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!

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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.