Rio looks deceptively clean and safe on first impression. Trash isn't piled on the curbs; streetkids aren't flocking on every streetcorner; even the traffic is relatively tame. Wait.... it's a holiday, so everybody is home. And there's more: the evening news announced that alongside the girls in bikinis, there were grenades in Ipanema today.
The villains from a nearby favela clashed with police forces in broad daylight next to a popular supermarket, the Zona Sul. No one was hurt. But machine guns and grenades can't be pleasing to the ear during lunchtime. The monster of poverty and crime gets swept under the rug and shows it's ugly head when least expected.
My brother and I continue our nostalgic tour of Rio. In a little rental car, we maneuver past the distant suburbs of Barra and Recreio, where we used to live 10 years ago. The endless sandy beach is backdropped by skyscrapers; then the lagoon takes over, a long waterway that leaves just a thin strip of land next to the shore. Mountains resembling Mickey Mouse and baloons sit placidly in the distance.
We used to drive along this road every day, on the way to school. It used to be quite neglected and beautiful. It is now well maintained and beautiful - with just a token of idiosyncracy. Kiosks line the promenade with stone work; speed moderating bumps keep cars at a safe velocity. Eventually we arrive at the remotest beaches, Prainha and Grumari, our childhood hangouts during weekends. The grenades and machine guns are so far away we decide that Rio isn't so bad, after all.
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