Carnival

     Once we found ourselves in the warm backseat of Evandro's van for what felt like the thousandth time that day, we soon started for Sambodromo. Although my eyes began to droop heavily, urging me to close them just for a couple of seconds, I knew that seconds could turn into minutes, and minutes into hours. No. I had to stay awake. Today, I was in Rio de Janiero, on my way to see the stage for the biggest carnival in the world, Sambodromo. That was not something I wanted to miss.
       After what seemed like a fleeting five minutes, Evandro soon came to a screeching halt before a vast, tremendously spacious passage way, lined with thousands of seats for spectators. In the hot, muggy air of the night, the stadium seemed all the more silent and still, devoid of any signs of live. Staring tiredly at the utter lack of people in the dimly lit stadium, I had to close my eyes for a second just to remember what Rio's Carnival in full swing would look like. Ah yes, throngs of extravagantly dressed men and women would walk down this very passageway, flaunting their dazzling sequences and feathers at excited spectators, locals and foreigners alike. And not only would there be thousands of colorful and enthusiastic individuals walking down the parade, smiling and waving, but the proud floats as well. Each would be grandiose and spectacular in their own individual ways. Each desperately striving to outdo the other and win the people's attention.
        Yes. This immensely quiet passageway, Sambodromo, was home to one of the world's most extravagant festivals, bursting with activity, and pulsating with life. After solely envisioning what Sambodromo would look like in Carnival, I felt like it was proper that the grounds of the world's greatest party get some peace and quiet at times. Of course, after several photos of the area, Evandro waved us back into the car, where we would soon be making our final stop for the day, our hotel.

Sambódromo, Home of the Rio Carnaval.

     As Evandro finished explaining the tremendous political significance of the stadium, I looked over to see a fleet of policemen striding past us on horseback. Although I shouldn't have been surprised by the police presence with the intensity of the recent riots, I couldn't help but staring at the bustling, stoney-faced parade of armed officials. Jeeps armed with heavy artillery swarmed the brightly lit perimeter of the building. Countless officials protected the front on foot, by car, and by horseback.
      Looking nearly as stunned as us, Evandro laughed as he said, " There are more policemen than fans." Apparently, there had never before been such an immense need for security around this stadium until the Confederation Cup. In fact, as Evandro later explained to us, it was a pretty precarious place on riotous game days. In the past, when Evandro was young and hot-blooded, he would often have to scrape past various thugs who would hassle him for money on his way to an unruly game.
    Now, however, the government was working hard to ensure the safety of anyone seeking to attend these events by heavily staffing the building with armed and mean-looking guards. Once we were fully satisfied with the political scene at Maracana, Evandro warmly clapped his hands together before announcing that we would next be going to the final place on our itinerary, Sambódromo, home of the Rio Carnaval.
    

A Sea of Policemen

   After a few minutes passed, we soon found ourselves lurching to a stop before a vast circular building, resembling a doughnut with too thin of an edge. Although it was about 7:00 PM, and thus pitch black outside, the bright, and seemingly endless number of streetlights suffused the stadium square with false daylight. Normally, I might be a bit uncomfortable roaming the streets of Rio de Janiero at night, but the astounding  number of armed officials in that one area instantly dissolved my anxiety.
        Marching solemnly before the broad, grey face of the rounded building, were hundreds of policeman, all wearing navy blue uniforms, streaked with neon orange "X"s, and firmly gripping slender batons. I watched them surround the perimeter of the building in awe, inquisitive as to why so many of them had gathered here.
      Picking up on my expression, Evandro began to explain,"There are a lot of police around here because there were strikes here. Some people are against this Confederation Cup because they think that the government had stolen a lot of money building this. So there are strikes all of the country. That's why there are so many cops around to make sure nothing will happen,"
      I gazed at Maracana once more in wonder. How could just one sporting event shape politics to such an extent? What was it about this place that spurred cops and civilians and politicians to action alike? Was it a confusing mixture of pride and bitter resentment. The pride of knowing that one of the world's greatest celebrations of football (soccer) would be taking place in your hometown? The resentment from the apparent  indifference with which the government treated enraged locals?

Hurtling Down the Peak to Maracana

     The hardest part of leaving the summit of Corcovado was saying goodbye to Cristo Redentor. After that it was easy, as we soon found ourselves rapidly hurtling down the lofty slopes of Corcovado. Although I was inclined to observe as much of the wilderness of Tijuca Forest as possible, I found it hard as the most I could make out were the hazy outlines of the treetrops. As I watched the landscape slowly become a blur before me, my eyes grew heavier until I was heavily drugged with sleep.
       After a few gentle jolts of my shoulder, I woke with a start to find that we were already in the parking lot where Evandro was waiting for us. I slightly cursed myself. I should have been awake the entire time, taking in whatever I could of Rio de Janiero. As I walked in a stupor to the bright, gleaming van where we heartily greeted Evandro, I sighed contently. Regardless of my reckless sleep, I probably hadn't missed much, and now that we had seen Jardim Botanico, a mall in the Botafogo District, Morro da Urca, Pao da Acucar, Selaron's Stairs, the Arcos da Lapa, the favelas, Corcovado, and Christ the Redeemer, I was immensely satisified with our travels for the day.
             But in spite of all we had seen, we were yet to see the heart and rhythm of all the athletic activity in the city, Maracana. After tiredly exchanging a few words with Evandro about the stunning beauty of Christ the Redeemer, I slumped lazily against my window, noticing the night life of the streets, without really registering it.

The Gaze of Cristo Redentor

        Once I'd finally accepted that I was actually standing in front of Christ the Redeemer, I slowly turned away from the immense statue, and duly gaped at the panoramic views of Rio de Janiero around us. While it was true that the scenery was nearly submerged in complete darkness, I  still managed to marvel at the seemingly infinite number of twinkling lights in the distance, blazing bright whites  amidst the overwhelming black. And although it was difficult to distinguish every detail of the vast and beauteous landscape at that time, I still caught my breath when I spotted the hazy silhouette of Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca, standing tall amidst the city. Walking further down into the smooth and spacious pavilion, I stared at a doughnut-shaped building standing a little to the left of my vision. It was surprisingly visible from such a height, as it was surrounded by numerous lights and activity.
        I pointed down towards it, asking my parents what it was. After several seconds, my father replied, " That's Estádio do Maracanã...Evandro told us he would be taking us there after Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer, but-"
       He checked his watch. It was 7:00 PM, and it was time to leave the staggering heights of Corcovado and bid Christ the Redeemer a mournful goodbye. We still had to see Maracanã, the shining center of all the athletic activity in the city, and Sambadrome. Before turning away to begin our lengthy descent down Corcovado, I took one last look at Cristo Redentor's face in the darkness, and sighed. He appeared so quiet, so firm, so watchful, so still amidst all of the chaos and growth of the city. It really was hard to leave. I could've stayed there for hours. When I finally forced myself to leave, I promised myself that we would return to that very spot. Under the comforting gaze of Cristo Redentor.

The Illuminated Face of Cristo Redentor.

   We came around to the front of Cristo Redentor, and finally summoned the audacity to stare directly into his face. I instantaneously felt small and insignificant ,looking up at such a formidable figure, which could be seen from all of the distant corners of Rio de Janiero. Although there were clusters of  bustling tourists and dozens of bright, flashing lights from cameras, I could not bring myself to look away from what stood magnaimously before me.
         Now that I stood only a few meters from the base from the incredible statue, I had an unhindered view of His face. I no longer had to wistfully imagine what it would look like. In the faint orange light, his visage shone broad, angular, having a strong chin, and solemn, not cheerily welcoming residents of the city, but rather soberly accepting his responsibility to protect them. I looked closer at the details on his face. His eyes were blank, having no pupils with which to inspect his surroundings. And yet, I felt like these minute, unnecessary details would take away from the powerful of the landmark. It would make it more complicated, more human. As I hungrily continued to scrutinize the statue, I realized that most of the carving in the work was done to preserve its pure and striking simplicity.
      Framing his face were his long, strands of hair, which gave off the appearance of being soft, and smooth in spite of their being carved from marble. Other than a faint mustache at his upper lip, the solemn face of Christ had no other noticeable attempts at minute details, being rather plain and smooth. With difficulty, I pulled my eyes from Christ's face as if held in a trance, and continued to examine the rest of him, including his symbolically outstretched arms and plain apparel.  And for a moment, I almost found it hard to breath, standing before in the illuminated face of Cristo Redentor.
   

Such Majesty

 After a few more minutes, once the bright pink hue of the sky melted into a deep violet, we slowed to a stop before a lengthy flight of stairs, which lead to the illuminated posterior of Cristo Redentor.  I couldn't believe it. We were so close. Thus, in spite of my aching feet and my heavy eyelids, I was renewed with energy to ascend those treacherous stairs. While my mother did not seem to share this enthusiasm, we took to the steep, black, marble stairs after a few short breaths. Although it took a particular amount of energy climbing those steep stairs, my eyes were not fixed on those petty obstacles, but the tremendously vivid figure of Cristo Redentor before me.
         We had no doubt missed the sunset, seeing that the figure's top half was suffused with an orange light, and the bottom with a bright green, but it didn't matter. It was still...amazing. The closer I came to the awe-inspiring statue, the faster I climbed the stairs, heedless of the searing pain within them. This was Cristo Redentor. Christ the Redeemer.
       His robes were cut with a fine, simple precision, running down in vertical strips to emulate folds. And even though his raiment from behind seemed relatively simple, heaving only a few clear-cut creases, Cristo Redentor demanded and received attention and respect from every angle. Not watching my step, I faltered a little as I crossed over the last one. We had finally reached the broad, smooth, black-marbled pavilion that stood at the base of the enormous monument. Staring in awe at the broad back of this incredible monument, I wondered how it would finally feel standing directly before Him. So small in the midst of such majesty.

The Solidifying Silhouette

While my anticipation mounted as we neared Cristo Redentor, my recognition of the darkness that was rapidly seeping into the sky followed suit. As the sky turned a resigned violet hue, I realized that we had started too late. Alas, we had missed the sunset on the peak of Corcovado! Although I was vaguely disappointing for a few seconds, it quickly passed. Regardless of the time of day we reached its fantastic summit, Cristo Redentor would stun.
     I looked out the window once more, to find that we were rapidly nearing a large pavilion in which numerous cars were parked. Evandro neatly drew into a space, before informing us that we were to purchase tickets at the main counter. From there, we would be transported by official vans to the actual summit of Corcovado, where we would take a short walk to the monument itself. I sighed. Even though we stood at the base of that very wonder, I still felt so far away.
     Evandro quickly tipped his head as if signaling for us to continue to the peak. I realized that he was right. Not only could we manage to see the last glimpses of daylight of all of Rio de Janiero from up there, but also the brilliant face of Cristo Redentor at night. Not to mention that after this, we would be seeing the famed Maracana. As I began to think of all of the places I'd been in one day, my head began to spin. But no more of that, we had to get going.
     We quickly thanked Evandro as we left him in that dimly lit parking lot. Being fully experienced in the art of obtaining tickets, we quickly found ourselves in an enormous, official, white van, nearly the size of a bus, but much chunkier. We must have been the last round of the day, for it was mostly empty, except for a few tourists here or there. As we sped to the top of Corcovado, I was filled with the utmost excitement. Were my eyes simply playing tricks on me, or I was a seeing the once distant silhouette of Cristo Redentor solidifying before me?

The Rugged, Little Republic

        The journey to Cristo Redentor seemed to take forever. As we traveled around and around the  long, muddy, twisted road, with its edges bursting with the foliage of Floresta da Tijuca, I stared contently at the sight for sometime, before sighing resignedly. After several minutes of seeing nothing but the bristling, tropical vegetation and the sloping road before us, my eyes grew fatigued of the seemingly endless torrent of green, and began to gradually close themselves. The adventures of the long day were beginning to take their effect. I was starting to think that maybe a short nap would be just what I needed. A sudden jolt of the car stirred me from my lethargy. It seemed to be reminding me of just where exactly we were going.
         I looked on once more, to be finally rewarded with a gracious lapse from green, for rapidly approaching us was an array of close, stocky, beige and reddish buildings, all secured with weather-beaten terracotta roofs.  My curiosity heightened by individuals who would ever want to live at such a height, I stared at the close community with  immense interest. There were perhaps ten or so shops in the main square of the town, that were all narrowly shaped to confrom with the lofty demands of the road. None of the facades of the buildings appeared to be sleek and shiny like their counterparts in the sprawling city below them. Rather, they gave an old, rusty appearance, as if the individuals who lived in this community did not really care much for appearances, but for purpose and value.
     I smiled at my musings. Perhaps I was reading too much into external appearances. As we trundled carefully along the muddied path, Evandro enlightened us by saying that all of the artists of Rio preferred to live here, gaining inspiration from the incredible views of the city and their close proximity with Cristo Redentor. And although I found myself growing profoundly sick of the uniformity of the forests and the winding road before us, I had to admire this particular favela. If anyone knew how it felt to have Cristo Redentor as a magnificent neighbor and all of the views that He did at their doorsteps, it was the rugged, little republic on the side of Corcovado.

The Race to Corcovado

     Sensing the rapidly fading daylight, we urged Evandro to take us to Corcovado and then to Christ the Redeemer. The sun had not set yet, but was bound to within the next hour, leaving the sky the pale, washed-out blue it always is. When we were planning our trip with Evandro earlier on in the day, we intended on making it to Christ the Redeemer just at sunset, when we could witness the magnificent spectacle of colors, which was bound to occur when the powerful sun finally bowed its weary head.
       As we rapidly accelerated toward the lofty slopes of Corcovado, I could think nothing but of Christ the Redeemer. One of the world's seven wonders. 196 countries in the entire world. Nearly 2,469,501 cities, and we were so close to one of these elusive, seven monuments in the world. The road swerving around the majestic mountain of Corcovado, was a smooth, narrow one, consisting only of mud. Because of its narrow nature, however, we were held up at a particular turn, where a large bus had refused to move, and traffic was starting to build. Daylight was fading. What could we ever see of Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer if we were swept in overwhelming darkness? A few twinkling lights of the city and the illuminated face of Christ? We had to hurry. Evandro seemed to sense this as he rapidly floored the accelerator, and daringly swerved past the congested traffic. In spite of the fact that we had spent an entire day with him, Evandro would not rest until he had taken us to Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer at our expected time of arrival. My parents eyes were suddenly filled with admiration at his dogged efforts for our satisfaction.
          As we slowly traveled the winding roads, I thought about how distant Christ the Redeemer seemed from everyone in the city below him, how very aloof he was, resting atop his mountain peak. And yet, it also occurred to me how he could be seen everywhere from the city at the same time. Just a very  faint, tall, and formidable silhouette, that was always present, always keeping his arms protectively outstretched as if embracing the city. I wondered what it would actually feel like, standing at the base, of such an impressive and sacrosanct tribute to Christ, the Redeemer.

Arcos de Lapa

   With the sun setting fast, we soon turned away from the wild, brightly crimson colored mosaic, and reentered Evandro's vermilion vehicle. As we quickly sped away from Selaron's masterpiece, Evandro commented on the tight streets we had just crossed, just to give us a more vivid picture of  Rio de Janiero.
        "These narrow streets. We are in the heart of the city, now. We are in Lapa. Where all the nightclubs are, and the bars, and where the people come to enjoy the nightlife."
       I smiled at this. Now, I knew where all the best clubs were located. Time to party. I'm only joking of course. We were in Rio de Janiero to explore all of its main attractions, and its bars and nightclubs were not on the itinerary.
        After several minutes had passed, we soon hit the center of the city, which was pulsing with energy and  life. The streets were lined with prosperous restaurants, each promising authentic Brazilian cuisine and serving dozens of couples and families. Outside these stood rugged street performers, who wistfully strummed their guitars for money. I looked on, not daring to miss a second of the culture powerhouse that was Lapa. Adjacent to the various delis and restaurants stood the bustling bars, where the sound of the karaoke machines could be heard even from across the street.
         Upon seeing my mom and dad point in another direction out the window, I quickly followed their gaze. There they were, the Arcos da Lapa. Although we couldn't afford to stop, seeing that it was already six o'clock, Evandro fed us a bit of history while we passed the impressive structure.
     Apparently, it once served as a monumental aqueduct, which was constructed by colonial authorities amidst the 18th century. I clung onto the evanescent seconds, as we were passing the ancient aqueduct with tremendous speed.
     I stared at it pensively for a few more seconds, before I tried to describe how it looked.  It was a lot like a starched, white, and perfectly rectangular sheet of paper, that was ridden with numerous arch-shaped holes. In fact, most of the monument appeared to consist more of negative space than positive, much like an elegantly fashioned wedge of Swiss cheese. But, here we finally were, the Arcos of Lapa. At least for a few more seconds.

All in One Mosaic.

       Once more, our journey through the streets went in a blur, as we rapidly sped past the various pleasant verdant squares, often crowned by dusky, bronze statues. After several minutes, we found ourselves hastily slipping past several narrow alleyways in a row, eventually us leading to the heart of the city. 
     Without thinking even, I must have suddenly sucked in my stomach, to ensure that we would have no problem pushing through the closed, and uneven cobblestone pathways of the alleys. However, once a few more minutes past, we quickly snaked through the neighborhood of Lapa, before we finally reached Selaron's Stairs. 
      Having done no research prior to visiting this landmark of Rio de Janiero, I had no idea to expect. Perhaps it was some ancient monument to the city, which would consist of large, formidable pillars, and smooth, beige marble, proudly reminding citizens of the city's illustrious past.
    As I slowly exited the vehicle, and stood before Jorge Selaron's masterpiece, I couldn't even fathom how wrong I was. All around me rose a vibrant and largely crimson colored staircase, that was indundated with tiles of various shapes and colors. As the sides of the staircase vivaciously streaked up a large staircase, pieced together with numerous images and shades of red, the actual stairs of Selaron were vivid blues, greens, and yellows, providing a sharp contrast to their red counterparts. More than the striking colors and the plethora of visuals, what really impressed me was how I could see how each individual piece was meticulously placed, each outlined by a dark outline of cement. 
          Evandro informed us that Jorge Selaron was a passionate Brazilian artist, who developed an obsession for an mundane stairwell, and was determined to make it a beautiful tribute for the city of Rio de Janiero. He was said to spend every passing moment perfecting it. I stared at his vast mosaic in awe. Selaron's passion did not stop with a single stretch on a wall. No, it covered an entire staircase, which people could still use. It was as if Selaron were making a bold statement. While he was urging people to move forward and ascend his masterpiece, he also wanted them to stop and appreciate his magnificent orchestra of colors, and tiles, and the volatile vibe of the city.
      Before I reached Selaron's Stairs, I imagined that it would be a grand tribute to Rio de Janiero's past, sporting enormous columns and a smooth marble facade. But, when I finally got there, I realized that it was a tribute to Rio's present. With its dazzling array of colors,textures, patterns, people, and cultures, I thought there could be no better representation of the Rio de Janiero. All in one mosaic.

Heading for Selaron's Stairs.

 As we were in a hurry to meet Evandro and his vermilion van, our descent from Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca went in a blur. While I still found myself dumbly staring at the views, I was distracted with the pressing urgency of rushing to the central station to meet our guide. About fifteen minutes later, we had achieved our ultimate goal of descending the staggering peaks, to reach the still bustling and crowded station. We scanned the wide parking lot in front of the main entrance for a couple of seconds, before sighting the friendly sight of a large, orange minivan, which we shortly stepped into.
      Seeing our bright, enthusiastic faces, Evandro simply smiled and asked us, "How was it?"
To which we effusively narrated the details of our dramatic ascent to the peaks of Morro da Urca and Pao da Acucar. After listening to us gush  for a few more minutes, he grinned as he told us we would next be taking a quick look at Parque do Flamengo.
    I resumed observing the rapidly moving streets of Rio de Janiero from the backseat, refusing to miss even the minute details. Once five minutes or so had passed, we finally slowed to a smooth halt as we approached an astounding view of Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca, which proudly stood across the sleek waters of Gunabara Bay. Although I didn't get the same feeling I had when I stood on the peak of Pao da Acucar, this was altogether a different experiance. The sun had already begin its steady descent, casting a faint orangish light on the face of Pao da Azucar, and leaving Morro da Urca, its much wider, shorter, fatter and elongated brother, much darker in comparison. It was beautiful. After standing at that picturesque spot for a couple of more moments, we realized that we would have to hasten ourselves a bit, for we still were to see Christ the Redeemer, as well as Corcovado,  Selaron's Stairs, Maracana, and the favelas. But, with the sun setting fast, I doubted if we could still visit all of these places in just a couple of hours. Yet, in spite of my nagging suspicions, all of these doubts suddenly dissipated from my mind as Evandro hit the accelerator. We were heading for Selaron's Stairs. (Whatever those were) Selaron's Stairs

The Summit of Pão de Açúcar

       We were finally standing at the summit of  Pão de Açúcar, staring down in awe at the ground beneath us. Much like Morro da Urca, we had an astounding view of Rio de Janiero, from the tropical vegetation, to the bustling city squares, to the solemn statue of Christ the Redeemer, standing aloof on the peak of Corcovado. But, what really set it apart from its shorter wider brother, was how much higher and more imposing it was. Although I initially struggled to to believe that the views from Pão de Açúcar could be that much better than those of Morro da Urca, I immediately changed my mind when we reached its summit, for I was transfixed by the sweeping view of Morro da Urca below. It was incredible. After all, how often does one get the feeling that he or she is looking down on a mountain of such tremendous proportions?
        We could've stood on the quiet peak of Pão de Açúcar for hours, never tiring of the view nor the silence, and yet we did have to meet Evandro at the central station by 5:00 PM. Come to think of it, what time was it? We immediately checked our watches, to find it was nearing 4:45. It was time we started to descend this magnificent peak. While my parents hurried me along, warning me that they would be late and that we still had much to see, I found it hard to pull my eyes and feet away from the place. As I took one last look at the numerous,thriving plants, the smooth surface of the coffee-brown granite, the rich azure of the sky and sea, I finally turned to meet my parents gaze a little wistfully. Who knew if we would ever come back there? After a few short minutes, we approached an open cable car, before shortly beginning our descent of Pão de Açúcar.

Nearing Pão de Açúcar

        We were currently soaring high above the city of Rio de Janiero, speeding past the formidable, granite mountains and skimming the waters of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon. Or at least it felt like we were flying. Although not nearly as dramatic, the cable car did offer similar feelings of weightlessness and an extensive view of the city. I could not believe my eyes. And yet, in spite of the incredible views to my left and right, I was unable to peal my eyes away from the direction  the cable car was heading. Right before us stood a startling, conical shaped mound of enormous proportions, Pão de Açúcar. We were really here. 
       Much like its lesser-known brother,  Pão de Açúcar also resembled a magnificent lump of smooth, but much steeper, coffee-colored clay, sporting a monumental size of 396 meters (1,299 ft) tall. Running down the sides of its dark, smooth surface were numerous faded, white stripes of sediment. However, unlike Morro da Urca, which had a luscious growth of fresh, green vegetation covering its head, Pão de Açúcar was a largely balding beast, only cultivating a modest, green fuzz. But rather than detract from its appearance, its lack of a verdant vegetation only added to its surreal quality, providing a sharp contrast between the bare, dull brown of the granite to the exuberant emerald greens of the hills beneath it.
      While I was still dumbly staring at the steep protrusion of granite before me, we were still gradually nearing its summit. I hardly knew what to expect. If his little brother, Morro da Urca, had such astounding views, what would the summit of Pão de Açúcar look like?

Authentic Açaí

We stopped to slowly take in the breath-taking sights of Rio de Janiero for several minutes, before turning the other direction, to observe the activity on the pavilion. It was a bright, sunny day, with countless families lounging about on chairs sitting under trees or visiting the array of shops surrounding the minuscule square. After gazing at the pleasant business for some time, my mother slightly cleared her throat and informed us that she was feeling thirsty.
        We immediately checked our water bottles, expecting lucid and rejuvenating H2O, to find that all of them were empty. We must have unconsciously drunken all of it while wondering the winding paths of Jardim Botanico. After staring discontentedly at the empty plastic bottles for a moment, my father promptly came to his feet, proposing we visit on of the many shops, for a cool, drink of water. Enthusiastic for the opportunity to observe any snippets of Brazilian culture, I readily concurred, zealously following my mother and father to a humble ice cream shop.
     Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by the welcome chill of air-conditioning on my cheek. I was already fond of the place. I then, drew my attentions away from the cool conditions of the building to note its more important aspects, like what it sold, for instance. It was a small ice cream shop, hosting a wide variety of flavors, including (of course) the insipid chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. However, rather than simply sticking to the water for which we had come, or choosing one of those traditional flavors, we approached a gangly man in a white uniform and asked politely," Um açaí e uma água, por favor."
      Again, my Portuguese must not have been as incomprehensible as I'd previously thought, for the man eagerly responded, shortly handing us a tall plastic glass, filled with a thick sludge, which was a dark maroon color, along with a familiar bottle of mineral water. I thanked him distractedly, as my parents handed Reals to the cashier. Taking one of the three plastic spoons which were buried deep in the Açaí, I took a tentative scoop of the stuff, just to see what it would taste like.
     Unlike a variety of  exotic meats, one cannot simply say that Açaí tastes like chicken. In fact, I had never tasted anything remotely close to Açaí in my life, so it is somewhat difficult to describe its taste. It was mildly sweet, having a distinct berry flavor, that was also pretty bitter as well. At first, I was a little repulsed by the strange flavor of the berry, finding it a little too new for me, yet the sun was hot, and the frozen Açaí was delightfully cold. I spooned some more with my parents, to find that the more I ate, the more I enjoyed its taste. It's slushy-like texture  and berry-enriched content seemed to refresh us tremendously, like freshly watered plants, we were shortly bursting with new-found energy. It was time that we take one last look at the summit of Morro da Urca, before adventuring forward, to Pao de Acucar.

The Summit of Morro da Urca

      I remained simply speechless for another two minutes, keeping my eyes plastered to the sights outside the clear glass of the cable car, until we finally neared an angled, concrete arch on the summit of Morro da Urca. I stared as the thin strands of wire all fused into one as we slowly climbed to the peak of the magnificent mountain. Eventually, after several seconds had passed, we found ourselves completely fastened in place by the large structure, and sought to quickly exit the carriage, attempting to make way for the large influx of tourists entering the vehicle.

        I marveled at the unfailing efficiency of the cable cars running every twenty minutes to and fro the magnificent peaks. To further compound one's knowledge of the system of Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca, the first cable car to Morro da Urca departs at 8:10 AM, and the last cable car from Morro do Pão de Açucar leaves at 8:40 PM, when the broad daylight that illuminates the city fades, and allows blazing electrical signs  to take its place.

    We cautiously stepped out onto a firm, concrete platform, which bridged the gap between Morro de Urca and the light, airy abyss, which wrapped itself around us. Once we felt our feet firmly hit the ground beneath us, we confidently moved forward, readily exploring the airy summit of Morro da Urca. As we duly followed a surge of tourists, we quickly discovered a wide, circular veranda placed on its lofty peak. It was a cheerful square, being populated with several chattering families, sitting on sturdy benches and admiring the view. Clean and thriving businesses stood at the sides, providing tired tourists with fresh water and food, in exchange for money, of course.

       I admired the sky-blue abyss at my feet, which was coupled with a flood of verdant foliage, ensconced on the smooth, stony surface of granite. Everywhere I looked were sweeping views of the incredible city of Rio de Janiero, just as it had been in the cable car, but stagnant now, refusing to move slowly past me.

Simply Speechless

As the hulking carriage slowly creeped forward on the slanted threads of wire above us, I could only keep my eyes fixated on what was outside the lucid mirrors, unable to shift my attentions anywhere else. Every second in the clustered cable car, as we soared higher and higher, I could scarcely believe the view that was rapidly unfolding below and before us.  I marveled at the wide, curved mouth of Guanabara Bay, which gently swept around the countless, gray, stocky buildings that sprouted out of the ground.  As for the waters, they appeared to consist of a smooth, pale-blue sheet glass that glinted vibrantly in the sunlight.  To our left was the golden stretch of a shore, embraced by rows upon rows of white buildings. And yet, in spite of their vast multitude, staggering, granite mountains effortlessly broke through the sea of industrial white and gray, demanding immediate attention and respect.

      Not wanting to miss any part of our three-minute journey two and from the peaks, I allowed my eyes to wander restlessly, hastily absorbing all of the minute details of our current location. Far to my right was the overwhelming sight of the Atlantic Ocean, which was every possible hue of blue, ranging from vibrant cobalt, to teal, to azure, to a dull, shimmering gray. Amidst this seemingly endless abyss of blue, rose shallow land masses, that were earthy brown, but laurelled with abundant verdant vegetation. I looked straight ahead once more, to see Corcovado, a steep, regal beast, which rose with great pride over the landscape, regarding its counterparts with mutual respect and admiration. And standing alone on that very peak was the stark silhouette of Christ the Redeemer himself. I was simply speechless.  

The Hulking, Transperant Carriage

         I groaned.  Not only was it a sticky, sweltering day outside, with the sun persistently beating down on  our heads, but we would have to patiently stand in it  for at least another hour.

      But wait a moment. Evandro was quickly maneuvering past the line and urging us to follow. We had no trouble complying, hastily passing the short distance that would take the individuals in line possibly an eternity to cross.

      Briskly approaching a stout woman in uniform, Evandro briefly flipped her his tourism badge and uttered a few phrases in Portuguese. After several seconds, she nodded vigorously, and ushered us into the ticket stand. It was nearly too good to be true. Agonizing hours of waiting in line had been entirely eliminated, ah, the perks of touring the city with a certified guide. Come to think of it, I have not yet shared our guide's contact information for anyone who plans on visiting Rio de Janiero someday. So here it is:

General Director: Evandro Da Silva

Email: contato@bambuiecotour.com.br

Website: http://www.bambuiecotour.com.br/

Other Information:

We continued to the ticket stand before  Evandro informed us that we could go on exploring the sublime peaks of Morro de Urca and Pão de Açúcar until he returned at 5:00 PM . That was in about three hours. Sounded good.  We smiled, thanking him heartily and waving him a temporary goodbye, as we went to purchase our tickets.

      It was when we stepped to that fateful ticket counter, that it finally dawned on me how we would scale the staggering heights of Morro de Urca and Pão de Açúcar.  Judging from the hulking, transparent carriage that was sitting several feet away, and the thin, elongated wires connecting Morro da Urca and Pão de Açúcar, we must be going by cable car. Just some food for thought: The cable cars run every twenty minutes, and can hold up to 65 passengers. The round trip ticket is R$53 for adults, R$26 for children (ages six to twelve), and children under age five ride for free.

   That aside, we audaciously approached the ticket counter once more, and left it shortly after with six round tickets in hand. Two for each of us, one for going to Morro de Urca and the other for reaching Pão de Açúcar.  One cannot understate the importance of keeping these tickets in a place where one can conveniently pull  them from one's pockets. This wasn't like Jardim Botanico, where an officer would glance at them casually. No, this was a place with metal bars that you could only step through after scanning the tickets on a machine. Very official stuff. Thus, after several minutes of tryingly searching our pockets, we finally found them, scanned them duly, and entered the hulking, transparent cage of a cable car. Just as I would excitedly lean against the cool glass of the windows of Evandro's van, searching and learning, I did the same for the much wider and clearer windows of the cable car. After several warnings both in English and in Portuguese, the doors quickly hissed shut, and we felt the cable cart suddenly lurch forward. 

Morro da Urca

  As we contentedly pushed our gleaming plates aside, which shinned as though they'd been recently polished, we all stiffly stood at once. It was time to leave.

   Just a few minutes later, we once again found ourselves within the confines of the loyal, orange van which quickly spurred to life with a turn of Evandro's key. As I quickly slid into the smooth car seat, I faintly began to wonder where we would be going next, and I thus, relayed the fateful question to Evandro.

   He took a few seconds to respond, seeing as he was concentrating on the swiftly moving traffic ahead of us, before replying that we would next be seeing Sugarloaf or Pão de Açúcar. I desisted slouching lethargically in my seat for a moment, suddenly animated with exuberance.

       Before leaving for Rio de Janiero, I'd briefly learned that Pão de Açúcar was some sort of magnificent, mountainous terrain that all tourists in Rio de Janiero had to see. How we were to scale these massive heights I did not know, but it didn't seem to matter. We were currently in Rio de Janiero, and were swiftly approaching to Sugarloaf. That's all that seized my interest at the time.

     Like my other excursions in the bright, Bambui Eco Tours van, I once again peered out the clear, cool window to absorb as much of the swiftly moving streets of Rio as I could, from the bright blue street signs, to the flood of tropical plants at curb sides, to the stunning views of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon. I didn't want to miss a bit of it.

   After fifteen minutes or so of hungrily studying the streets, we'd soon found ourselves in a vast parking lot before Morro da Urca.

     As I shortly stepped out of the car, after Evandro obligingly pulled the gear into park, my eyes widened at the mound's sheer size and audacity.  It took me several minutes to finally find the words to even attempt to describe what it looked like.

    At once, the words rushed into mind. Morro da Urca was much like a magnificent lump of smooth, coffee-colored clay, being a monumental size of 220 meters (721.785 feet) tall. Running down the sides of its dark, smooth surface were numerous faded, white stripes of sediment. And to further compound its splendor were thick clusters of fresh, green vegetation that streaked brilliantly across the brown, stony surface. While I simply stood there, dumbly registering where I was, my parents and Evandro had to hurry me along, until I reluctantly pulled my eyes from the spectacle and addressed the large ticket stand sitting at the base of the mountain.

           It was then I realized that it was not only us who had so fervently desired to visit Morro da Urca, and more so, Pão de Açúcar, but also a loud, massive, moving congregation of families and tourists who were waiting in line before us. 

Tasteful Combinations

        When we slowly entered the spacious, cleanly restaurant, we were greeted by the sight of a wide counter top before us, which held several colorful, steaming plates of food. My mouth began to water. As I neared the cruel, glass shield which separated me and the food, I admired a  white, shining porcelain bowl before me, that held a variety of raw vegetables, ranging from broccoli, to carrots, to cauliflower, to candy-purple,beets. I once more shifted my attention to the several other plates of food beside it, which also held dozens of colorful combinations of grains, and rice, and vegetables. There were other dishes that consisted of a dizzying array of beans. To list a few: kidney beans, green beans, black-eyed peas, white beans, pinto and navy beans. Others were laden with sumptuous burdens of quinoa, tender corn, brown and white rice, wheat, pasta, chives, onions, fresh lettuce, carrots, tart green apples, chunky potatoes, Gorgonzola, tomatoes, shredded coconut, lentils...I could go on for hours, but I won't for the sake of time. And I knew, just from glancing at the overwhelming sundry of salads, that each platter must have been of a completely different texture, temperature, and flavor.

       For all of you carnivorous individuals out there (unlike me), Brazil's numerous restaurants and humble street stands will embrace you with open arms.  You are guaranteed to have an tremendous access to all the assortments of meats, and stews, and sizzling kabobs, ranging from the traditional Acarajé to Acaçá to Bauru.
        It's a wonder I didn't just stand there for hours, simply staring at the food before me. Luckily for me and the line of impatient customers behind us, my parents and Evandro stepped up for the challenge. After several minutes of deliberate decision making, we exited the area directly opposite to the main entrance, with our plates stacked with black-eyed bean salad laced with shredded coconut, juicy vegetable burgers, chickpea salad, and white rice which was inundated with  steamed vegetables. To the right of the main food ordering area, was a pleasant appendage that was staffed with several tangerine orange and lime green tables, which were shaped like perfect circles. As I finally settled in a chair and absorbed the bounty on a plastic tray before me, I could only  imagine what it would taste like.

Deli Tropical

        Once we mournfully parted with the blushing orchids of Jardim Botanico, we were ready to return to face-paced life of the bustling city, to at once find that we were again famished. Feeling the gnawing of persistent hunger in our stomachs, we duly informed Evandro of our predicament. He noted our problem with due respect, and heartily agreed that it was time to stop at one of Rio de Janiero's many, many restaurants to finally hunt and kill ourselves a meal. While I am only kidding about that last bit, as we are vegetarians, it was about time we ate something, and we hastily started off for a restaurant, that was sure to be chocked full of vegetables.
      We again slid into the bright, orange van, more comfortably than before, and allowed ourselves to be swiftly transported to an exciting, new restaurant, unlike the likes of the insipid Pizza Hut or Subway. After several minutes of rapidly crossing street after street of Rio de Janiero, we finally stopped before a large shopping complex in the Botafogo district.
           Like other malls of its breed, the edifice was wide, rectangular  and beige, having a large, colorful banner pasted to the front  of it. On it was a cartoon of a confident, lanky woman, who was of course carrying various shopping bags in her right hand.
       As we approached the unexpected center, I smiled up at the wide mall. Before arriving in Rio de Janiero, we had previously planned on  visiting only the essentials: Copacabana, Cristo Redentor, Sugarloaf Mountain, Corcovado... But with the help of our gracious guide, it seemed that we would get a glimpse and taste of local culture as well.
       All of this ran slowly through my mind, as we stepped into the large air-conditioned building, enjoying the bright halls and the rows of neat shops. My eyes never settled in one place, as we felt our hard sneakers go "click-clack" on the smooth tiled floor. I wanted to take in as much as I could of this unforeseen trip to a local shopping center, from all of the sundry of goods and services, to the various types of people, to all of the names of stores and sales in Portuguese.
    Soon enough, we found that we had just breached the entrance of our prospective restaurant of choice. Its name was Deli Tropical.

Blushing Orchids

      Before actually entering the gardens, we were stopped by a muscular, mustached man, appareled in a starchy white police uniform.

"Billetes", he muttered succinctly, looking from face to face expectantly. It took a moment for the word to fully register, before I hastily produced the tickets and handed them to him. He squinted critically at my offering for a couple of seconds before allowing us to pass through the momentous threshold from the bustling city streets, bursting with movement, and energy, and lights, and action to the quiet, stagnant beauty of nature.  

        Before us was a long, winding, chocolate-colored pathway that was surrounded by hundreds of tropical plants and trees. As I admired a long stretch of vegetation to the right, I found that I could distinctly note every possible shade of green within a single region, ranging from apple green to asparagus to a sober olive.

          On a brief side note, it was sweltering outside. As I walked through the sea of emerald, I sighed as I felt the heavy air on my skin. It seemed to be laden with water. In the tremendous sunlight, it almost as if the pavement became more of blinding white than a dull, stony, grey, as it roasted in direct sunlight.

     Seeking to escape the extreme heat and muggy conditions, we sought refuge under cool shadows of various trees. As we walked on, we stopped by a thick, smooth, dark, and rounded statue that had a woman's down turned face carved into it. I smiled as I noticed that from the woman’s parted lips came a clear stream of fresh water straight into a bronze basin also attached to the exterior of the fountain. It must have been mineral water, for we all drank a long drought from the shining basin, before walking onward, feeling extremely refreshed.

        At every intersection of the vast grounds loomed strong, but elegant fountains, each composed of statues of graceful figures, spouting jets of white, frothy water several feet into the air.

    It may take a lifetime to fully describe in detail the sundry of flora and fauna we witnessed that day. So do forgive me if I simply state them in and broken bits and pieces. Countless, bright, attention-seeking hibiscuses, much like fireworks,  flaunted their colorful displays at star struck witnesses. Thick, yellow-green Victoria Leaves, like grandiose dinner plates, floated placidly on the surfaces of ponds. Twisted bougainvillea proudly dashed specks of bright pinks, and reds, and purples, onto a wide canvas of green. Orchids violently blushed in the nooks of gnarled branches of trees. Thick, hard, and lemon yellow strands of bamboo towered formidably from the ground. When I rapped curiously on the smooth surface of one, I found that it made a deep, resounding clunk. Nariums, begonias, and industrious palms powerfully climbed from the ground, as they all simultaneously aspired to make their mark on the diverse and constantly changing landscape. As I took a moment to think, it was incredible how similar the resilient and thriving plant life of Jardim Botanico was to the rapid and ever-changing city-life of Rio de Janiero, and yet so different at the same time.

Entering Jardim Botânico

   Once we finished basking in the pulsing rhythm of the waters hitting the jagged rocks, we returned once more to the blithe, orange van, to continue the rest of our journey. Just as our jocund and effusive guide turned the ignition and assertively pulled the gear, he told us we would next be visiting the famed Jardim Botânico which would take at least two hours to visit.

        My mother and father smiled at each other excitedly, each having an admirable passion for the Plantae kingdom, which I unfortunately did not share. Now, please do not mistake me, but I suppose I haven't planted a sufficient amount of seeds or deweeded thick undergrowth enough to deeply appreciate their lovely, cleansing existence as yet.

         But, that doesn't mean I wasn't excited about going to Jardim Botânico. After all, before starting for Brazil, I'd read somewhere that it was home to a tremendous variety of plants, having over 8000 plant species.  I imagined what a spectacular and multifarious show of green we were soon to witness, when we finally stopped before a stony, grey parking lot a short distance away from Jardim Botânico. When we finally found the entrance, I was greeted by the pleasant sight of a long, reddish brown pathway that snaked to the right of a formidable white building, with strong but elegant columns.  However, before we could begin walking down the inviting pathway, which was ensconced in the arms of luscious foliage, we had yet to purchase our tickets.

  Evandro laughed heartily at our predicament while cheerily declaring that I would be the one purchasing them using my Spanish. I was actually pretty nervous about speaking to a local Brazilian in my schoolbook Spanish, having little to no experience outside a classroom. I slowly walked towards the counters, dreading the simple exchange that was to come. What if I did my best to communicate our intentions, and the woman at the desk would just stare blankly back at me, not comprehending? This was it. I had finally stood directly before the main ticket stand. Evandro promised to step in if I didn't make any sense.

   Pulling in a deep breath, I quietly mumbled to the dark-skinned woman selling the tickets, "Gustariamos cuatro billetes por favor." Surprisingly enough, my pronounciation must not have been as terrible I thought, for she warmly smiled and handed me four long, white strips of paper.

  I continued onward with my group, a little proud of the wad of white papers in my pocket. I think I was going to enjoy Jardim Botânico.

One of the Most Beautiful Places

        As the International Youth Hostel quickly disappeared behind us, we found ourselves rapidly moving past the blurred streets of Rio de Janiero. Meanwhile, all of us comfortably sat, seemingly fixed in one place. As though seeking to initiate friendly conversation, our jocund guide asked us if we had previously seen the beaches of Rio before, to which we replied proudly that we had spend all of yesterday walking the long lengths of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon by foot.
      He widened his eyes at as, “Oh really? That’s great. That’s really great. It’s wonerful, how much you want to see this amazing city.”
We nodded earnestly in affirmation, agreeing that Rio de Janiero was indeed an amazing city. After a few moments of pensive silence, I broke it to ask him where we were going first. Quickly glancing at the rear view mirror, he told us that we were quickly approaching an incredibly picturesque point near the Two Brothers Mountains, where we were promised to have spectacular views of all three beaches, as it was located near the end of the Leblon stretch of beach.
I nodded, satisfied with the response, as I pressed my face against the cool surface of the window to take in all I could of the new and exotic city of Rio de Janiero, as it seemingly ran past me. 
            When we finally arrived at the supposedly spectacular spot, we were greeted by the pleasant sight of rows of little, colorful stands, each of which was canopied with elegant umbrellas. Outside these little businesses stood formidable piles of solid, juicy, green coconuts. I kept my gaze on the stands for a few moments longer, as a deeply tanned man powerfully hacked off the top of a ripe, yellow-green coconut, inserted a slender, plastic straw within the other half, and promptly offered it to a boiling young woman, who was rapidly fanning herself with a newspaper.

The abrupt noise of stunned gasps and a contented chuckle quickly drew my attention from stands, to where my parents currently stood, when I found that I was suddenly breathless as well.
          Adjacent to these humble businesses, which had so captured my rapt attention for a span of several minutes, was a large, formidable cliff, closely encircled by a sturdy wooden fence to ensure that careless tourists would not stumble backwards.
        As my parents and I gazed down the steep, coppery, stony cliff, we were found ourselves nearly transfixed by the waters that surged, and churned, and foamed beneath us. These weren't just the typical brown or murky black. No, these were a different breed, being a startling azure, which faded to a glimmering bottle green around the jagged rocks. Lush tropical vegetation sprouted up from the sides of the hard, coppery boulders, as if struggling to make themselves appear amidst the spectacular beauty of just the serene waters.
         Once we finally were full to our stomachs with the beauty of the scene, we slowly brought out our cameras, just so that we could prove we were actually here. After all, how easy is it for mere tourists to fathom that they are standing on one of the most beautiful places in the entire world?

Finding our Oars

     As we casually lingered outside the sturdy, stone building, the slender hands of our watches ticked steadily closer and closer to 10:00. I repeatedly shifted my weight from one foot to the other  as I anticipated our guide's arrival.

       We must have waited about five more minutes, until we finally heard the distinct rumble of tires across the street, and a faint clicking noise, as if someone where turning off the ignition. I looked again, past the reassuring gate, to sight  a bright, gleaming, orange van, with several stickers pasted to the sides and back, each reading, "Bambui Eco Tour, Viva esta experiência."

     I stood on tiptoe so I could catch a glimpse of who would soon emerge from the vehicle, and be destined to be our guide for the day.

        At last, I heard the door unlock, as a tall figure stepped out from the car. Having bronzed skin, and a tall, muscular build, the new arrival appeared to be of African descent. As he walked toward us, I noticed he was wearing a dull grey T-shirt that read the name of his tour service, and had a dark geometric pattern printed across his right arm. As he edged close enough to the hostel, I noticed that his face was round, and jocund, and boyish, appearing confident and cheerful.

          When he finally stepped past the metal gate, he widened his eyes  at us, as if taking us all in, and gave us a warm, broad smile, as he flashed his white teeth at as. After introducing himself as Evandro Da Silva, he firmly shook hands with each of us, as he effusively told us how excited he was to be showing us Rio that day.

      It was only about five minutes until we paid him his dues, and promptly slid into the bright, orange van. As the sliding door slid shut, I thought that maybe we'd found our oars after all, and that we'd soon be smoothly sailing the waters of Rio de Janiero.

The Next Thirty Minutes

    As I blithely brushed the bread crumbs from my nightshirt, I slowly began to wonder what we would do next, having an entire day in Rio de Janiero ahead of us.
     Under the impression that bused tours with numerous tourists like ourselves were the safest and easiest route, we consulted the man at the front desk once more, whose name I'd learned was Raphael. After listening to us for a few seconds, he nodded in affirmation and told us in a thick Portuguese accent, that they did indeed offer a tour which would last from 1:00 PM to 5:00 PM.
      Rummaging through his desk for a couple of seconds, he soon produced  a heavily creased sheet of paper, that was the tour service's itinerary. After examining it for a couple moments, we learned that the it promised to take us to Candelária Church, Pão de Açúcar, a section of the favelas, and finally the legendary, Cristo Redentor. Deciding it would be far safer and cheaper than a taxi, we immediately accepted, eager to begin our journey.
     As my parents and I leaned against the rough, stone wall of the building, we conversed briefly  of what we could expect. Suddenly, Raphael hastily appeared at the doorway, clutching both sides of the entrance and apologetically informing us that there were no spots left on the bus. Seeing our questioning glances, he went further to explain that because of the recent Confederation Cup, there was a sudden influx of tourists, leaving no spots open.       
        Not wanting to strand the family of disheartened tourists, Raphael quickly replied that he'd make a few phone calls.
        Crestfallen with unappealing news, we again accepted his offer. At this point, I had few hopes of finding a way to tour the vast and exotic city of Rio de Janiero. It was almost as if we were on a great, beautiful body of water, equipped with a sturdy, infallible canoe, but without oars to guide us forward.
    I was lost in thought with the wistful simile, when at that very moment, Raphael reappeared at the doorway, grinning cheekily.  He'd just found someone who would take us on a day-long tour of Rio de Janiero.
          Our eyes widened in relief and renewed excitement, and we promptly thanked him for his assistance. Raphael returned the smile, grinning from ear to ear, as he told us  the man would arrive at about 10:00 AM. We quickly inspected our watches. It was 8:40.
       In thirty minutes or so , we were completely prepared, having full bottles of fresh water, clean apparel, three cameras, and zealous, seemingly unconquerable spirits. By the time we'd finished, it was about 9:30, and we soon commenced waiting for our guide to arrive. As I calmly stood outside, while leaning against the stone building, I wondered about  what to expect. What would our guide be like? Patient and friendly or coarse and brash, reluctantly rushing us to two landmarks, and then leaving us to our own fates? Then again, where would he take us? Would he show us everything the buses would? Candelária Church, Pão de Açúcar, the favelas, and  Cristo Redentor? We didn't know, but we were sure to find out within the next thirty minutes.

Five Simple Phrases

      Yawning cavernously and still rubbing the sleep from our eyes, we arose at about 7:30 AM today.  The sky was a pale blue from our windowsill, and the streets weren't particularly quiet, having the constant sound  of industrious cars sweeping  past us, and the occasional, irritable honking. Yesterday, the man at the front desk had told us that breakfast was included in the package. I shuddered, thinking about all of the various options of ham and beef a mere vegetarian would be soon condemned to have.
           However, upon claiming my respective tray, I was surprised to find a loan loaf of puffy bread on my platter. On the front counter were two wide,colorful, and  inviting, bowls, each holding either ripe gala apples which were speckled with green and yellow, or small, firm Brazilian bananas.
           I took one of each along with my bread, and eagerly began sampling the food. I slowly and tentatively split open the slightly warm surface of the bread, to find that the inside was light, and airy, and a pleasant cream color. The apple was crunchy, and sweet, and juicy, and ever so slightly tart. As for the bananas, I ate two or three because of their texture, and taste, and just for the energy. They were about one half the size of the large, startlingly yellow bananas typically found in American grocery stores. In fact, they were of the same yellow, having a pleasantly tart, yet sweet flavor. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed my first breakfast in Rio de Janiero.
      A short,stout, elderly woman, with a beryl bandanna wrapped around her head, was t

he one who handed each of us our trays, as she softly murmured in Portuguese.
   I believe one of the most challenging parts of going to a foreign county, is not knowing the language. When a kindly individual offers to shatter the awkward and growing silence by speaking to you in their native tongue, all one can do is smile and nod dumbly back.
     The extent of my vast ignorance of the Portuguese tongue lies in five simple phrases:

              Bom dia- Good morning
              Obrigado- Thank you
              Sim- Yes
              Não- No
              Tchau- Goodbye

Suco de manga

        As if they somehow sensed my ravenous appetite, my parents suddenly began to express their desire to find something to eat as well. After conferring with the affable man behind the front desk for several minutes, we decided it would be best to visit a local grocery store nearby.  It was either that or finding a restaurant that would be vegetarian friendly. As traditional Brazilian cuisine consists mostly of meat, due to the abundance of livestock, this would be harder than it sounded, especially at night. Presuming it would be easier doing the former, we started out of our cloistered hostel in earnest, eagerly expecting to see the wholesome sight of an open and bustling grocery store. In spite of my tired state, I was suddenly rejuvenated at the thought of visiting a Brazilean grocery store, and what's more: food.
     Some may ask, "Well, what's so special about a grocery store? You've seen one, you've seen 'em all, right?" To which I would reply, that is a fair question, but I do have to disagree with the idea that all grocery stores are the identical.
       My case? Brazil is an entirely different country. That means that suppliers and farmers and merchants have access to a sundry of  goods and services that are just unique to Brazil. For example, how many Safeway chains in the United States sell Açaí flavored ice cream? How many offer "Leite de Rosas"? How about "Bananada Cremosa"?
       The tremendous international significance of grocery stores aside, allow me continue with our journey to the supermarket. We walked two blocks down Rua de Tonelero before finding a bright, lively, and seemingly prosperous grocery store, tightly squeezed in amongst various other small businesses. I peered in the wide entrance inquisitively, feeling the gentle breeze of the air-conditioning cooling my face, and stepped inside. Although it appeared narrow from the  outside, I was surprised to see that the inside was tremendously spacious and comfortable.
       Before venturing too far into the store, we picked up a green, plastic basket, as if preparing ourselves for the shopping ahead.  I walked through the various aisles of the store, hungrily appraising all of the colorful packages, and cans, and brightly colored tags advertising "maravilhoso" discounts. It'd shouldn't have come as such a surprise to me, but all of the products names were written in Portugese, making the labeling of the packaging all the more intriguing.
     I slowly passed an aisle of fruit juices and tentatively rolled the words in my mouth for a while, as if seeing how they tasted." Suco de maracujá (Passion fruit juice), Suco de goiaba (Guava Juice), Suco de manga..."