Fortunately, while on the bus, I met two lovely American girls, Asha and Kate, and we braved the wait together.
The cog train was booked until 6pm, and it was only 10:30am when we arrived, so had no recourse but to wait for a collectivo van, the lines for which stretched far up the street. After a full hour's wait, we finally boarded a van and ascended the mountain... only to disembark find another line of people snaking along the road for half a mile. We had neared the beginning before we discovered that the line for tickets was elsewhere, despite a complete lack of signage to that effect! Luckily, fate smiled and another person waiting got us the tickets so that we wouldn't have to stand in line again.
Then it was another bus ride to the very top, during which we noticed a cover of clouds had moved in over the formerly blue sky. When we first arrived, expecting to see a glorious view of the city, we were greeted only by clouds.
At intervals, the clouds would part, leaving only a mist, and allowing for at least a brief glimpse over Cidade Maravilhosa (the marvelous city)...
... and finally of the statue itself, crowned by the sun.
We each took the classic photo and several of the city, while standing on the main platform, where we encountered three people who sparked in me the biggest bout of tourist rage I had experienced so far. At the centermost point on the viewing platform, on the exact position with the best view available, they stood CHILLING OUT. I'm not kidding. Chilling out, with their backs to the view. For ten goddamn minutes. At the end of which they took three or four photos. And they completely ignored pleas to take their place. Tourists!!
Anyway, after getting our pictures, we headed back down the mountain, suffering through more lines to make the journey and agreed to split a cab back to the beaches. I had had a great time with them despite the number of frustrations throughout the day. And after spending so much time with Brits, I reveled in the chance to share stories with other Americans who actually got my sense of humor. I had begun to think myself mortifyingly unfunny and dull, but after leaving the girls giggling any number of times, I felt relieved. Not to say that I have ever been a great wit or comic, but I had always been able to tell a story, and I was relieved to find that my inability to entertain the Brits with a tale came mostly from cultural differences.
When I checked my Facebook that evening, I finally heard from Charlie, who had apparently sent previous messages that hadn't made it through. At this point, I regretted not having a phone because email and Facebook automatically come with the necessity of getting onto the computer, and my communication with Charlie that night was in starts and fits. We arranged to meet at Kade's hostel, but when I got there, Kade was nowhere to be found and Charlie and Daniel hadn't arrived. I waited for half an hour before returning to my own hostel, realizing that with the craziness of the evening, they might never make it. Instead, I partied with the other folks at the hostel.
The rain started just before we departed for the beach, me in the company of three American girls, a few Argentinians, my Aussie roommates, some Brazilians, and the rowdy but sweet Englishmen from the previous night. Despite being dressed all in white, we made the 3-mile journey sans umbrellas, singing at the top of our lungs as we went.
By the time we arrived on the beach where a samba band was playing on the huge second stage, we were soaked but joyous and just in time for the fireworks. Words and pictures absolutely cannot do justice to the awesome spectacle I beheld that night. I literally stood in awe, mouth agape and smiling, throughout the majority of the 18-minute, $15 million display.
We danced beneath the sparks, and the boys raised the girls onto their shoulders and danced some more. I got almost no useable photos because of the rain, but I hope to get some from the boys and I did get one of me soaked in my dress.
When the fireworks had finished, we decided to skip the ridiculous lines for the morbidly repugnant port-a-potties stationed several blocks away and waded into the ocean fully dressed instead. Definitely a first for me. And we were certainly not the only group with this idea.
Afterward, we made the hike to the main stage another mile down where we able to get quite close to the front of the stage for the show where DJ David Guetta began to play at 2am.
Guetta, as James had forewarned, proved a bit of a hack, not so much DJ-ing as merely playing his radio hits with an occasional, barely-noticeable alteration. But no amount of mediocre MC-ing could have taken away from the pulse and power of a group of nearly 2 million revelers dancing as one.
The set ran for over an hour, after which the beach emptied out with miraculous speed. The travel and the crowd had whittled our group down to 16 members, and together we made the return trip to Ipanema, our white clothes mud-stained and plastered to our bodies from the rain that still fell. At the bend between Copacabana and Ipanema, a few of us clambered into a cab for the last leg while others made for after-parties on the beach. By the time we reached the hostel at 5:30am, I had lost my ambition for further partying and fell into bed exhausted.
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