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A messy, human-style title for the post

@Emma Hayes2/9/2026blog

i just rolled into rio with a battered drum kit and a headache from the 36-hour bus ride. the city feels like it’s been stuck in a never-ending tambourine beat. i parked near a graffiti-covered overpass and met luisa, a bartender who told me the local band practices next door at 3am. the sounds drifted through my window like a 12-inch jazz loop. it’s 24.57 here, but it feels like 25.33 because the air is holding its breath. if you like swimming in humidity, you’re in luck. i checked and it’s…there right now, hope you like that kind of thing.

luisa sells us a bottle of caipirinhas with ice that’s practically melting on us. she says, you have to taste the salt here. not the ocean salt, the salt of whatever the neighbors are drinking. i asked about the venue next door. she whispered, someone told me that the drummer keeps yelling into his phone during sets. i heard that. it was a tourist yelling about missing his flight. real priorities.

the neighbors are a whole other story. down the street, there’s a guy who plays bass guitar all night long, but his amp sounds like it’s in a submarine. one neighbor legit told me the heat is making his mop handle fall apart. i didn’t ask why. just nodded and bought a pint of beer from him. he warned me about the soundproofing. he said it’s so bad, the venue uses Bluetooth speakers outside to play the drums. so loud. i’m not sure if that’s a pro tip or a passive-aggressive vent.

someone told me that the reviews on tripadvisor are all from ex-bandmates trying to roast each other. i looked it up and found a 1-star rant from ‘drummer999’ about how the stage lights flicker during solo. i’m not sure if that’s true. maybe. maybe it’s a cry for help. i heard that downtown rio’s jazz club has a secret back stairwell that leads to a cat sanctuary. i’m not going to verify. but if you get bored, other cities are just a short drive away. definitely not rome.

i tried recording a jam session last night. the heat made my hands sweat, so i lost control of my kicks. it was all chaos. like a toddler trying to dance a samba. but that’s the point. i ended up at a tiny record store where the owner, maria, let me borrow a worn-out snare drum. she said it’s haunted. she said, this one beat haunted a singer in the 90s. i didn’t ask for details. just hit a cymbal hard. it sounded like a door closing.

i’m not sure if this place is worth it. i saw a review on yelp from someone who literally said, ‘i came for the food but stayed for the drum solo that scared the parrots.’ i mean, that’s a compliment? or a warning? i’m leaning towards warning. the weather here is like a lyrics sheet that forgot the verses. i just checked and it’s…there right now. i’m wearing a tank top made of recycled drumheads. it’s cool and weird.

if you’re a music fan, there’s a pro tip: bring earplugs. or don’t. the local band might play a cover of ‘despacito’ at 7am. i heard that. i’m biased. i’m biased because i need coffee. i’m a coffee snob now. luisa kept offering me espresso shots with chili dust. i said no. i’m dehydrated. the(button) lady next to the bar swears by yerba mate. she said it’s the spiritual equivalent of a drum roll. i’m not sure if that’s a good thing.

i need to leave before the next rainstorm. the last time it rained, the venue flooded and the bassist ended up playing on a noodle bowl. i’m not sharing that story. it’s too messy. here’s a map if you’re brave enough to find your own sound:

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ps: some people warned me about the stairs. they said they lead to a secret beach. others said it’s just a cat’s lounge. i took the stairs. found a cat. itزعowicz. true story.

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About the author: Emma Hayes

Exploring the intersection of technology and humanity.

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