Rio runs by

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“Don’t let go,” she whispers wistfully in my ear. I smile. I’m overtaken with a vision to stay with this girl. Make love to her on the spartan hostel bed. It has been a month since someone has looked at me like this. But. I shake free. Move towards her friend. Take her close with an awkward air between us. Wave to the hostel manager. Grab my bag. My muscled strain as I pull it to my back.
Outside it is drizzling. A woman walks a small dog and chats to her friend. I pass the corner bar. Think for a second about ordering one more capirinha. Decide against it. Turn onto Rua Gasteo de Cunha. The sea is far off, shrouded in grey. I can barely see the hills jutting from the ocean. I squint. They are there.
I wander along the beach. It is on my right. To my left is a long line of hotels. Today the beach is deserted. For a moment I close my eyes and remember Ipanema on Saturday. The never ending stream of beautiful bodies walking past. The surfers to the right side of the beach, the swimmers on the left. Myself alone somewhere in the middle. Reading a book and soaking up the surroundings. Men play volley soccer. Their chests greet the service like dolphins rising arched above the water. An old man juggles with his grandson. I count softly to fifty before it hits the sand, then I count again.
I position my chair to have the best view of the bodies I decide to fall in love with.
First it is an African queen. Chubby and in a thong. Belly button ablaze with a silver piercing.
Then three girls. Switching from front to back to front like pieces of prized steak sizzling slowly on a summer grill.
Then the French girl. Her nipple poking out from her bathing suit. I can see the small bumps that ring her areola, like the hills of central Colorado rolling towards the Rockies.

I shook myself from these thoughts as I brushed against another pedestrian. I stood on the corner. My backpack like the shell of a tortoise. My home, my security, my weight, all strung across broadened shoulders.
The bus flew passed and I flailed wildly until it stopped. I ran aboard. Unstrapped my pack and carried it through the turnstiles. Picked out my seat. Leaned my head against the plastic window. Watched Rio run by. The small colorful houses dotting the hillsides. The men gathered in bars at lunch. Ordering tall shots taken straight. Their large plates of meat, rice, beans, and spaghetti topped with Brazilian bread crumbs and mixed into some salty stewlike delicacy. Uniformed school children walking in groups. Ladies strutting with bare stomachs, tight jeans, and high heels.
We reached the airport. The news was grim. I tried to leave South America. It failed. I ended up on a shuttle in Sao Paolo. I found a room and ordered an omelet. The streets were too dangerous to find food outside.
I awoke late, five minutes before check out. Almost stuck my toothbrush under the faucet, then remembered the brown water that flowed the night before. I paid my bill and hopped a shuttle to the airport. My flight left in eight hours.
I left my bag in a locker and boarded some random bus. Took it till it stopped in some shady town outlying Sao Paolo. The signs were in Portuguese. The shops sold second hand electronics. The wares hung on uneven shelves gathering dust and a few wayward stares. I walked for a bit between the stores and stalls. A few children stuck money into arcade games. Most restaurants sat empty. I sat in a diner. Saddled next to the linoleum counter. Ordered a steak sandwich in Spanish. The chef spoke to me, but I couldn’t understand so I smiled. After a full glass of fresh juice and attempts at broken Portuguese, I shuffled out the door. Workers huddled under the bus stop, smoking to keep warm. I lit up next to them, they talked, I smiled.
I boarded the outbound bus and looked to the north. The small dirty city flew past.
What will I do if I miss this flight? I could go back to Rio. She would be waiting. I did not want her, but was tinged with a bit of boredom and sprinkling of curiosity. OR. I could start my travels again. Head to the jungle. Mosquitoes and malaria pills. Fear and Loathing in the Amazon. OR. I could snake my way back to Buenos Aires. Stop at the desert and mountains. OR. I could keep trying to leave, like the others who had sat at the airport each night for five days. They huddled around the screen awaiting their assignment that never came. They crowded in groups to comfort their loss. A frantic, pathetic bunch. One went so far as to leave her 10 year old son alone in Brazil as a seat opened in economy class. I was appalled. He cried. The others consoled him. A family had formed. Bound by repetition and reason. It gave me the creeps.
So I’m standing here now. My future uncertain. My nerves raw. What to do? The world awaits, all I do is sit.

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