The Girls from Ipanema
My friend Amy joins me in South America and we head to Brazil, where the quality of buses declines along with the value of our dollars.
Arriving in Rio de Janeiro, we check into the charming Mango Tree guesthouse in upscale Ipanema.
In the steamy neighborhood of Lapa, I buy caipirinhas from street vendors for $3 and run from club to club, dancing to salsa and hip hop in the same hour. I buy the skimpiest bikini I’ve ever owned and am still wearing twice as much clothing as the girls lying next to me on the sand.
Because Brazil is expensive, my diet consists of acai for lunch and sometimes dinner if I don’t splurge on the mouth-watering churrascos where the waiters are as drool-worthy as the slabs of meat they carve tableside.
I go to a futbol game at the famous Maracana stadium and sport a Botafogo jersey. None of that elitist Flamengo gear for me. A stranger on a bus told me he cheers for Botafogo and now, so do I alongside thousands of impassioned fans.
Over the course of the game I witness the complete spectrum of emotions: elation, satisfaction, fear, dread, anticipation, hope, devastation. When the match ends, euphoric fans shoot flares into the air, and I dash for cover as glittery red sparks rain down.
After nearly a month in Rio, I need a breather. I hop a bus to Buzios, an adorable seaside town made famous in the 1960s when French icon Brigitte Bardot was spotted there with her Brazilian lover.
Every day I pick one of the 22 different beaches and laze on the sand, congratulating myself for winning at life.
