There's just enough time during the layover to watch the Miami Heat
lose the basketball semifinals, while all the local Miami folk cringe
at their team's demise. We take off just minutes after.
Once airborne, the pilot announces, "The radar isn't working, I'm
afraid we'll have to return, as I don't feel comfortable flying 8
hours without it." Neither do I. But it's midnight already,
everyone's dead tired - the Kiwi guy next to me flew from New Zealand
in an overnight marathon. The good-looking black lady in front is
stressed she'll miss her 9AM appointment in Rio. Cutting it a tad
close, there? A sure recipe for stress.
We depart 1AM, the black lady will surely miss her appointment; she
is mad! I wonder if my mom will call the airline, or if she'll
arrive early and wait.
CUSTOMS, THE FIRST HURDLE
"Bem-vindos ao Rio de Janeiro". Thrilled, because I'm here! But
there's still the issue of Customs; WHAT exactly are you bringing
into our cow-n-trie? is a fair question, but a potential hassle for
sneaky would-be smugglers.
Approaching the customs line, with my lavender/pink duffle bag full
of American goodies, I recall last year's failed smuggling attempt.
Then, I carried amidst my clothes:
-two VHF radios
-one CD player
-four automobile speakers
-one computer camera
-and a host of expensive perfumes and books.
The red light came on at the end of the custom's line, and I got
busted. My mom patiently waited outside for three hours, while I
unpacked every last sock and underwear to the inspector's
satisfaction. After US$200 in taxes, and other losses, I decided
that being a smuggler isn't my calling.
This year things were different. I only brought a huge stack of
books and a heavy towrope (both necessities for my parents' remote
lifestyle). When I pressed the button at the end of the custom's
line, the light was green. Hurray! The life of crime does not pay.
MEAT, THE SECOND PLEASURE
The Churrascaria Oasis is my first dining experience upon arrival:
meat in all its Brazilian glory. An army of waiters wielding swords
with 25 variations of lamb, beef, poulty, and pork, sliced
sumptuously onto your plate, serve you mercilessly. They only stop
once you beg forgiveness for the vegetarian years that you pursued, O
sacrilege, in California.
Unexpectedly, the American School of Rio de Janeiro, the school of my
early years, was hosting a party at the Churrascaria. When we
arrived at the door, and the waitress asked, "Are you with the
American School?" I was shocked! How did she know I'd gone to school
there 10 years ago? Then we discovered the coincidence. Between
bites of tender-loin and chicken hearts I looked over to the long
table of teachers, wondering if I knew any of them; and sure enough
my 7th grade math teacher came over and gave me a big hug,
exclaiming: "KRISTIAN BEADLE!" There is a link between meat-eating
and nostalgia, after all.
ESTRADA VELHA DA TIJUCA, 149.
After the hurdles and pleasures, the above address is the real reason
I love Rio. My grandparents' house, a 1920 two-storey building,
which isn't called a mansion only because of the genuine humility and
simplicity found herein. Of the occupants, surely, but also of the
carved furniture; the plants in every corner; my aunt Isolda's
paintings; the swinging French windows; everything is classic,
tasteful, and well-kept. I've been privy to many family gatherings
in that house, which turn the restful space into a bubbling bath of
laughter, and love of people we haven't seen in years and almost
forgotten, but loved nevertheless for being family.
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