For a Monday night, Santa Teresa is really rocking. The music started about 7pm with a loudspeaker in the back of someone’s car across the street blasting Brazilian pop out of the trunk. I was in the kitchen and could clearly hear the beat to Latino’s “Hoje é festa lá no meu apê”, the Portuguese remix of this song they used to play all the time on La Nueva Digital 101.7, the Spanish radio station I used to listen to in Austin. Only the version they played on the radio was in some language that, for the life of me, I couldn’t identify. Latin? Arabic? Who knows. Who cares, really, with a catchy dance beat that gets mercilessly stuck in your head. A random group of teenage guys hung out around the car with the loudspeaker for a while, catcalling and drinking beer and generally being idiots as only adolescent boys know how. Diógenes, the owner of the Bar do Mineiro across the street, finally made the guys move the car around 8pm so that he could have ample sidewalk parking for the private party set to happen later in the evening.
I’m not quite sure what the occasion is, but something big is being celebrated at the bar right now. They have a sound system set up blaring Chico Buarque and Lenine and old samba songs, and people are spilling out of the bar onto the street dancing and drinking out of plastic cups. Even with all the shutters closed because of the cold I can clearly hear the surdo drum beats and already inebriated voices belting out verses, oblivious to the fact that it’s a Monday for God’s sake! Ooh, they’re playing Fernanda Abreu right now, “Rio 40 Graus” with special participation by Chico Science. This song is the epitome of Rio – a solid funk beat mixed with samba percussion, talking about the dualities in this city and the steamy hot weather.
“Rio 40 graus, cidade maravilha purgatório da beleza e do caos.”
“Rio 104 degrees, marvelous city purgatory of beauty and chaos.”
There is a sweet party going on right outside my door, they are playing all of my favorite music, people are dancing in the street, it’s my second-to-last night in Brazil, and I’m sitting by myself on the sofa wearing slipper socks and a scarf. What’s wrong with this picture?
For as much as I yearn for it to be, Santa Teresa is not yet home. I’m caught in a strange purgatory of my own – I’ve chosen this neighborhood as a place where I want to set down roots and create a life for myself, but I’m still an outsider. I haven’t spent enough time here. People have no idea who I am. I have no function in this community. But somehow I know this is my place. I identify with every crumbling villa, every bright splash of graffiti, every breath of the neo-bohemian spirit that flourishes here. I spend five weeks per year in a pink palace in the heart of Santa Teresa and watch as life passes by on the street below. I have been observing for four years, longing to slip in and become part of what I see from the verandah. I know who the kids are that watch over the parked cars. I know that Diógenes owns the Bar do Mineiro and that his sister-in-law Ângela makes a fabulous feijoada for lunch. I recognize the old, toothless drunk man who always sits at the bus stop and asks for change. I know what time the kids at the school across the street break for recess. It’s all so familiar, so close. But I’m just an observer, not yet a participant.
I just went out to the verandah to check out the party. People are improvising percussion on tables and chairs, singing, kissing. The music is absolutely amazing – everything from Rolling Stones to Olodum. There is a strong sense of community. Everybody is happy.
Tears are rolling down my face. Why don’t I just walk down there? I could put on a skirt, maybe a little bit of lip gloss, go meet some new friends. I’m extroverted. I have an interesting story to tell. I know I could be a part of the best party I’ve ever seen in Santa Teresa. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I hate the idea of walking up to the crowd alone, nobody to hold my hand, nobody to sit and share a drink or a dance with. I hate the feeling of recognizing and not being recognized. I hate admitting to myself that I don’t yet belong here. And most of all I hate that, by letting my fear get the best of me, I’m just guaranteeing my continued position as an outsider.
Of course I’ve come up with some excuses to justify not checking out the party. My throat is killing me and I feel another cold coming on. Being in the damp air, drinking ice-cold beer, staying up late – that would just guarantee feeling miserable on the flight to Africa. I’d better sit inside where it’s warmer and have some tea. Also, feeling lonely fuels my creativity and I’ve been doing some super satisfying writing this evening. I’ve been meaning to write about the concept of home for the last several days and haven’t had the time or the inspiration. I’d be a fool to waste this moodiness on a party when I can feel the words forming effortlessly. I should take advantage and write a good blog entry, use the Internet, keep in touch with the people I love. Hide in my words. Get some rest. Don’t go to the party.
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