Rio

The beach. My memories of Rio revolve around the beach.

Copacabana my first night. Walked the waves of black and white tile that mirror the curve of sand and spray until I couldn't walk anymore. After 30 hours on the bus, it felt good. It was on this beach that I finally lost my composure to Brazilian fashion. I had done well for weeks - smiled in the face of neon onesies and trained my eyes not to stare at the holes women seemed to cut in their skin-tight clothes. But Friday night on Copacabana I lost it.

I turned to head back toward the hostel and saw a man in what I'd describe as a pair of white "boyshort" underwear jogging - yes, jogging - down the beach. The combination of shock and horror was too much. A grown man out jogging in what I thought to be a pair of very feminine underwear. The laughter spilled out and wouldn't stop. Thank God he was jogging away from me.

My second afternoon, Maramar beach - over an hour by bus from the city proper. I had met my host family under the statue of liberty at Barra Shopping's New York City Center Saturday. Luiz and Leticia Berthold. Barra is said Baha and accurately represents my continued confusion over the Portuguese language. What does ç sound like? I still don't really know.

Sunday, I drove with Luiz to the bike shop where, after the tires were inflated and a new bike chain attached, I was given a bike to pedal to the beach of my choice. Luiz recommend Maramar - an undeveloped stretch over the hill from the gated community that holds his family's home. I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon reading The Kite Runner in between dips in the Atlantic.

On this beach, I also had another memorable encounter with Brazilian fashion. I thought the topless beaches of Spain and France would have prepared me for the thong bikini, but it was still rather weird to be able to truthfully say, "Dude, I can see your butt." There are some places I'd just rather not have sand - though I do now understand why a Brazilian wax is, well, a Brazilian wax.

It rained hard Monday and the sea swelled angry. I was a top Pao de Azucar when it started. Watched the gray haze roll in, then headed for the cable car. By the time I reached the Berthold's, I was soaked from head to toe. Tuesday, frontpages showed pictures of the flooding and workers in orange suites where still sweeping the seaside streets when I pedaled home from Corcovado, where Jesus stood allusive behind the remaining clouds.

Left early Wednesday morning for Campo Grande. Waved goodbye to Leticia after she dropped me at the bus stop and, while the bus into the city hugged the shore, to Rio and its beach.