Tuesday, June 9, 2015:
The highlight of my day was the
gargantuan buffet breakfast that was part of my deal at Hotel Rouver in Foz de Iguazzu. I must explain that the town is
nothing to shout about—a one-horse outpost if it is anything at all. Good job there
wasn’t much to do. This enabled me to linger over breakfast in the pleasant
ground floor dining room, offered from 7-9 am. I awoke at leisure, showered and
dressed and seated myself at a table after walking past the most impressive
array of food. Lonely Planet had
described it as “a modest breakfast”. Well, they might have had their tongues
most definitely in their cheeks, for this spread was huge. Scrambled eggs, ham
and other cold cuts, sliced cheese, croissants, butter, a selection of
preserves, two kinds of quiche—ham and cheese; a variety of cakes from plain
sponges, to coconut cakes to chocolate domes, plain and fruit yogurt. There
were juices and coffee and tea. And best of all, there was fruit! Tropical
fruit like fresh pineapple and musk melon, sliced papaya, big chunks of
watermelon. I was in foodie heaven and am ashamed to say that I ate enough to
get my money’s worth—and all I had paid was the modest sum of $30 for this bed
and breakfast steal. No wonder I lingered, had a second cup of coffee and then returned
to my room.
An urgent work commitment kept me
chained to pen and paper for the entire morning. I had a lot of reading to do
(I had carried my papers with me) and I poured over them until about noon, by
which time I raced through my packing and with check-out time being noon, just
about made it to the counter and out the hotel door on schedule. I waited at
the bus stop for about five minutes, hopped into a bus and was at the airport
within half an hour.
My flight to Rio by TAM Airlines at
2. 45 pm was a two-hour affair. A window seat and two sweet female companions
from Australia offered me my first glimpses of the stunning landscape that is
the city of Rio de Janeiro—also known as Cidade
de Maravilhosa (The Marvelous City). Bathed in bright sunshine under clear
blue skies, it reposed quietly. Touchdown was smooth and reassuring and half an
hour later, my baggage retrieved, I was at the Arrivals Lounge looking for my
friend, Prof. Rosana de Freitas who teaches Fine Arts at a local Rio
university. She had offered to meet me at the airport and lo and behold, there
she was. We were meeting after exactly a year—we had parted in Kyoto, Japan,
last July, little knowing that when next we met it would be in ravishing Rio!
Rosana found us a taxi and soon we
were skirting Galeao airport and at 5.00 pm joining the peak hour rush on the
highway towards the city. It was a fine time for the two of us to catch up as
the taxi inched its way through heavy traffic. I caught my first exciting glimpses
of the famous iconic image of Rio—Christ the Redeemer perched high on a hill,
His arms outstretched to embrace the world.
But,
an hour later, the driver was pulling up in the central Rio neighborhood known
as Gloria and taking the lift to an apartment owned by Rosana and her American
partner, Andrew. As luck would have it, the apartment which is usually rented
to visiting tenants, was empty for the week of my occupancy. I saw shades of
London all over again as Rosana put me through
the paces, gave me keys that opened the great big front gates and the
door to my 2 bedroom flat. Unlike my little boutique flat in London which was
tiny but brand-new with the spiffiest new appliances, this was old and
sprawling, the rooms huge but wearing their age proudly. I was introduced to
the layout of the space, inspected the kitchen and bathroom, took stock of
closet space (loads of it in an empty cupboard), was shown supplies of bed
linen, etc. before Rosana left to run errands.
I did what every new arrival in new
accommodation does. I unpacked, I made the bed (Rosana had left me bed linen
and towels, soap, toilet paper, a few cookies) and marveled at the Andy Warhol
print of Marilyn Monroe above my bed. In a former life, when living for three
months in a loft in Farringdon, London, there were Marilyn avatars all over my
living room (only those had been the real thing—signed Warhol lithographs--while
this was a pink print). Still, there was a comforting sense of being followed
by poor Marilyn as I switched on the fan to cool the room. The only downside
was that for some reason I wasn’t able to get on to wifi nor did the TV in my
bedroom work.
Rosana took me for a brief turn
around the neighborhood, which, strangely enough, reminded me so much of Bombay
and more specifically of Bandra, the small suburb of Bombay from which I hail.
When I try to think why it was so reminiscent of the city of my birth, I am
sure it has a lot to do with the fact that Rio like Bombay is a coastal city of
buildings—no houses to be seen. Shops encircle the ground floor of these buildings
that, as a result of the city’s perpetual heat, have wide open balconies around
each flat. Indeed, Rio even smells like Bombay: it is the smell I realize now
of the urban tropics—a heady mixture of quickly deteriorating garbage, warm and
sweaty bodies, the salt tang of the sea. Even the bright fluorescent lighting
of the shops reminded me of my home town. The only difference was that unlike
the English and Hindi I hear everywhere in Bombay, this was all about the
Portuguese tongue tripping on the mouths of one and all. No one speaks anything
but Portuguese and in the week that followed, I picked up several words to
enable me to get by.
With Rosana’s guidance, I found the
little grocery store that would become familiar to me as I bought food for the
next few days: milk, Nescafe instant coffee, cereal, ham, cheese, multi-grain
bread for sandwiches, ice-cream and fruit (yes, I almost cried happy tears of
nostalgia as I bought papayas, guavas, and custard apples)—enough to see me through
the next few days. Even the market smelled like the shops do in India, where
the heat quickly gets to meat and fish even with refrigeration and where even
the freshest vegetables wilt rapidly. With my food supplies for the week, I
returned to my apartment and continued to get organized when Rosana arrived to
escort me to her apartment, three buildings away.
Up a low hill we climbed together and
made our way to Rosana’s miraculous ‘find’ of a home: a two bedroom terrace apartment
on the rooftop of an eight-storey building that offered lovely views of an
illuminated city! Inside, she offered me the country’s favorite snack—Brazil nuts,
of course. And cashew nuts and a cold glass of water. There was humidity in the
air and it followed me around throughout the week. This too was similar to Bombay.
Before long, Andrew walked in. Rosana made introductions and we got chatting easily
as we sipped the local brews. They had decided to take me out to dinner on my
first night in Rio and I was grateful for the suggestion. It would enable me to
experience Rio’s legendary night life as well as acquaint me with restaurant
etiquette in this gracious city.
Half an hour later, we were strolling
through the ink-black night under the warm shroud of darkness to Lapa, a
bohemian neighborhood just ten minutes from our digs in Gloria. I had requested local traditional Brazilian
food—no McDee’s for me when I have
local friends with whom to feast. Luckily, they got exactly what I meant to discover—a
small, old, custom-bound eatery that would showcase regional cuisine. Rosana
and Andrew chose Nova Capella, a Lapa
dining institution dating from 1906, with white sharkskin-clad waiters who exuded gracious charm.
Seated at bentwood chairs on red gingham-covered tables, we started with drinks
(local beer for me, cashaca, a liqueur made from sugarcane juice for Andrew,
red wine for Rosana). They ordered appetizers that were the specialties of the
house—bacalau (dried, reconstituted
cod fish) formed into fritters with mashed potatoes—light and very tasty, and
shrimp–filled empanadas. And for the main dish, they got the house special: roasted
squid with broccoli rice. I noted with wonder that the squid was far from
leathery—indeed, it was almost as soft and appealing as chicken. Portions were
large, the young waiter was cordial throughout and very kind to the foreigner
in me—he even offered a bilingual menu! What a wonderful evening, what a fine
meal, what delightful company! A gal could not ask for better on her first
night in the city.
On the way back home, we trawled at
a leisurely pace through Lapa taking in the well-refurbished restaurants that
are seeing a recent gentrification. Old buildings continue to color the
neighborhood with the shades of its rich history, but bright paint, the sounds
of bossa nova and samba strains emanating from every eatery as live music was
offered to patrons on a week night gave me a taste of the rich night life for
which Rio has acquired quite a reputation.
Happily I noted my surroundings,
making mental landmarks to remind myself of what I had passed through so that,
while on my own, I might renegotiate my way through this vibrant area. We
passed an old atmospheric church constructed in the Goan-Portuguese vein, a
massive Aqueduct that once carried water to residents in the hilltop enclave of
Santa Teresa and is now used for the running of the historical tram from
downtown to the hills. On one block, there were strings of gorgeous, skimpily-clad
women. I realized at once that they were hookers, but you could have knocked me
down with a feather when Rosana informed me that every single one of them was a
man—transvestite prostitutes who would not hesitate to kill a regular hooker if
she ever strayed on their turf. That was one of the times when the seedier side
of Rio revealed itself to me. Repeatedly I was reminded to “Be Careful”—to watch
my back. It is a city with a dangerous side and personal vigilance, quite
unknown to me, became second nature during my stay. I was even told to put my
watch away.
There had been a great deal to take
in on one day—and my mind was spinning with so many sensual impressions. But
above all, as I turned the key in my door ready to hit the sack, I could not
help but feel grateful for the opportunity to live in a foreign city once again
just like a local resident—a Carioca, as Rio’s citizens are known. Having done
so already, on different occasions in my life as in London and Paris, I felt like
an old hand at making myself at home in an unfamiliar city. Rio, I thought,
here I come!
Until tomorrow, ciao!
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