J. Beaman - The Magazine

Let me explain. I woke up at dawn this morning to watch the sunrise on Ipanema Beach and jog (a little-I am still J. Beaman)–grabbed a few cups of coffee and a small breakfast at my little joint (Cafeina). Spent the rest of the morning drinking beers on the beach, reading Jorge Amado’s lovely and charming and heartbreaking and tragic novel, Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon–fucking perfect. A little drunk and a little damp-eyed from Gabriela and her grace I walked up to Petronius, rumored to be the best (and most expensive - R$70 - outfuckingragous) feijoada. Feijoada, mostly served on Saturdays (you Midwesterners think Friday night fish fry) is one of my favorite things about Brasil. Black beans and meat. All different kinds of meat - pig tongue, six or seven different kinds of sausage, pig tail, ox tail…on and on. All in their won black cauldron, boiling and begging to be eaten. Self serve, all you can eat. It was great. An ocean view, a few more beers, a few stolen moments with Gabriela and the bill comes….and they’ve padded it with drinks that I did not have. Boy was I pissed. I managed to hold it in but I was fuming by the time I got back to my hotel.

Context.

Parts of Rio are a huge tourist fuck hole. And is, mostly, very poor. People are relentless in their attempts to swindle you. Make you pay the ‘tourist tax’. I try and be savvy and avoid it but sometimes it’s inevitable. Case in point. I met a guy from Bahia (the state in which Gabriela takes place - in the north of Brasil). He was a street urchin, hippie dirtbag but I liked him and enjoyed chatting with him. He was trying to get me to buy some of his crap - cutish crafty shit. Pipes and cigarette cases. R$25 for a cigarette case I liked. I’ll give you R$15. He changes the subject, talks about Bahia, his travels and the recipe for the best Cachaça drink around. I made it in my hotel last night - one for me and one for Gabriela (I drank both of them…she’s just a book). Blissful. He rolls back around to the cigarette case and says, ok, R$15, and you can buy me a beer, sim? My beer that I have been enjoying with vigor was R$3 - his beer (he ordered and paid with my money) R$1. I’m ok with that. These folks are poor and if they can make a few extra bucks off an idiota gringo like me, fine. Two other times restaurants padded my bill - the first time I was amused - the second, proud that I caught it and am such a savvy traveler. But this. R$75 for lunch at a fancy resort hotel and they want to steal R$15 from me?! It boils my fucking blood. Back to Santa Teresa, slowly. So, with a black heart and a full belly and an aching liver I head back to my hotel. I read a little and nap a little. I gather the minimum gear (remember Santa Teresa is sooooo dangerous) and walk from my hotel along the beach for about 3 miles to the nearest metro station. Metro downtown and manage (with a little help) to find the Bonde (translation - rickety fucking trolley) to Santa Teresa. The bonde, not dissimilar to our own F Train is balls deep with people (families, all Brasilians, and such) and I have to ride on the side, feet precariously perched on the ancient wooden rail, terrified (you see I’m a pussy-baby myself). I don’t know exactly where I’m going. Sure, I know I’m going to have dinner at Espirto Santa - an aclaimed Amazonian restaurant in the neighborhood and have a map with it marked but I’m not really in a position to whip my map out; hanging on for dear life as the train jerks and lurches and winds up a hill. Little black kids jumping on and off in flip-flops with enviable youthful agility. Views of sprawling favelas all around me. Maybe the Tias were right. Looking for anything that looks like a restaurant district I nearly loose my fucking head to a rudely placed light pole. Then, I see it. Espirito Santa. And know that there are an abundance of cafes up the road. The bonde at full speed I leap off channelling the little black kid’s spryness. Success! I am not dead and I don’t look like a douche…I think. I walk a few hundred meters, peering into the shops and cafes, looking for a good fit. I’m thirsty and it’s too early for dinner. And there it is. A garage door rolled open with those familiar (from Belo Horizonte) refrigerators with the giant LCD thermometers. Negative five degrees…and the samba pouring out and sticking to you like the best sex sticks to you for days. Thirty seats, eight of them taken up by the band. I take my seat - take a deep breath and say, Cerveja, por favor. The lord is my only friend.