Rio de Janeiro: Sun, Sand, and the Most Drawn-Out Photo of a Palm Tree I’ve Ever Taken
the heat envelope wraps around you like a bad decision to wear loose cotton. 22.98 degrees, feels like 24, and the humidity? it’s like the air’s breathing with you, slow and sticky. i just tried to shoot the perfect beach sunrise and my camera sensor melted. or maybe it was the glare of the 3,000 other people doing the same thing. "city, you sly little siren, " a local muttered while adjusting her soggy linen shirt, backlighting a horse in the background.
*bonito, man. you need stay cool. the kind of cool where you don’t even hear yourself shouting. panorama* views are irrelevant here. the real shot is the guy in the wet suit teaching a skateboard to do flips in the puddles near the Vila Nova Metro. or the guy selling mango slushies out of a blender while playing crying boy-band ballads on a broken speaker. cheap, sweaty, loud.
> “never trust the signpost to Copacabana, dude”, warned a surf instructor. > “there’s a hill called Pedra da Gávea? don’t go. it’s cursed”. I did it anyway. my drone died mid-chase.
handicapped by cheap gear, i tried to film the sunset at sunset point. sun’s like, “”not happening,” at 18:05 sharp. crowd surged like a subway of lost souls. someone yelled, “num - num, #1 in cloud!,” which someone else answered with a Corinthians chant that dissolved into a mariachi cover of “out of my mind”.
browsed the subreddit of the city after midnight. found a post titled, “which side of the city don’t go to without a bandaid?” the top comment: “log on Ipanema Street. it’s fine, just dodge the raccoons.” added a Yelp link: Barra da Tijuca - drunk tourists confirmed the best spot is where the police are less noticeable.
i found a lone biribiri (parrot) wearing a tiny cape with a crooked parrot. stole my water. started a common sense talking debate. neighbors? churrascos from the favela next door. smell like grilled hearts and regret. if you get bored, São Paulo’s chaos is just a short Uber away.
next move: sneak into a favela at 3am. send a postcard to myself. maybe get arrested. or maybe find a street artist who’ll turn my blurred beach photo into a mural.
> “never ’human,’ scream the stars”, whispered the janitor at the beach bar. he was washing a surfboard that sure looked like it belonged to a guy named Jesus.
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