Río de Janeiro 2/2

#37

I sometimes doubt the existence of certain places - something weird in my mind. Cities, parks, entire countries that I only believe are there once I’m there. Moscow, Machu Picchu, Australia, all were on that list, and so was Río de Janeiro.

A city that turns out to be real and very much exists.

The backpack gets dropped off at the hostel, the trousers make way for swim shorts and my feet meet the sand of the pristine Ipanema beach.

It is all people said it would be, the pictures do it justice. The beach and scenery are downright gorgeous.

To my right are mountains, on my left I see oiled up bodybuilders, sad about the lack of a crowd, in front is a see through sea and above me is the sun on its best behaviour in a sky bluer than the bluest of baby blue skies.

It is already a given that the majority of my time in Río will be spent here.

At night the one beach gets swapped for the other. From Ipanema I walk to the famous Copacabana. Together with my Brazilian acquaintance I stroll along the endless stretch of sand. It’s a mixture of liveliness, pop up restaurants, stands selling coconuts and alcohol and a combination of those.

The next morning I set out on a quest to the Instagram approved Escalera de Selarón (the colourful mosaic stairs). Afterwards I hop on a train that goes up to the Cristo Redentor (the Christ statue).

The view it provides is even more spectacular than the World Wonder itself. So I run, jump and crowd surf over the giant pile of tourists and take in all the splendour of Río de Janeiro.

After nearly drowning in the tourist sea I dive into the ocean once more. Refreshed and relaxed I get ready for the night. I strap my pitchfork to my back, polish my pointy, red tail and prepare to get up to no good.

The sound of rumba music and the scent of femininity lure me in. Their source and a number of caipirinhas make me spend the night.

A head injury, a hangover, glitter and lip gloss on my cheeks. What can I say? I am a talented individual and the opposite of that.

All I can think of the next morning is that I wish I was in Brazil, right next to the beach and had enough cash in my pocket to buy an overly greasy breakfast which I could devour on said beach.

A wish gets made, a wish gets granted.

At night I lay down on the mattress again. From the corner of my eye I see a notepad and a pen impatiently trying to break free from my backpack. Then I stop playing around.

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