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.