Ed was getting so sick that he wanted to leave for the States as soon as possible. I didn't mind since I was quite tired myself. In the morning we went to the VASP office not too far from our hotel to see if it's possible to move our return flight to New York one day earlier to this afternoon. We had very restricted tickets, so no change in itinerary was allowed.
It was still very hazy, but the sun was peaking through and it was
getting hot. What do you do in Rio when the sun is out and the
temperature soars? You hit the beach, of course. There were more
than a few people on the beach,
but it was definitely not crowded like some postcards of Rio
would show. There were a batch of people in front of Caesar Park
Hotel, so we went there.
One thing I like about the beach here is the great variety of bathing suits people wear -- from the conservative one-piece suits to the racy thongs for women, and from baggy beach shorts to, yes, an occasional thong for men. Most women wear two-piece suits, and men plain Speedo style swim trunks. The bathing suits here definitely claim less real estate on a per body basis than those found in the U.S. On the other hand, if the postcards or guidebooks had you believe that every woman on Rio's beaches is a hardbodied goddess in a tiny string bikini, well, that's not exactly true. We looked for fio dental, the dental floss, reputedly the tiniest bikini possible, but didn't see any. Nude bathing never caught on here and is still a no-no. But aside from that, no bathing suit is considered too small.
In this respect, the Americans must be a very conservative lot. Just look at all the ads for resorts or cruises. You'd never find the man pictured in the ads wear a Speedo. He always wear baggy beach shorts whether he is having a drink at the bar, or walking on the beach, or soaking in the Jacuzzi, or enjoying a moment in the pool, or snorkeling. The woman accompanying him invariably wears a one-piece suit. The woman, when pictured alone, tends to wear a two-piece suit more frequently. Maybe all the ads are directed towards a specific market segment that honors certain unwritten code for what constitutes proper beachwear. Still, one needs not look far beyond the local beach to observe the dress code. You do see a greater variety of bathing suits for women, with a generally negative correlation between skin exposure and weight to height ratio. The men, on the other hand, exhibit no such correlation. Everybody wears baggy beach shorts. I can't find a satisfactory explanation except to say that it's an example of social conformity. At the school pool, some men would insist on wearing beach shorts even for lap swimming. When snorkeling in Cancún, Mark told me, "You can't wear a Speedo. People will think you are gay."
Ed didn't deviate from the obligatory beach shorts. I, on the other hand, thought that when in Rio, do the Cariocas do. It felt quite normal to put on a more stingily cut swimsuit. It's great. No one cared.
Even though it was a hazy day, one could really feel the heat of the sun beating down. Ed and I would take turns to have a dip in the ocean. (No, it's not that the ocean is not big enough for the both of us, but that one of us had to watch our stuff.) Rio's beaches face the Atlantic directly without any protection. Even on a calm day, the waves looked quite strong. The trick seems to be that there is a point where the surf breaks. Judging from the people in the water, it's probably about six feet deep at that point. Standing, or rather half standing half floating, beyond this point, one simple bobs up and down with each wave. Standing on the land side of this point, one risks getting swept off his feet with every breaking wave. I didn't quite figure out how to transition from this side of the breaking point to that side and back. There seemed to be no lifeguards in sight. I thought getting myself killed drowning in six feet of water in Rio on the last day of my trip would be pretty stupid. So I chickened out and never attempted it.
We must be having too much fun on the beach. I estimated that it was 1:45 when we were ready to leave, but it was actually already 3:00. It quickly became painfully obvious that I got some massive sunburn. I thought I had applied sunscreen "liberally", but putting on sunscreen on the beach with all the sand in my hands, I had forgotten big patches of skin on the top of my feet, the back of my legs, and around my shoulder blades. I never seemed to learn from these painful experiences and would always find creative spots to forget - back of my neck in Helsinki, top of my feet on Tioman Island, sternum in Cancún, between shoulder blades in Glouster, Mass. If I did my pre-flights like I applied sunscreen, I would sooner or later miss something important and crash the airplane.
We had been to downtown; we had been to Sugar Loaf; we had seen a
samba show; we had been on the beach; the only must-do left was to see
Cristo do Redentor, Christ the
Redeemer - a convenient, albeit a little long, bus ride away. We were
so obviously tourists going to Cristo do Redentor that the bus driver
alerted us when we got there. The cog rail station was very well
hidden. We would've completely missed it.
They train chugged along climbing up the hill. It periodically meets the road that winds around the mountain. Given how steep the cliffs looked from afar, I didn't think it was possible to have a road up the mountain. At 2200 feet, the top affords a commanding view of the entire city. It was getting cloudier towards sunset time. Sugar Loaf was completely enshrouded in clouds.
The small peak of the mountain seems like a natural pedestal for the
statue of Christ. The train station and the parking lot are in the
back. A set of zigzagging steps leads one to the foot of the statue.
From the parking lot, the statue looks so high up but the lateral
distance is so small that it's very difficult for one to pose in
front of the statue and hope to have a well-composed photo. The
statue is high; the person is low; and you can't step back enough to
fit both into the picture frame. On our way down the stairs to catch
the last train, we saw these two crazy girls who had found a creative
way to solve the "person is low" problem by standing on the stone
railing of the stairs.
We had dinner at Gorota de Ipanema again. This is the bar where Tom Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes wrote the now famous song by the same name. An instant hit in the 1960s, the song and lyrics were inspired by a 14-year old school girl, who walked regularly past the cafe where the two looked on. Today a framed poster of the first few phrases of the song is hung on the wall.
Of the many places that I have visited, I rarely wanted to visit them again. Don't get me wrong. It's not that they are not wonderful places. My philosophy is that with so many more interesting destinations in the world waiting to be explored, why go to the same places. But I wanted to see Rio again. I wanted to ride the trolly to Santa Teresa; I wanted to take a tour of the shanty towns; I wanted to see Petrópolis; I wanted to take a schooner trip to a tropical island along Costa Verde (The Green Coast); I wanted to see the Carnival; and I wanted to spend more time on the beaches of Rio doing exactly nothing. My short list of places that I want a repeat visit now has two entries - Paris and Rio.
Hasta la vista.
