spot something flying at me and I look mid-stride and it's a soccer ball about to pelt me but strangely I turn into Ralph Macchio from the Karate-Kid and do some crazy maneuver and bunt the ball with the side of my foot and I can feel it was a great kick and "opa!" and "oi!" and "legal" or cool and two girls on the beach make some comment in Portuguese and this one kid does this flicking thing with his hand that I take to mean "wow that was cool" and I run on inspired and I've probably never had such quick reflexes nor kicked a soccer ball so well and in this the country of Pele and the most World Cup champions I feel like Ronaldinho if only for twenty-seconds.
I'm walking now and I'm thirtsy but I spot some monkey-bars so I stop and do some pull-ups and walk over to a café and buy a bottle of water and sit and sip and gaze. I ask for a lime at the bar for my water and squeeze it and plop and drink and it's done and I go to the "public" restroom and pay $1.50R (bout 80cents U.S.) and take a leak and wash my hands and the bathroom is the nicest beach-bathroom I've ever used, all sleek with stained-glass and modern. I emerge from the subterranean bathroom and the Calle 13 song Atrevete-te-te comes into my head and I start running again and people-watch and before I know it I'm at the other end of the beach and walking back and I've got $1.50R left and want fresh coconut juice, in Floripa they come to you on the beach and machete-off the top and plop in a straw and fresh, cold coconut juice. I hope it's the same here, but all the coco stands charge $2Reais and I try and bargain and finally find one that'll do it and I hope for the machete, I just feel like it's more menacing, South-American, authentic and just plain cool. No machete but he takes out a hatchet and Yes! Hack the shit out if it! Slice it up! Gimme that cold coconut juice and I Snatch! it from him, and then I purse my lips tight and suck through the small-thin straw and smile coyly and say thank you yes it's very good and meander away. I'm walking back to the hostel and I'll be there in nine-minutes. Or so, I was too lazy to pay attention before to know exactly.
.
posted by Matt In The Hat | 1:30 PM
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