I'm off into the Rio night. Solo. It's about midnight now, and I have procrastinated in my room for way too long, being all too human, dealing with a rather mild bout of anxiety and self-doubt. One would think a seasoned solitary traveler would know better by now.
As I stroll the oddly empty city streets, I hear acoustic music emanating from a squat brick-edifice building I pass. I'm drawn in. The place has a strange beat vibe to it, somewhat reminiscent of what I imagine such New York cafe's hosting the likes of a young Bob Dylan had back in the early 60's. I feel like I have stumbled onto something here. I find myself a table in the center of the room and take in my surroundings.
"Come gather round children wherever you roam and admit that the waters around you have grown" {*1}
The music is quite good. My not understanding a word of it is completely irrelevant. Sure, I'm also the only person sitting alone here, but that seems trivial as well. There is a large table with many Brazilian lovelies in front of me. Some of the couples are locked in the traditional local exhibit of public foreplay. Some folks are singing along to a few of the songs. Joy. Quietly, I am relishing the experience immensely. The only negative is the strong leftover aroma of Murphy's Oil Soap in the air. It's too much. I find myself growing a bit nauseous. Perhaps, the lack of food in my belly is contributing to this.
In favor of staying longer, I try and order some food. But, it's too dark to use the menu decoder in my phrase book. Hence, I'm forced to order the only vegetarian item I can readily identify on the menu. It turns out to be a heaping plate of salty smoked mozzarella. Still, I am famished. It will have to do. However, the cheese is a bit much to eat unaccompanied by something that offsets it. I am rapidly drying out.
After a bit, I find myself wanting to shout "This cheese is making my thirsty!" But, a) there's no one sitting at my table, b) all those in the vicinity of my table probably wouldn't understand me, and c) likely, should they even understand me, they wouldn't find the humor in that or get the reference {from Seinfeld *2}. Isolated again.
"And you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone." {*1}
But, the feeling doesn't last long. The music. The sight of people enjoying themselves. The hypnotic sway of the Brazilian girls' bottoms when they stand up to dance, moving their feet in such a fashion, that their upper torso remains completely still, and while the movement in their legs is limited, their rear end sways from side to side feverishly. How do they do that? {*3}
While so far on this trip, I have seen relatively little of Rio and its sights, I have actively mixed with and thrown myself into its populace. Perhaps, travelling is not about seeing new places, whose memory will fade faster than the paper of the photographic imprints we take as reminders can erode and oxidize. For those mnemonic imprints are fleeting, especially if disconnected from emotional attachment.
The joy of travel can be found in connecting with the human race. To be among a people different form yourself and see how they live, what brings them joy, the roots of their sorrows. To try and understand their perspective, and find the common thread, which binds us all to the great mass web of humanity.
And, as I sit here amidst these people, I am elated and saddened at the same time. Elated, at the opportunity to live within this moment. And, saddened, that this moment in the sun that God grants us, is such a short one. And, further, how every day we spend isolated from one another, every hour that we spend disconnected in the comfort of our houses, posh hotel rooms, desks and cubicles, is a sinful one.
"Better far off to leave half the ruins and nine-tenths of the churches unseen and to see well the rest [the people]: to see them not once, but again and often again; to watch them, to learn them, to live with them, to love them, till they have become part of life and life's recollections." {*4}
Here at my table, I find peace and joy. I'm quite content to stay here all night, but the music stops and the place begins closing. Hence, I'm forced back out into the oddly vacant streets.
I walk about for a bit, tempted to call it a night. There does not appear to be anything going on within range of my two feet. I pass two well-dressed men standing in front of two big silver doors. As I've learned during my short stay here, in Rio, "well-dressed" usually implies bouncer/doorman. I walk up to them and ask "Sim, disco?" [Yes, disco?] Thus, I find myself entering one.
Inside, I meet a long tall atypical Brazilian gal with a Russian name, Ludmilla. She tells me she's from somewhere outside of Rio. I nod my head, but truth be told, I know Brazil is a vast country and my geographic knowledge of it is limited, at best. I'm reminded of when I visit my relatives in Greece and they ask me if my mother or sister will be picking me at the airport when I get back to America. I explain that where I live (New York) is very far from both California and Florida, so them doing so is not really feasible. I try to ingrain the notion further, adding that making such a trip would be similar to them going from Athens to London. Still, every year, as I prepare to disembark, they ask me the same question.
Ludmilla, likely lost interest while I was drifting mentally there and, wandered off. I find her again before the disco closes. She hands me a napkin with her number and one more time, I find myself explaining the unlikelihood of my contacting her while I'm here. Yet again, the feedback is, should something change, to go ahead and call her. Argh! What is going on here? This is uncanny.
At her request, I walk her to her car for safety, along the way, kidding her that despite my small frame, I am deceptively wiry. As Ludmilla drives off, one of the well-dressed guys comes and pats me on the back. I don't understand what he's saying, but his gestures, even to the untrained eye, would appear congratulatory.
Walking back to the hotel, the size of the grin on my face, must seem criminal in nature.
Copyright 2002, Alex "the connecting to humanity man" Poulos
*1: The lines are from Bob Dylan's classic, "The Times They Are a Changing."
*2: The infamous episode of Seinfeld (an American television comedy) where Kramer continuously walks about rehearsing the one line he's been cast to say in a Woody Allen movie, "These pretzels are making me thirsty."
*3: This little step/move seemed to defy logic to me. I asked Isabel about it, and she claimed to be able to do it as well. Yet, she never demonstrated. I left Brazil with this, still, an unresolved mystery. Quick, someone call Leonard Nimoy! Did I just date myself? Oh, shit. Do I now need to put a footnote within a footnote? Is that even allowed?
*4: The quote is from Augustus Hare. Oddly enough, this was not the original quote I intended to use, just something I stumbled across a few days ago.
*5: Leonard Nimoy, aside from his Star Trek fame, did a show called "In Search Of," where life's mysteries are explored. Help! I'm stuck in footnote land! Beam me up, Scotty. Shit! I did it again.
