Otherwise

Pronounced, “HEE-oh de Jan-AY-ro”, my first impression of this city is a heady, potent smell of salt water, carried upon hot, humid air as we weave in and out of traffic along the highway at night. We pass ramshackle buildings, all covered in graffiti. Actually, everything in this city below two stories high is covered in graffiti – statues, old colonial buildings, modern habitats, bridges, railings, benches, fences. It lends this pretty ocean city a gritty aura.

The downtown streets are achingly narrow. Lodged in our taxi, we skim past pedestrians with hardly an inch to spare, their bodies vulnerably close as we, and every other car, braid in and out. The city is impossibly loud. Airplanes fly just overhead our hotel room, mangy dogs with long, dirty nails skitter across the cobblestone and bark and howl in packs from every street corner, ambulence sirens mix with the chug-chug of trains and the metallic sounds of trolleys and cars as they bump their way along the uneven streets. And as we try to settle into an uneven sleep, happy drunks cajole each other into hilarious fits of laughter just below our room.

I wake early, in spite of broken sleep, too excited to rest. The city outside is alive. Our hostel is up a steep mountain, and upon opening the window, the city splays below me like a seductress. We hail our taxi after a breakfast of fresh buns and creamy, tiger-lily coloured tropical fruit. We have only until four pm this afternoon to see Brazil’s most quintessential city!

Out of Santa Theresa’s cobblestoned streets we wind, upwards, upwards in circles. Through tropical vegetation, we catch glimpses of the city below and the ocean beyond, with islands like sea monsters that jut from the water. Up to the Corcovado, the famous statue of Christ that either oppressively looms or protectingly watches over the city, depending on your viewpoint. We are treated to a 360 degree view of the city and surrounding topography. It is stunning. Clear water inlets, shapely bays, blue ocean water, lush emerald islands and mountains, white sand beaches.

For lunch we grab defiantly fresh mango juice, and empanadas filled with a strange gel-like cheese. The pastry conjures up images of phleghm and I can not eat it. I am happy, however, for the thick mango puree as we barrel through the neighborhood of Centro, onto Sugarloaf Mountain. At the top, the views are once again overwhelmingly pretty. Like Vancouver, the city sports mountains and ocean, but in Rio, the water sparkles blue (rather than dark green), the islands are closer to the mainland, more numerous, and boast a blend of red rock cliff faces and dense tropical palm forests, the beaches are white or cream coloured, and the water is mild. After we pass several capuchin monkeys, whose faces are as sweetly delicate as a porcelain doll’s, we glumly take the gondola down to where our taxi and trusty driver await.

Before we head to the airport though, James and I run to a nearby beach. There is just enough time to sink our bare feet into the sand, which feels and looks like demarara sugar, and to let a few powerful waves crash over our legs. As we turn back to our taxi, we so wish we had more time in this gorgeous city.