At 1:30pm, a funny driver named Marcelo, who lamented the size of his belly and his subsequent inability to hang glide himself, picked me up and took me to the beach in Sao Conrado, where I met Mosquito, my hang-gliding instructor, who would take me on a tandem ride. We hopped in another car to drive up the mountain to the launchpad. On the way, Mosquito and his assistant Daniel cooed over my freckles and asked why I was traveling alone and whether or not I had a boyfriend. When I answered the latter with a no, Mosquito laughed and shared an axiom I would here often in Brazil, which basically comes down to: "When you can't find the right one, have fun with the wrong ones."
When we arrived atop the mountain, I watched several other tandem pairs launch. Mosquito helped me into my harness and had me run at his side in practice for our own take-off.
Only at the last minute did I feel any fear. When we had set up beneath our glider on the platform, I had a brief moment of internal panic about stepping off into the air hundreds of feet above the city. Fortunately, I had neither the time nor the inclination to voice said panic, and before I knew it, my hand was on Mosquito's shoulder, he counted down from three, we ran toward the edge, and we were in the air above the trees.
The feeling was nothing short of miraculous. There was no sensation of falling or even of being at the mercy of the glider from which we hung. It simply felt like flying... soaring slowly and gracefully on the wind. After sweeping over the rain forest on the mountainside, we curved over part of the city and headed toward the water.
Mosquito gently issued instructions to move this way and that and even gave me control for a moment or two. Because the wind wasn't particularly strong, allowing for only a ten-minute flight, we began to head down after coasting over the water.
We had a smooth beach-landing, and I just about bubbled over with enthusiasm for the experience. Afterward, Mosquito treated me to a pastel (a Brazilian meat-pie) and a fresh coconut water to make up for the short flight, despite my protests. He also said he wanted to show me the city, if I had time, and possibly take me up for another flight. We exchanged info, and he headed up with another customer while his son drove me back to my hostel.
That evening, I ran into Charlie and Daniel, a pair of American solo travelers who had met each other the previous day. Charlie, who is half-Jewish and half-Cuban and therefore a "Jewban", as he told me, had a particular talent for making me laugh. Daniel, a Spanish-born New Yorker, looked just like Michael Fassbender, one of my favorite actors who had starred in X-Men First Class, so we spent half the night calling him Magneto. They had had a problem at Che Legarto and were changing hostels, but they invited me to head out to Lapa with them, after dropping their stuff off in their new place, where Daniel was stuck with a dangerously high bunk.
At their hostel bar, we met up with their friends Kade and Agosto, the latter a Brazilian from the center of the country. Then we hit the streets of Lapa, a mostly-locals district of Rio, with the best nightlife in town. Half of the party takes place on the roped off streets, where vendors sell the best caiparinha's in Brazil from makeshift stands and drum groups play as revelers dance around them. The heart of the party thumps beneath the aqueduct.
After stopping to sample several flavors of Cachaca, the beloved local liquor usually used in caipirinhas, we ended up partying on the famously tiled Lapa Steps for a good hour or so, dancing with the locals to a band made up of guitarists who just kept arriving and joining in and percussionists playing on boxes, buckets, and washboards. I also received the dumbest pick-up line I had heard up until that point. A Paulista-- a guy from Sao Paulo-- approached me, saying that I was beautiful, but there was another word to describe me better, but that he couldn't say it. I rolled my eyes, knowing I was in for a whopper, and told him to go ahead and say it. "Horny," he replied. I burst out laughing. "Oh, yes. Clever boy. Suggest it, and it will be so." Don't know what I was thinking not going for him.
At around 4am, we stopped for fried fish at an outdoor restaurant and chugged water along with some Skols, the main beer of Brazil. Afterward, we returned to the hostel, and I retrieved my things from the boys' locker. I only have the one picture of the evening, taken on our way to the hostel because Lapa, though riotously fun, is also notorious for skilled pick-pocketers, so I had left my camera and purse behind. I had kept my cash in a slim wallet which I tucked into the band of my bra, just under my arm, which is where I would end up keeping it on most subsequent nights in Brazil.
Kade and I shared a cab back toward the beaches, and laughed most of the way, noting the ridiculous tendency of Brazilians to run out into the street to cross, barely paying attention to oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, we were treated to a demonstration of the consequences of such careless behavior when our cab nearly crashed into a police car. The cruiser had careened into our path and as we wheeled around it, we saw that the officer had done so to keep our cab from running over two bodies already laying facedown in the street. I can't be absolutely sure they were dead, but I am fairly certain of it. We barely spoke again until Kade got out at his hostel, and we parted ways.
The following day, I slept in until noon and decided to head out to the beach despite the relatively mediocre weather.
I sent a message to the guys from the previous night about where I would be. Only Agosto and his Carioca (Rio de Janeiran) cousin made it out, but, as usual, spending the day with the natives yielded the best possible results. We discussed the laid-back Carioca lifestyle and watched everyone strut up and down he beach, as they are wont to do.
The women wear tiny Brazilian thongs, no matter the size or shape of their bodies or how much cellulite they have-- which some do, after all-- and they do so with confidence. It is both inspiring and humbling. And the men work out crazily so that they can best fill out their tiny tiny, almost Speedo-sized swim shorts. I really mean crazily, as there are actually workout stations and outdoor gyms ON THE BEACH.
The boys introduced me to the Brazilian style of mate, served cold with lemon, and we chilled out until my oh-so-pale skin had had enough. (I truly believe I was the whitest person on the entire beach.)
I returned to the hostel, made a futile attempt to keep sand from getting absolutely everywhere in the room, showered and changed, and headed out for a walk around the lake just above Ipanema.
The lake proved much larger than it had looked-- 8 miles all told-- and by the time I had circumnavigated it, the sun had set, and I had gotten quite a workout and been treated to a lovely fireworks display over the Christmas tree on the water.
I hadn't heard from Charlie and Daniel that evening, so I went out to Lapa again with a big rowdy group of guys from Manchester, England, who sang futbol songs at full-voice for the entire bus ride from the hostel. Friday night being the bigger tourist night in Lapa, the streets were packed, allowing for more crime. One of our party had his necklace ripped right off his neck and another, his watch slid from his wrist. It was still a good night. And I was groped several times by men passing by me. I threw quite a few elbows and stomped quite a few feet in response, but to little avail. All told, the night was still fun, but just a bit more charged with danger.
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