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Rio de Janeiro: A Drummer’s Fugue in the Heat

@Aria Bennett2/13/2026blog

i woke up to the sound of a brazilian samba drifting through my sleep. not the kind from a festival, just some random guy on the street practicing with a cardboard cajon. nine am. 26 degrees. like, exactly 26.64. and the humidity? it was 85 percent. your skin practically melted. the kind of sweat that turns into soup if you don’t wipe it fast enough.

so i grabbed my beat-up snare drum and started tapping on the pavement. a stranger walked by, looked at me, and said, ‘you playing the drums in rio? that’s wild, man. you should check out the germano live spot. but don’t bring any water. they say the sound system there is so loud, it’ll dry up your throat.’ i didn’t know if he was joking or giving real advice. i still don’t. but i ended up there anyway.

someone told me that the germano’s beer taps are cursed. like, if you order a caipirinha and the bartender doesn’t scream ‘bring me another one!’ within 10 seconds, you’ll have a hangover by noon. i heard that from a retired waiter at a taco place. he was crying when he said it. i don’t know if he was lying or if the curse is real. maybe both.

the weather was a constant. i checked my app and it said, ‘it’s 26.64 right now, hope you like that kind of thing.’ which i did, mostly. the heat made everything feel slower. like time was trying to evaporate before it even started. but the city pulsed anyway. people were dancing in the metro stations. a guy in a neon tank top was playing the ukelele to a crowd of three. that’s rio. chaotic. loud. alive in the worst way.

if you get bored, são paulo is just a short drive away. but i stayed. i needed the noise. i needed the chaos. i am a drummer, after all. my soul is made of tempo and defiance.

i heard that the local students at usc do the biggest beach cleanups. like, every sunday they show up with buckets and cry about plastic. i didn’t see them. i saw a guy selling elderflowers by the ocean. they tasted like old tears and regret. i bought two. one for me. one to rub on my forehead. it stung.

someone posted on yelp that the best place for pastel de nata is hidden behind a bakery run by a nun who charges extra if you ask about the price. i didn’t check. i got burned by a similar scam in paraguai. so i just ate a mystery pastry at a spot called viveiro. it was gluten-free and tasted like someone’s bad memory.

i saw a sign for a ghost hunt. ‘please do not bring luggage.’ i laughed. but then a woman in a hat started telling me about a hotel where people claim to hear a piano in the walls at 3 am. i didn’t believe her. until i tried it. the piano was playing ‘ lifts are coming’. the elevator to my room was empty. i pressed the button. nothing. just echoes.

the neighbors? well, the one above me was definitely a pyro. i heard fireworks at 2 am. or maybe just a really angry oven. i didn’t check. i closed my eyes and imagined it was a street performer setting off confetti.

i took some photos of the city. one of a cliffside building with a sign that said ‘no entry.’ another of a park where everyone was lying on their backs staring at the sky. the third was a market with a vendor selling ‘authentic guava paste’. i bought some. it was gray. i ate it. it was sour. i don’t know why i’m telling you this.

if you’re dying to know more, check the tripadvisor for ‘the best cephalhaudle in rio.’ i read that on a nap from a fish place. it’s probably fake. but who knows. maybe it’s true. maybe that place has a secret menu only locals know. maybe i missed it.



p.s. the heat? it’s 26.64. still. i just felt a drop of sweat on my drum head. it was warm. like the moment before a punchline. i hope you like that kind of thing.

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About the author: Aria Bennett

Believer in lifelong learning (and unlearning).

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