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..."

Naught's had, all's spent

      All this time we had been walking in the completely wrong direction. All for nothing. The faint words of Shakespeare dimly echoed in my mind, "Naught's had, all's spent". We were no closer to the hostel than we had been at that cursed intersection, leading us on to Rua Santa Clara. Perfect. My parents solemnly acknowledged what we would have to do, thanked the man, and turned around.

       On my last reserves and feeling as though I would soon collapse from exhaustion,  I stumbled drunkenly through the dimly-lit street, with my parents lagging behind me. At that moment, the only thoughts running through my head were, "Rua de Tonelero. Rua de Tonelero. Rua de Tonelero." The name of the road to salvation would not cease to repeat itself,as though they were the words to a painfully catchy song.

          Finally, after several blurry, seedy, abandoned  blocks, we found ourselves standing in the heavenly light of a bright blue street sign, reading, "Rua de Tonelero". At that point I was so fatigued, that I dully acknowledged its presence with a faint smile, and a halfhearted wave. We walked a few steps to the right of the sign, to immediately discover the Youth Hostel. And just like that, as though walking in a dream, we crossed the insignificant street between us and the hostel, and stood before the tall metal gate of the building. 
       Suddenly renewed by a sudden burst of confidence and strength, I unhesitatingly pressed the buzzer, and the gates suddenly unlatched, welcoming us into our narrow, cramped, temporary, and absolutely wonderful residence. I stepped into the tall door of the hostel, to be greeted by the sight of a bearded man at the front desk and a long, lovely, couch that stretched from one end of the room to the other.
      I  thankfully slumped against it and fixed my eyes straight ahead, on a TV at the other side of the room. I watched, transfixed, as several long-legged figures, appareled in bright yellow jerseys, hastily fought for a gleaming, white ball with their feet. It was a football match. And though, I did not understand a word that the commentators were saying, speaking in rapid-fire Portuguese  I knew enough about football to dimly follow what was going on. 
              As I gradually became engrossed by the program, I suddenly  felt a deep growl in my stomach  "Ah, the beast has not yet been fed,”I thought sadly, knowing that we would soon be forced to leave the comfortable confines of the hostel and look for food.
  

Just a Side Note!

To anyone who is reading and enjoys my content, please do take a second of your time to subscribe! There is a little icon at the top, and it would mean a lot if you did. I apologize for the slight interruption in my adventures in Brazil, but no matter. I will ensure that we will get through this journey together, and see all that this vast country has to offer!

Rua de Santa Clara

     After meditating on the bus for several minutes, as it lurched forward through the sunless streets of Rio, I slowly began to grow wary of where we were. What if we were to miss Rua de Santa Clara altogether? What would we do then? Seeking to calm my rigid nerves, my father asked a young college student when the bus would stop on Santa Clara. 

       Expecting that the man would not know English, I sank further in my seat, wondering if I could read the names of each individual bus stop in the dark. To my surprise, however, the young man keenly replied that it would be about five more minutes and that it was his stop as well. Noting that only a few of the people we had met so far could  speak English, I was completely taken aback, and we all duly complimented his linguistic skills. His juvenile face broke out into a grin, happily accepting the compliments, and he informed us a few minutes later that he'd learned it from the Internet. Ah, the Internet. Not only was it capable of entertaining people with memes and pictures of cats for hours, but also of teaching students English! Genius!

         We finally neared a narrow passage of the city which had a bright blue street sign, reading, “Rua de Santa Clara.” We quickly stepped off the bus and followed our guide to a close street. It was crammed with numerous stores, each casting a dull light on the slick pavement.  He pointed in a particular direction to indicate our intended path of travel, and we  promptly thanked him, saying, “Obrigado.” repeatedly. A few minutes later, he melted into the darkness, no more than a friendly, but distant shadow. 

          My father, assuming the position of the family GPS, lead us down the faintly-lit passage.  I shuddered a little as the sky turned pitch black. It was only about 7:30 PM. As we walked farther and farther, my parents and I grew steadily more confused. We studied a ruddy black-and-white map of the streets of Rio in the darkness, and were still just as unenlightened. I broke out into a frantic run, pulling my parents behind me. As we thoroughly scanned the streets ahead, desperately searching for Rua de Tonelero, I began to feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. The streets were abandoned. I slipped slightly, not looking at the ground beneath me. For a moment, it even felt like I had sprained my ankle on the uneven, slippery pavement. My parents hastily decided that it would be in our best interest to seek the guidance of an elderly man on the other side the street. We repeated, “Rio Rockers Youth Hostel,” several times before the gentleman nodded in recognition and pointed in the opposite direction from which we had just walked several blocks. He squinted his eyes a little, and then muttered, " Straight, then, right on  Rua de Tonelero." 

I groaned in a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion.

Public Transportation

           Feeling the toll of our lengthy walk, my parents halted beside me as well, bending over to press their legs. 

           As the seasons are reversed in the northern and southern hemispheres, we went to Rio in the winter in mid-June. It was even harder to wrap my head around this as it was always an average of a sweltering 88ºF (31º) C. Although there is no fleecy blanket of snow covering Rio's streets, the sun does not set at 8:00 PM, as I thought previously, but rather at  6:00 PM. 

         Thus, when I suddenly noticed that it was about 5:30 and that the sky was rapidly becoming  a faded pink,  I urged my parents to return to the hostel. "What's the need to hurry?"one may ask. "The night is still young."

        To answer that question, the grave warnings of several forums still rang in my ears. The haunting stories of various crime-ridden streets of Rio at night chilled my blood and quickened my pace. For several minutes, we fruitlessly strove to make our way to the hostel, before our weary feet remonstrated. Seeing no better way of a speedy transit, we hastily boarded a bus that flashed the words "Rua de Santa Clara" on the front. Now, I wasn't sure what Santa Clara had to do with the address of our hostel, but I would not miss any opportunity to sit down at that point.

        Afraid that we would miss the only transportation to our utter salvation, we climbed up the back end of the bus, flustered and out of breath. An old, pudgy driver examined us closely for a few seconds before muttering a blur of Portuguese.  Helpless, we frantically searched the bus for anyone who could possibly speak English

      And like a god-send, a kindly woman stepped up and translated for us. Subsequently, the bus driver nodded amiably in comprehension, had us pay for our trip, and allowed us to sit on the most comfortable chairs in the entire world. Or at least, they felt that way. 

        One cannot exaggerate the amount of relief one feels after sitting down. Although my legs initially screamed in pain once they finally settled, I began to feel a slow, and heavenly relief seep through them. All these thoughts rushed through my mind as we lounged on the bus, but our adventures of finding our way through the city were not over, for we still had little to no idea where our hostel was located and where the great bus was taking us. 

At the Copa-Copacabana...

               It has been, indeed, a long,tiring, yet very fulfilling day in Rio de Janiero, Brazil. It may be a lot to digest, so don't mind if I feed it to you in bits and pieces. 

          My day all started with a pungent shot of black coffee, and then we were off. My parents and I began our excursion by walking several blocks through the bustling streets of the city until we finally reached the famed Copacabana Beach. Now, I know how much people can exaggerate about Brazil’s beaches, but it was almost as if we were transported

to a different planet. It was in a word: unearthly. The sand was of a pale, golden hue. It was soft, and firm, and fine. The tint of the waves crashing upon the sand was not of the insipid, murky brown, or dull green, but rather a lucid aquamarine. The bottle-green waves would roll lazily by, until they finally crashed down upon the  warm shore with a white flourish of foam and bubbles. Finally, to make the scene all the more picturesque, majestic and stone brown mountains, crowned with verdant vegetation, loomed above the landscape. Their beauty was further compounded by the numerous  reddish brown houses on the sides of them. My mouth agape, I stared at the city which emb

raced the beaches. Adjacent to these majestic, and awe inspiring mountains,were equally proud, hotel complexes, which were futilely trying to compete against the staggering beauty of nature.

      As we walked quietly alongside the boardwalk, I found myself humming the tune to an old Barry Manilow song.  "At the Copa-copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana!" I believe I kept this song repeating softly in my head until we finally left Copcabana and  reached Ipanema.

     Telling from my tell tale calluses and aching feet, we must have walked more than seven miles in our first day in Rio, for we passed all the three famed beaches, Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon.

           Surprisingly enough, each surpassed the others in full, with their spectacular views of the twin mountains and bottle green waters.

             After countless hours and miles of walking, I eventually peered down at my feet, cursing the searing pain within them, only to suddenly  notice an intriguing pattern beneath them. All of this time in the famed beaches of Rio de Janiero, and I had not even cared to glance at the ground beneath me. It was a magnificent black and white pattern which had black curved waves sweep gracefully among the white waves. Each consisted of tiny pieces of a mosaic cut in jagged pieces. I stopped walking for a while and wondered how anyone could possibly put each individual tile in the board walk to make such a vast stretch of pavement. 

Black Coffee

I have just had my first sip of black coffee in Brazil. It is very strong, pungent, bitter, and yet, strangely addicting and aromatic. As I sit quietly before a wide, barred window, I observe the minute details of the buildings across the street. Often, many are painted in a white, fading wash, and have black decay creeping up the sides. I examine the rugged exteriors for a few more minutes, in awe of the sun's irreversible impact on the landscape. I soon look to my right, to be startled by rows of  glossy complexes, which are shooting out of the ground, ready for new growth.

Reaching Rio

        A lot has happened since my last entry, where I was previously in a fitful sleep on an interminable nine-hour flight.  Rather,we are now in the Rio Rockers Youth Hostel. Seeing as there is a considerable gap from where I was then and where I am now, I'll do my best to reiterate the events between the airport and the hostel. In essence, the moment we exited the cold clutches of the flight, we immediately went to customs, where officials were thoroughly scouring the checked in luggage of passengers. However, since we carried all of our bags on the flight, we simply stepped out the large, shining airport, unaware of what would occur next. 

        I, for one, was tremendously nervous as I'd heard stories of the swarms of  persistent, and often cunning, taxi drivers who would  hustle you into their cars. Yet, in reality, we had a much easier time than I thought we'd have, finding a clean, white taxi marked with a long blue stripe. It read, "Radio taxi" on the side. Learning prior to our journey that these were safe and reasonably priced, I cautiously stepped in with my parents, feeling immensely relieved. Our driver was an elderly gentleman with a short grey fuzz covering his head. After unsuccessfully  attempting to start a conversation with him, my father quickly learned that our driver could not speak English and was heavily dependent on Portuguese.  Looking earnestly into the old man's rugged face, my father tentatively held up a crinkled piece of paper that read the name of our Youth Hostel. There was a moment of silence as the gentleman studied the paper. I feared he would reject it in incomprehension, and we'd would never reach the hostel. Finally, after a few agonizing seconds, he nodded in recognition and started the ignition. As I leaned back in the hard, smooth seat, feeling numb and worn from the flight, I felt a small smile creep across my face. We had done it. We had survived the flight, received our luggage, and were all in one piece. What's more, we were in Rio de Janiero, Brazil.

On Our Way

We have just entered the flight to Rio, and have already received a heavy dosage  of Brazilian culture. Greater detail? The gentleman next to my father just will not stop talking to the man behind them. My poor father has already been inundated with Portuguese  and it doesn't look like our new friend will let up anytime soon. Even so, we must try to sleep, or be kept prisoner or boredom and insomnia on a nine-hour flight.

Anticipating a Flight

        We are now in the Baltimore-Washington Airport until our next flight to Charlotte, NC. From there, we fly to Rio de Janiero. It's actually  hard to believe that this is happening. Just a few weeks ago, I carelessly glanced at a picture of the Christ Redeemer and smiled, admiring its commanding gaze and doubting that I would ever go there. 

      "Brazil?" I thought, "That's on a completely different continent. My idea of a tiring, yet fulfilling experience is a trip to Costco and the local grocery store," And yet, here I am. We had printed the boarding tickets reading Charlotte and Rio de Janiero, passed the security check in, and finally found our gate. I can't help but thinking that once we've reached Charlotte, our journey has only  just begun, and we haven't even left the United States.

Green Grapes

Before hastily leaving for the airport (two hours in advance), my mum quickly threw a couple of old grapes into a Ziplock bag. I scoffed at them, calling them old and squishy.However, my mum wagged a finger at me, telling me that I'd want them later. I again rolled my eyes in mockery and disbelief. About thirty minutes later, we all found ourselves in the car with our luggage in the trunk. I stared silently out the clear windows, as I bid my home goodbye. As we sped past the little green suburb, lined with well kept apartments, I couldn't help thinking about what would come next. Yet, I had no idea. It was only a few minutes before I promptly fell asleep, my head lolling lazily to the side, as we steadily approached the gateway into the unknown.