The Sugar Loaf, Rio de Janeiro
06/14/10
I do not want to freak anybody out, but I know you are reading this right now.
Alright, the above joke might be funnier if, like all jokes, after the punch line, you imagine a guy wearing a Speedo being hit in the nuts by a football. I thought about this, while Boxie-boo utilized her famous move to get me dancing in the morning by holding up the bathroom. While she sang in the shower, I ballerina-swayed on my tippy toes, the post football to the groin position, to avoid peeing myself.
Oh the romance, our young love, where I was always happy we kissed not only for the connection it brought us, but the understanding that Boxie-boo was too close to see what’s wrong with me. I realized this, hours later, while we rode the first of two Sugar Loaf cable cars, taking us up to a 360-degree, ocean-front view across Rio de Janeiro.
During the first ride from Praia Vermelha (Red Beach) to Morro da Urca (Urca Hill), our cable car was surprisingly smooth, with a view shooting backwards towards the city. The view was nice, but my mind was elsewhere. I found myself only able to think about one thing.
“How hilarious would a nude male photo be from this viewpoint?” I asked.
“There is something wrong with you,” she responded, before laughing.
My gig was up. I knew I should not have confused my eyelash spasm for a logical thought. She looked around to make sure nobody else heard me as I spoke rather loudly. I made the mistake of presuming we were the only English speakers, the same mistake I made days earlier proclaiming “I have diarrhea” in the El Misti Hostel. Either way, we were well rested, the sun was shining in full force and we were stoked, though unhappy with the cost - 44 Reias per person.
When we reached the first peak at an altitude of 220 metres, Boxie-boo seemed in a rush to jump up the next cable car. Maybe she worried I might actually put my thought into action. I’ll be honest - there are few things in this world funnier than male nudity: just picture a streaker running across a football pitch while being chased by security officials. Hilarious? Yes.
Reaching the peak of Sugar Loaf, an altitude of 528 metres, we could see across many Rio beaches - Flamengo, Botafogo, Leme, the infamous Copacabana, Ipanema, to name a few. The view expanded all the way across downtown Rio, Guanbara Bay, the Corcovado Mountain with the Christ the Redeemer statue and as far out to sea as our vision would take us.
From this vantage point, Rio appeared more like an island than part of one of the world’s largest countries. It was an awe-inspiring view, forcing me to step back and turn slowly, attempting to widen my gaze while leaning in to catch each detail; a sight where the sun seemed to rise and fall simultaneously.
Rio was no longer a city, but a massive bonfire flame of green, fiery with blue smoke and a light cloud mist that took my eyes hostage: the ghost white buildings bursting like pockets of oxygen, the distant sea darkening a navy blue; the skeletal green skyline, smooth and jagged like the dance of coloured smoke. It was a waltz of mountainous shadows over a city, sucked up into the sky where we stood, our eyes sapphire sharp from this play of light.
I could have stood there all day content to wait for the moon to turn the mountains to stone, the sea a black sand and the buildings into an ivory of glow.
A tourist trap, indeed, but a view that will not easily be forgotten.
Boxie-boo had other plans, having discovered a small marmoset primate in a tree (above).
Women all react the same way when having a cute small animal in view: they begin by running uncontrolled, ignoring everything a man says, raising their voices as high pitched as possible, without noticing all the stupidities of men. Had she been wearing a purse, it would have been sumo smashed into my chest. For some reason, it becomes an emergency situation, as if their lives depended on the animal being able to hear them say “aww.” A man could be drooling, unemployed, openly wearing a pooped diaper, but if held a puppy, he would receive more attention than Brad Pitt’s belly button lint. True story.
That’s all for now.
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