seriously, F-bomba saved my life. he figured out which flight i should use to get to rio, found me a hotel, and still had enough decency not to be alarmed by my neurosis. "Don, you are a freaking. it is no good for you to the freak."
as he was planning my trip, Vitoria, came to the office. vitoria is clearly in charge down here. she wields a tough brand of love which evokes memories of both a forgotten brazilian aunt and mussolini. within seconds, she was in action . "Don, you should not walk on the copacabana beach very late. there will be whores, and, como você diz?..... the homosexuals. they will offer you sex, and for $300. maybe you say $50 and then they kill you right there." i tried to assure her that bargaining with brazilian whores wasn't on my trip itinerary. she went on, "and maybe you call the police but you dont want to go to the brazilain jail. they are worse than the bandits. they will beat you TO HELL, and fuck you too." ok, i got it. "plus, all the whores are men. do you know how to tell the men from the women?" i suggested the standard crododile dundee trick "i just check their cock". "No , you look at their hands." anyway, Vitoria, god bless her, set me up with a car to the airport from god forsaken sao paulo. Look at this mess:
i took her warnings in stride. i am already expecting to be hogtied, de-kidneyed and sodomized in this town anyway. still, i needed some infrastructure. she set me up with a car to pick me up from the airport in rio and drive me to my hotel. she told me that for R$300 a man would drive me around for the whole weekend, but i wasnt too interested in solo time with caesar. my nerves, damaged by the south american temperment, need beach, drink and peace. if anything, i was hoping for a group tour with some limber sextagenarians to tie me over.
i board a plane to rio. when i arrive, caesar couldnt make it. instead noberto is there with a sign that reads very simply, "Mr. Don." my only regret. my ONLY regret, was that i felt awkard snapping a shot of him right out of the gate. i had the camera out and i was chuckling, but i didnt want to offend this gentleman while we were still in our honeymoon phase. norberto takes me to the hotel, and suggest we immediately go to the giant jesus on the hill. ok, i say, lets see this magnifiscent jesus on the hill. we tool through the flatlands of rio, driving around a gorgeous lake, surrounded by colonial era flats, pass through a tunnel and suddenly, we are asescending up cobblestone roads, lush ferns surrounding us. when we get to the top, Noberto has to drop me off, and i make the final climb alone, to the big jesus on the hill. there he is! JC himself, 200 feet tall, arms spread outward. there is a serious look on his face which i read as "someday, none of this will be yours , jewboy. " still, i snap some shots of him. some are in the clark griswald manner:
while others are an ode to the kids in the hall:
but on the way down, we stopped and took in Rio from above. it is a dusky, defeated, brazilian sun, desperately shooting out orange to fight off the night. failing in its attempts, but so beautiful in its demise, burning orange in ethanol skies:
we see the city from above:
stunning.
norberto drives me home, and after some difficulties with the cash machine, i pay his fare. it's like vincent vega said, its the little things that catch your eye. like the security gaurd in front of the cash machine with the bullet proof vest. norberto deposits me at my hotel. in my room, i find interesting art which induces me to chain smoke:
despite my newfound appreciation for brazilian warning labels:
they say brazil is a country of contradictions. they are right.
it is getting dark (winter time here), but I am determined to find a place to watch your world champion chicago bulls face the pistons of detroit. after several calls, the concierge makes it happen! i descend to the copacabana streets, looking for my sports bar. it is dark, and yes, there is whoring about, but my head is down and i try to attach myself to three indian graduate students. in my mind, they are here for some sort of symposium on solid state electronics, but are making the best of it. i follow them until i approach o rue miguel limons, and make a left. another quick left at Avenue N.S Copacobana, and smack! i'm at the sports bar. i head to the back of the joint, settle into my seat and within 10 minutes .0001% of the entire south side of chicago arrives. old black folks are drinkin beers and cheerin on kirk hinrich and i am in heaven. each one of them reminds me more and more of my old pal jonathan eldridge. those of you who know him will understand.
i ask frank why he's out here. "oh you know, chicago is the shit , but i got to GO!." i hear you there, big francis. a couple jack daniels and several beers later, the bulls are down big and the season is on the line.
the bulls give it away, but i got to see it go down in the hottest, sweatiest, sexiest, humidest, gorgeousest, wettest, southest motherfucker in the world. beat that.
