Discovering the Souls of Foreign Shoes

Skol in the morning: another beer to fill my half-empty stomach. On cobblestones my dirty tennis shoes wobble across uneven planes, gripping desperately the flatter surfaces. Distant drumming fills my ears, my heart; it becomes my pulse. It’s a Wednesday—not that it matters. Few people in front of their houses sweeping away fairy dust, eye makeup, collecting cans and abandoned goods. Beer can cracks open with an excited ‘Pop!’ followed by a satisfying hiss; bubbling, bubbling, all the way down. Chilled liquid soothes my throat and, satisfied with its cheap arctic taste, I feel the temperature drop a degree or two. Celsius. The morning air is warm and thick, inviting me to enjoy this tropical climate; it wraps itself around me in every direction, smothering me like a mother’s overly sentimental hug. I love it. I invite the golden rays to beat down upon me with an intensity comparable to the samba beat nearby.

Boys, girls, the young and old fill in the spaces between breaths. Packed tightly together like sardines in a can, the people here are the parade. No floats today, no ropes to withstand; today, it’s just the music and us. Encircling the van, we sing along loudly to the ‘’Marchinhas’’ songs blasting from its stereo. Two sets of speakers are taped atop the pale blue van to ensure everyone in the distance can hear. Beautiful voices united in tune; our song and laughter are as colorful as the costumes. Hats, sparkles, sorcerers, dolls. Hula skirts swaying weightlessly catch the light and scissor, like a prism, colors in every direction. Swish and swish, as her jutting hip swings back and forth in figure eights. Music changes to another tune I’ve heard all week: "Eu vou beber ate´ cair."

Yes, I will drink until I fall. Carnaval. This is what it’s like. A sweaty and sticky paradise. Trapped between two walls, enclosed in a narrow residential corridor in the hills of Rio de Janeiro. I look up—past bald, sweaty heads, ornamented and gilded heads, locked together sucking faces, lips kissing, bodies embraced—I look up past the crowd of people and trace the network of power lines. Thick black bands of rubber fasted together. The trolley cables intersect with the power lines of houses to create a black net above us. Trapped inside. Like an insect caught in a spider ´s web, though I’m not struggling to try and break free: I don’t want to leave. Brazil, my spider, you have lured me in and trapped me just so. You’ve taken my heart, and your people, my soul.