Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [128]
Our initial experience goes pleasantly at Churrascaria Carretão, a short walk from our hotel and chosen in part because of that. Rio has a reputation as a dangerous city for tourists, a place where thieves often prefer confrontational robbery to purse-snatching or pickpocketing. None of us ever sees anything suspicious or feels the least threatened, but we stay cautious when we’re out on foot. The Carretão surprises us at first with its merry ambiance, reminiscent of what we’ve seen earlier in the day on Ipanema Beach. The reason quickly becomes apparent: most of the customers came directly from the sand, hardly bothering in many cases to slip a modest cover-up over their thong bikinis and Speedos.
During dinner, right after one scurrying waiter almost spears a barely clad behind with his spit, Mary asks us about our last stop in France, where the three of us have traveled together before. “Actually,” Bill says, “there are surprising similarities between Nice and Rio. Take Carnival, for example. Nice invented it in the Middle Ages and Rio re-created it for modern times, just for the sake of lusty amusement in both cases. The cities even look a little alike, sitting on big bays below lofty hills, and the residents of each clearly have a local style of their own, a kind of trademark joie de vivre.”
“Do you know that the first European settlers of Rio were French?” Cheryl asks. “French pirates came first, followed by an official colony called ‘Antarctic France.’ In a good book I’m reading about Rio right now, Brazilian writer Ruy Castro says most of the pioneers went gaga over the local Indian women, who apparently were a male fantasy, always naked and horny. Their commander, a strict Catholic, got fed up with frequent orgies and declared he would start hanging raunchy settlers. That caused so many men to desert and move inland, the colony collapsed.”
Looking around the room at the nearly naked patrons, Jan says, “Maybe the honcho misunderstood Rio’s destiny. By the way, has anyone noticed where guys keep stuff like wallets and house keys in a Speedo?”
Several caipirinhas and the ongoing floor show make up for the shortcomings in the food, leaving us in a jovial mood as the evening ends. So we head to another churrascaria the next night, this one a taxi ride away in Leblon, but it disappoints us compared with the Carretão, distinguishing itself primarily by a stuffier atmosphere, more condescending service, and a check three times greater. The sole redeeming grace of the evening is the trip back to our hotel, which takes us by a lagoon festooned with a giant Christmas tree—twenty-seven stories high—floating on a barely visible barge. Approximately three million lights blaze through revolving patterns of display, casting dazzling color across the water and the sky.
On our last morning in town, just hours before our departure for Salvador, Bahia, Mary pushes the rest of us to go to the Carmen Miranda Museum, despite reports that it’s tiny and has frustrated many fans. Humoring her initially, we end up thanking her profusely. The bunkerlike building is minuscule, severely limiting the display space, but the costumes, photos, and film clips turn us from curious, detached observers into awed admirers. The dynamic little lady—five feet tall on tiptoe—truly presented the best of Brazil to the world during her music and movie career from the 1930s to the 1950s, when she reigned as one of the queens of Hollywood.
Our perspective totally flip-flops on the most fanciful aspects of her stage and screen persona. Her whimsical headdresses, we learn, drew their inspiration from the distinctive turbans worn by the Baianas and, for practical purposes, compensated for her height, allowing her to star in movies alongside the much taller leading men of the day. Her elaborate outfits, bountiful bangles, and sensual hand movements also mimicked Baiana style, and her sense of