I’ve passed the stoplight at customs roughly more than 20 times. The first was probably before I could walk. A trip to Rio is a family tradition, whenever one is not realized the peculiarity as to why we didn’t make the trip is always remembered with a certain scratch of the head. A year without a little Brazilian heat on the skin leaves us always feeling slightly incomplete. I’ve tried to fight it, but this year I’ve realized there is no point. It is a pilgrimage that is written in bold ink in our familial bible.
Over the past few vacations I have had a growing itch to drive here; each time met with a strong dosage of precaution… or flat out no. Obviously never spelled out that way, but done the Brazilian way – through a veiled anecdote that segues into a change of subject. I have traveled the world, but Brazil always carries an extra twenty becarefuls from family and friends. You would think it would be the opposite.
That said, I finally grabbed the horns, or should I say the wheel, and did what I had longed to do. These last few days there has been something exceptionally freeing about connecting a lifelong list of visual cues, fragmented by my unassuming eyes. Never before had I truly paid attention to the signage. In truth, after all these years I only halfheartedly created a map of my surroundings. I had relied on my parents, my family and my friends to be my guides. With the arrival of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law this week, I finally became that guide. Hustling back-and-forth, soaking in the city's air and fumes, I have gained a new found appreciation for the Cidade Maravilhosa. A true beauty that transcends time and which proudly has shaped the Carvalhos that preceded me and those that will undoubtedly succeed me.
There is a traveler's axiom that you never really know a city unless you travel through it like a local. Truth can never be combated.
