In the shade of an umbrella at one of the many kiosks on one of the many beaches of Rio de Janeiro, I enjoy the slushie that every slushie strives to be-açaí na tijela, they call it, an intense purple puree made of Amazonian açaí and guaraná. It is, I decide, one of the many small miracles that just seem to happen in Rio. Like the scenery: shapely green mountains behind me, big blue Atlantic before me, and bodies, all sizes, all barely clothed, all around me.
It is my third trip to Rio in less than two years, and I've yet to figure out whether this universal freedom with the near-naked body is hereditary or simply an issue of its being too damn hot to wear anything. It is hot-tropical hot-but not, I've come to realize, hot enough for me to flit from beach to bank to supermarket in a mere bikini-flip-flop ensemble à la Carioca, as those born in Rio are known.
The Portuguese discovered Rio in the month of January, hence the "de Janeiro." Unfortunately, the man who christened the place believed it to be not a bay but a river, hence the "Rio." That was back in 1502, which makes this the eve of her 500th birthday. Rio is a city of a certain age, in other words, but she wears it well-her battle scars from early fights with the French, her psychological wounds from the "taming" of the Tamoio natives, her conversion by wayfaring Franciscans, Jesuits, and Benedictines. Over the centuries, she's benefited from all of Brazil's booms-sugarcane, gold, and coffee-and she's weathered all the subsequent busts. From the 1920s until the late '50s, she held the honor of hottest hideaway for the hottest of Hollywood and all who cared to be seen with them. After that, Rio went into a tailspin fueled by Brazil's none-too-glorious military dictatorship and much-publicized drug-related shoot-outs in the favelas, Rio's hillside shantytowns. Now, however, the tide is turning.
So I am here with my slushie, watching the runners, walkers, bikers, and bladers work the sidewalks. Forget what they say about that other city that never sleeps-Rio not only never sleeps, it also jogs at daybreak. I, however, was in no shape for anything so strenuous today. Too many chopps-icy cold drafts that I knocked back last night at a local hangout called Bar Lagoa, an Art Deco masterpiece-made for slow going this morning. So I sat in my room in a state of quiet indecision. The tourist masses were out of the question (those postcard icons, Sugar Loaf and Corcovado mountains, are, after all, obligatory), as was Mother Nature (Rio is packed with parks and gardens and more tropical trees per capita than nearly any other city on earth). Even the frilly Museu Carmen Miranda seemed too taxing.
Carlos Millan rescued me. He brought me to the westernmost kiosk on gloriously unassuming Pepino Beach. We sat for a spell with Alpine, Valtinho, and Fernando. This is their hangout, and they are all flyboys, guys who like to leap from cliffs, suspended from either a big kite (hang glider) or a small parachute (paraglider). Most flyboys, I note, wear nothing but shorts with cell phones and wallets tucked into their waistbands.
We'd met the day before. Seeking a new perspective on Rio's sinuous coastal curves, I called Millan, who runs Guia 4 Ventos, a local adventure outfitter; he took me across the bay to a sheer hilltop in Niterói, where I jumped. Alpine did all the work, steering us over roofs and treetops; I just hung alongside him like some useless appendage for 15 exhilarating minutes.
Now the flyboys are waiting until the wind picks up enough to take off from steep São Conrado. I am waiting, too, waiting for the hangover to pass. We sit around a plastic table and talk about Rio's secret religion ("Most Cariocas practice something called Umbanda, but most won't admit it"), Rio's biggest party ("a bunch of naked women dancing"), Rio's dirty little secret ("some of the most beautiful women are men"), and Rio's preeminence on the planet ("I wouldn't trade it for any place"). No one is in a hurry, but eventually, one by one they leave to leap off the mountain. I sit, savor my slushie, take in the scenery, and think-but not too hard-about what to do next.
