Brazil and it's many layers

Many years ago, in the depths of my burning teen angst, I used to read Paulo Coelho. His books weren’t always set in Brazil, but there was something about them—something about the way he described destiny, longing, and self-discovery—that comforted me. Maybe, without realizing it, those words planted the subconscious seed for me to travel to Brazil one day. Over the years, I had several interactions with Brazilians, each one reinforcing the idea that there was something magnetic about this country, something that called to me. Then, post-pandemic, a long-distance friend I had made insisted that I visit. I didn’t hesitate or find too many excuses. I booked a flight and went.

Rio was intoxicating. All of the clichéd words used to describe it ring true—vibrant, electric, sensual—but the one that stands out most for me is intoxicating. The energy of the city is something you don’t just witness; you feel it seeping into your skin, into your bloodstream. The many, many caipirinhas on the beaches, the pulsing parties that seem to last forever, the staggering natural beauty of the mountains cradling the city. Urca, Sugarloaf, Christ the Redeemer—each offering views that leave you breathless, standing in awe of the city below. And the people—there must be something in the soil of Brazil that births some of the most naturally stunning people I’ve ever seen. It’s almost unfair.

I try to shed my North American tendencies when I travel abroad. I avoid other North Americans like the plague, I refrain from assuming that locals speak English (though I’ll admit, it does help when you find someone who knows at least a little bit), and I make an effort to learn the basics of the local language. Brazilian Portuguese is beautiful, melodic, but not as easy to pick up as I had hoped. Still, a little effort goes a long way.

And then, of course, there’s the food. Brazilian cuisine is indulgent, rich, and packed with flavor. The steaks—perfectly seasoned, grilled to perfection. The beans, hearty and comforting. And the *dobradinha*—tripe stew—became my absolute favorite. Then there were the cocktails, whose names I now can’t remember, which only means they did exactly what they were supposed to do.

But then there’s the other side of Rio, the side you can’t ignore. The violence. I had heard about it before I arrived, but I tend to think these things are exaggerated, fear-mongering tactics meant to scare tourists. But in Rio, it’s not exaggerated. Everyone I met warned me—don’t use your phone on the street, don’t look lost, don’t let your guard down. That was tough because, well, how else do you call an Uber when you’re out and about? And in a city as mesmerizingly beautiful as Rio, how do you resist the urge to take pictures? You don’t. But you learn to be careful. Nothing happened to me, knock on wood, but the warnings were enough to keep me on edge.

So, I found myself in this strange state—simultaneously in awe of the beauty around me and hyper-aware of my surroundings. It’s a paradox, really. If you stick around Copacabana, Ipanema, Leblon, and Recreio, you should be okay. But don’t ever get too comfortable. That’s what I was told, and I listened.

Yet, for all its chaos, Rio seduces you. I may be romanticizing, but so what? The taxi drivers were friendly, the bartenders at the beach were charming. Maybe they were just angling for a heftier tip from the rich North American, but if they were, I fell for it.

At one point, I met two girls from Toronto. They seemed nice enough at first, but it didn’t take long before their North American-ness started grating on me. They were too prissy, too English-speaking, too much of exactly what I was trying to avoid. I wanted to be as far away from that as possible. So, I did what felt natural—I ghosted them. No explanations, no drawn-out goodbyes. Just disappeared into the intoxicating embrace of Rio, where I could be untethered and free.

Brazil, in a way, feels like the devilishly handsome bad boy your parents always warn you about. The one with the smirk, the reckless charm, the danger lurking just beneath the surface. You know he’s trouble, but you can’t resist. And maybe you shouldn’t. Because despite the warnings, despite the fear, Brazil is alive in a way few places are. And I know I’ll be back.