sweating through another humid night in rio, again
i just checked and it’s 25.9°C with humidity so thick you could wring out your socks like a wet towel-somehow, still feels like 27. this place doesn’t just heat up, it clings. i’m staying in a shoebox apartment just off lapa, and my neighbor keeps blasting mpb at 3 a.m. like it’s a public service announcement. i swear, if i hear one more samba drum solo through the wall, i’m writing a Yelp review titled "ana linda’s voice is healing, but her neighbors are not." check out the reviews on TripAdvisor for this street-someone told me the guy upstairs used to be a percussionist for snoop dogg in a past life. probably not true. but the guy who runs the corner mercado dos bairros? he’s got the best coxinha in the city, and his granddaughter speaks five languages and gave me a free cup of cafezinho after noticing me crying over a broken guitar strap. funny how the world fixes you with carbs and kindness.
i tried to photograph the fog rolling down the hills this morning-didn’t get a single decent shot. the light’s too lazy here. even the sun seems exhausted. my camera’s lens is fogged, my battery’s dead, and i think my hoodie’s growing mold. but hey, if you get bored, niteroi’s just a 15-minute ferry ride away, and canela’s got those open-air dance spots where strangers become family by the third song. i heard that the guy who runs the baile funk party at praia do apoema lets you pay in kombucha or old cassette tapes. i’m going tomorrow. maybe.
i’ve been here two weeks. two weeks of learning Portuguese by yelling at street vendors, accidentally ordering raw fish instead of steak (oops), and falling asleep on a bus to copacabana because i thought it was my stop. i used to think i needed perfect gear to capture magic. now i know magic just shows up when you’re too tired to care. and boy, did it show up last night at bar do mundaréu-some guy played an accordion covered in duct tape while a woman in a sequined dress danced on a table with a flamingo-shaped cocktail. someone screamed "e a alma do Brasil!" and honestly? i believed them. if you want more local secrets, head over to the Rio Tourism Board’s hidden gems page-they know where the real food is. and if you’re anything like me, you’ll leave with sticky fingers, aching feet, and a heart full of broken chords.
i think i’m turning into a local. not because i’ve got the accent down-but because i’ve stopped asking if the rain will ever stop.
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