Richard Jernigan -> RE: Tell me some good news; Go west old man! (Oct. 23 2012 0:07:42)
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There are more people with striking good looks, of all genders, complexions, ages and social strata on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro than anywhere else I have been. And all wearing the absolute minimum of clothes! Gloria, Flamengo, Botafogo, Urca, Leme, Copacabana, Arpoador, Ipanema, Leblon, São Conrado, Tijuca---a festival of human beauty and good spirits. But don't go down the short steep slope to the water with your expensive camera. You're out of sight of the barefoot plain clothes cops in T-shirts, with Berettas stuck in the waistbands of their swim trunks. The pistols are out of sight under their T-shirts unless the breeze happens to print their shirts against their bellies. 99.9% of the tourists are totally unaware of the cops. I saw a ruddy blond chunky guy cross the Avenida Atlantica by himself with a gigantic video camera. He stood on the sidewalk filming the girls on the beach. Instantly three cops surrounded him. He never noticed them on the crowded sidewalk. The beach boys are the geniuses from the favelas--the slums. They know two or three languages besides Portuguese. They can size you up in the blink of an eye. They can hint at the availability of drugs, the possibility of introducing you to some of the pretty girls in view, without ever being specific or pushing. Or they can rapidly conclude that all you want is a chair, an umbrella and a cold beer, for five bucks. A half block back from the beach on the side streets you can have a charcoal grilled half chicken or an excellent steak, a big pile of golden delicious french fries, a bowl of chopped tomatoes, green peppers and onions, a can of olive oil to drizzle over them, some delicious bread rolls and an ice cold Antarctica on draft, all for ten bucks. Breakfast is excellent coffee with hot milk, a staggering assortment of tropical fruits and good Roman style bread. Yes! Twelve years ago I sat at Meia Petaca ["half a straw sleeping mat"], a cafe across from the beach, near the entrance to Help disco, now closed. You might say the area specialized in night life. The cafe doesn't look like much. The clientele spans the working and middle classes. The food is excellent. I dined with two young sisters I had met on the beach. They had part time jobs, but didn't mind dining out with a middle aged American. I had offered to take them to a trendy Italian place in Leblon, but they were Brazilian girls from Minas Gerais. They wanted steak. We had steak au poivre, a good salad and excellent risotto. I commented on the risotto to the waiter. "But of course, the chef is from Milan!" he replied. Halfway through the meal a little beggar came in off the sidewalk, maybe seven or eight years old. He was barefoot and bare chested, dressed only in shorts. He had caramel skin, blond ringlets and an angelic beauty. He shyly asked for crusts of bread, but the girls fell in love with him and fed him morsels of steak and risotto. The waiter hustled over to kick the kid out. The girls objected. To please the girls I intervened and said, "This young man is my guest. Please let him eat in peace." The waiter backed off reluctantly. I showed the kid how to butter his bread with a knife, instead of smearing it on with his fingers. Seated at the open window, keeping an eye on their Mercedes parked at the curb, were two flashily dressed guys with a lot of gold jewelry. With them was a stunning young green eyed blonde. Later, she said she was eighteen, but my girls admired the workmanship of her ID card. The guys answered their cellphones often, appeared to negotiate, and made notes on a pocket pad of paper. The guys and the girl laughed and joked together. When we finished our dessert, glasses of expensive cognac appeared, without my ordering them. The two guys nodded and waved. My girls said they knew the blonde, so I waved the three of them over to our table, and thanked them for the drinks. One of the guys said, indicating the little beggar, "When I was his age, I was just like him, sneaking into the cafes and begging for bread crusts. You are a good man to treat him well." "It was the girls' idea." On that trip and others I met engineers, scholars, the great luthier and former classical player Sergio Abreu, a famous musician who was giving a free show in his old neighborhood of Copacabana, and a long list of other wonderful people. At Maracanã stadium, together with an immense crowd, I watched Flamengo play Botafogo, the only football (soccer) game I've ever been to where each team brought their own samba band. The Brazilians know how to live. RNJ
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