Rio de Janiero - the land of big bronzed bikini clad butts and high esteems. What other size 18 women bare their mounds in fetching fluoro-coloured bikinis? Bikinis which are more an assortment of small triangles held together by flimsy elastic than what one would consider swimwear. Bikinis that dig into side back flesh and disappear into folds. Good on them - this is not a criticism - more the bemused observation of a citizen of a less conservative, perhaps more ostracised, nation. Rio doesn't need to make excuses or conform to our warped sense of normal; it's got too much to hold in its stride.
Nic, Grace and I have abandoned local for the most apparent tourists. Sipping on acai (Pron. ass-ay-ee) on the way to the "paia" in newly purchased Haviannas and leopard print bikini. I purchased a sarong at the beach with a panoramic print of Cristo Redentor, Copacabana and Sugar Loaf.
The city is exciting. Pretty beaches crash skylined shores sitting in the shadows of rugged mountain peaks; green and tropical. Squirrel monkeys join us in the morning for breakfast, taking away pieces of cake and fruit, rushed and thankless. Now and then when you pass by in a taxi, or you are sitting on Ipanema beach, you see Jesus, peculiarly peaking out between towering high rises. It makes you wish you had a better relationship with the man; you can just up and pester his iconic presence at the slightest inconvenience.
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