Leaving with a bang

Of course, there was no doorman when I lugged my bags down stairs and let myself out at 5:50 this morning. There was, however, a hobo on duty.

This guy escorted me the entire way as I walked the one block to the beach to take the bus to the airport.

Now, when I left Belo Horizonte I was similarly trailed by an unbelievably skinny guy only that time he was hoping to hook up with me. As if.

Same situation. I'm emotional and pensive - obviously wanting to be alone with my thoughts - and yet some guy follows me speed talking his life story in an attempt to weasel something from me.

I told the hobo upfront: I HAVE NO MONEY. Yet, he felt that if he periodically placed his hand on my bag as I dragged it, I would then feel that he deserved some money. What I felt was the desire to yell for the police, but it was pretty obvious he just wanted some change and not to steal my suitcase.

In that short block I learned he was actually American, but had lived in Rio since 1985 when he overstayed his visa (i.e. got sucked into the drug culture).

He used to sleep behind Help, the nearby house of prostitution where some of my roommates worked - but the police kicked him out. Next he moved to the beach, but that didn't work since he woke up one day toasted by the sun and getting kicked by a gang of young children. He then moved to a grove of palm trees. That proved too hidden; someone tried to set him on fire one night.

Finally, he triumphantly discovered the lifeguard post. It's perfect. Shaded from the sun, yet more secure as there's someone present 24/7. All he had to do was bury his flip-flops to keep them safe.

During this monologue, the sun was rising behind us on the ocean setting the entire beach, neighborhood, mountains, the whole world on fire with pinks, reds and oranges. The placid ocean waters seemed to be made out of lava they were so bright. It was stunningly beautiful and I would have liked to have some peace to watch it.

At this point, I reiterated that I HAD NO MONEY. Nor was I lying. I abhor exchanging money so I had given away all my reais except for R$5 for the bus. I then found out from the hobo the bus was R$7 (Bruno. You were right. *sigh... I should make it a policy to never doubt you.) I had to use the extra bit of change to scrounge up R$2.

It was going to be close and I knew it.

I literally did not have any money. Zip. Zero. Nada.

Needless to say, he didn't believe me. And he was pissed. I carried your bag! I'm an American! You do have some money!! Not even some goddamn change? Christ, what kind of an asshole are you?? Man, FUCK YOU!!...

and so on.

With that I left Copacabana. It was fitting really.

A angry hobo yelling at me on a gorgeous beach soaked in the warmth of a early morning sun. Oh Brazil... I'm going to miss you.






[Thanks for following my adventures! This is going to be my last post since I am sitting in the airport waiting to return to the US as I write this. However, it was a great experience and as I'm sure next year will bring more adventures I'll let you know when I have a new blog! Thanks again!]

On Friday I went to the Ipanema beach around sunset. I was magically beautiful. The sun slowly descending just to the side of Dois Irmãos, a twin peak mountain that lies at the very end of the strand.

The sun was not a point, but a presence. It fused with the ocean, the mountains, the people, the sand and the very air filling the world with light and energy.

Where they send Brazilians to die

The last census indicated 30% of Copacabana is over 60 years old. Warm climate, lots of pharmacies. Armies of them. Blue hair, no hair, hearing aids, walking canes and a huge sense of entitlement.

They count out the exact change in the supermarket line... in nickels and dimes. They hobble as fast as glaciers down the narrow sidewalk when I need to get somewhere. They stroll down the street in skimpy bathing suits displaying their little sagging old man butts. They complain incessantly about every little thing about my apartment in our building (we've got oldies to the side, above and below... Christ)

I found myself annoyed. I found myself angry. I found myself questioning their worth and contributions to society.

This is how prejudices begin.

Thoroughly disturbed by that realization, I sat down and noted a few things. First, I am not old, but I hope to be so one day. Secondly, being old is not exactly easy from a physical or emotional point of view. Finally, I get mad at people for prejudice against race, religion, gender, etc. SO WHY IS AGE ANY DIFFERENT? It's not.

I'm pursuing a policy of taking a deep breath and aspiring to compassion when, for example, this morning the poor thing shouted at the cashier, "HOW MUCH IS IT?" rummaged in her pocketbook and then shouted again, "HOW MUCH?"

It might have taken 15 minutes for her to check out, but really what does it matter? She is a person with all her hopes, dreams and fears just like me. She might be a little more rickety but who can say what strength and wisdom hides in that frail, hunch-over frame?