Lapa

Lapa in the daytime

There is a neighborhood, next to the center of Rio, called Lapa. I have mentioned it before. It is a neighborhood whose incredibly poorly-translated magazine heralds as a 'center of democracy.' I have had a friend tell me this too, while stumbling around its streets, which I must admit were filled with a fairly diverse group of people.

Lapa is were Rio goes to get drunk as hell on the cheap. There's samba too. Every weekend, Friday especially, a variety of municipally sponsored street vendors open onto the street, spilling their podrãos and drinks into the mouths of the waiting. A tallboy of beer is 2 or 3 reais, and a toxicity-strength caipirinha is about R$4, which my friend thinks should be illegal. There are lots of bars and music venues, but most people just stand around drinking, often well into the daylight hours. If this is the center of Brazilian democracy, then I guess the country is surprisingly well-off despite all its problems, the least of which is a constant hangover.

Recent weekends have seen my repeated appearance there, so it has lost a little of its novelty for me, but is still a solid backup for when other plans fall through. After an interesting day involving mistaking a heavy opioid for asprin and a subsequent attempt to boogieboard, I met up with a Swedish friend and bought beers from a guy with a cooler on a motorcycle, right in front of the cops. It was then that I realized I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

We proceeded though the growing mass of revelers and sambistas to a pool hall where they only had extra-huge and extra-tiny tables for some reason. Stopping at several places on the way and having been overtaken first by the hare-krishna then a whole other bunch of hippies, we lost part of our group so headed to a horrible club where I paid money to listen to music I hate.

I actually really dislike funky, I think it's among the worst music there is. No offense to anyone or anything, but it's stupid, violent and sexist. The dance is stupid too, but kinda sexy when girls know how to do it. Just sayin', and it's not like I think square dancing is any good either.

I don't remember what happened next, but then I was on the beach with a headache and a broken boogieboard and it was afternoon. I'm pretty sure I had avoided calling for Raul. The camelôs had inspired me with a way to get more ESL students; I was to write on a white shirt 'tem ingles aqui' and walk up and down the beach yelling 'Aaaaulas de ingles! Aaaaulas de ingles!' while giving out my business card. I thought it was brilliant, but my friend said I had better shed all sense of shame before trying it.

Looks innocent, doesn't it?

Back in Lapa that night, I learned that prostitution is a legal profession in Brazil. Get this: they have working papers, legal protections, and retirement! They can retire and get a pension! Amazing.

At was turned out to be a nearly gringo-only event, I spoke with a lovely Californian girl who sympathized with the minor culture shock I was describing to her. "You have to be lazy. Force yourself to do nothing," she said. "That's the only way to survive." That's actually pretty true. Coming from a place (NYC) where everyone cares so much about everything they paradoxically go to great pains to show themselves as the opposite, I have been undergoing a shock of sorts here in Brazil where no one cares much about anything, and excel at avoiding responsibility, especially politically or bureaucratically.

When the place filled up and the cariocas began to outnumber the gringos, I was thankful for being able to amuse myself with mild drunkenness while not understanding anything anyone is saying. I've gotten excellent at pretending to understand Portuguese, and I actually spent about five straight hours today doing that with someone I had just met. But if anything, if I fail to learn Portuguese, I will remember Brazil as the place where I learned that it's ok to look at girls' butts, since everyone here does it and for very good reason. Besides, some are so hemispheric you don't have much of a choice.

The next morning I stumbled back into Lapa. Why I was awake, hungry, and not yet sober, back in the place I had been a mere 6 hours before, was beyond me. I think it had something to do with a waterfall. The pee on the streets was still fresh and small groups of people were still drinking...at 8AM, with the sun already beaming down like a thousand lasers from space.