For years I believed the conventional wisdom. “Don’t go to Rio,” the experts said. “It’s too dangerous.” The guidebooks warned of hooligan militias while travel agents said, “Beware, beware, beware.” Better stick to someplace safer. Like Branson, Missouri or Conway Twitty City.
After a training regimen that included numerous John Wayne movies, karate classes and power bars, I finally mustered the strength to fly down to Rio. And I was furious....furious it took me 35 years to unearth one of our planet’s most exhilarating cities.
Forget about petty theft because there are plenty of other pitfalls lurking. Here’s a list of some of the real dangers awaiting visitors to Rio.
It’s dangerously fattening. I knew I was in trouble the first time I walked into a famous Porcão restaurant. The sign in front featured a giant, smiling pig’s head. The waiter inside handed me a card colored red on one side green on the other. “It’s to let them know when you’ve had enough,” a friend explained. Great. They see my stomach as a multi-lane freeway. Like an accordion car wreck, the barbequed steaks, pork, chicken, seafood and anything with a prior pulse began to pile high on my plate. Put another fork in that and then put another fork in me.
It’s treacherously fun. Be careful or you’ll be plowed over by a mountain biker or a 70-year-old man clocking his daily 10-mile run. Beaches are packed like an F.D.R. Supreme Court, jammed with paddle ball maniacs (still don’t understand how someone wins that game), heated soccer and volleyball matches, and an endless parade of stunningly beautiful women in less-is-more bikinis. They make your mind skip like a scratched João Gilberto album -- tall and tan and young and lovely...and tall and tan and young and lovely...and tall and…
For men’s swimsuits, there is a double danger. Wear your knee-length, California surfer shorts and risk ridicule from local women who abhor tan lines. Sport a skimpy Speedo and risk having your friends take a picture and post it on a dating website for pale men.
Hand signals can also get tourists into trouble. Many locals end conversations with a thumbs-up. It feels like being trapped in a Happy Days rerun. “Um, it’s Franz, not Fonz.”
And make sure to lose the A-OK sign. Here it suggests an intimate act with oneself. An A-OK can result in a KO if you’re not careful. Wish I picked that up sooner. I ordered meals and drinks for the first few days with the sign. Thanks, waiters, for not serving the fare on my lap.
Wearing the wrong soccer team colors in a local’s bar before a match can be hazardous. Kurt’s black shirt in room full of red went over about as well as my wisecrack to a group of Argentine soccer enthusiasts about Maradona being a drug addict. “Joking, I’m joking. Anybody know the word for joking?”
And I don’t care how many caipirinhas (see high octane margaritas, Brazilian-style) you’ve downed. Do not try to samba. Leave it to the locals. Stick to the gringo two-step. Chances are you’d just throw out a hip and spend the rest of your trip in a hospital. Yes, Brazil’s most famous composer, Antônio Carlos Jobim, said there are only three countries in the world that “swing” – Brazil, Cuba and the United States. Trust me on this. He didn’t mean you.
But the most risky aspect of Rio is the likelihood of addiction, a charge to which I am guilty. Completely and remorselessly. It took me three-and-a-half decades to find my way. Since then I’ve been back several times. I’m here for another month, but already looking forward to the dangers that await on my next visit to Rio.
