Andrew and I have a rating system for cities. Instead of using stars we use days, meaning how many days you need for an introductory visit. What kind of a city is Boston, Fez, or Bangkok? A two day city. Madrid? Vienna? One day. Istanbul or Beijing? Solid three days. Rome? Jerusalem? Four, maybe five. Then there are the special cities–the ones where a week isn’t enough, where I could live there and never grow tired of finding new and exciting things to see and do. London. Hong Kong. Rio.
What makes these special? Hmmm . . . well, start with the energy of the place. These are cities that have a vitality other places lack. Some would argue New York has it and I suppose so but just having movement–or in New York’s case, a good dose of attitude–doesn’t count. On the streets of London you feel excitement and motion in the theater, the cockney, the cheekiness; in Hong Kong it’s encapsulated in the lights–everywhere the lights–and soaring verticality. In Rio it’s the rhythm of the waves on the beach mixed with the samba of the dance and the tropical colors.
These are the cities where there’s not only monuments, castles, statues, ruins, or historic sites to tour, there’s places you need to stand in to find scope. In Hong Kong you have to ride to the top of Victoria Peak or be on the deck of the Star Ferry to see the city properly. In Rio it’s Sugarloaf Mountain and Corcovado for that perspective.
We’d planned on taking the Trem do Corcovado to see the Cristo Redentor statue but left the day open to accommodate the weather. With the possibility of rain I didn’t want to go when we’d be fogged in. When we woke up on Thursday morning March 10th the sky was brilliant and clear, so after breakfast on the 15th floor of the Ritz Copacabana we grabbed a cab and worked our way through the mid-morning traffic counter clockwise around Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas and over to the edge of Tijuaca National Park where the station lay.
The heat was coming on but not yet strong enough to really wilt us and we stood in the shade waiting for the tram. Once seated the heat became harder until the car moved and circulated the air currents through the open windows as we headed up the mountain, held firmly against the backs of our seats by the steep incline. On the hillside the forest was thick, with semi-isolated houses and wandering dogs but once at the top we could see the city from all sides, laid out for us, as we climbed the remaining way up the stairs to the foot of the statue.
I had planned on visiting the statue of course but I wasn’t prepared for the experience. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty, the Great Wall of China, the great pyramids of Giza and all are inspiring but this is different. On the top of Corcovado Mountain (meaning “Where is my heart going?”) the 125 foot resurrected Savior stretches out his hands to His people, offering them the protection He describes when He says, “How oft would I have gathered you as a hen gathererth her chickens!” This isn’t the usual Christ in agony on the cross, twisted and distorted with suffering, emaciated and effeminate, this is the risen Lord in glory presenting Himself as a ransom for sin. I felt tears in my eyes as I stood in the shadow, taking it in and yet watching the masses of people milling about–some looking for their photo op for Instagram, some selling beach towels and other souvenirs, most stretching out their arms in an ignorant imitation as their friends took pictures. One woman wore an black t-shirt that shouted, “RELIGIO SIDADE MATA” (religiosity kills) while she and her family took turns snapping selfies in front of the statue. I wanted to ask her if she had planned on being ironic or merely offensive when she got dressed that morning.
The Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum is impressive, some think it beautiful, but it doesn’t have the power to inspire that kind of feeling when you visit.
There are lots of cities where you can find fun things to do–Los Angeles has its theme parks and entertainment industry, Bangkok has canal tours, Buenos Aires can teach you to tango but like Rio’s colorful markets with stacks of fruits you’ve never seen before, only in these super cities is there so much variety.
As I’d planned our trip to Rio I stretched our time as my list of things to do grew. Rio has the largest urban green space in the world–Tijuaca Park–and the trails give you access to waterfalls, marmosets, capuchin monkeys, sloths, and coatis. You can hike on Sugarloaf and if you still want more there are day trips just outside the city–such as on Ilha Grande, also great for snorkeling and diving and beaches and generally getting away from the noise of the city.
There’s Paqueta Island, accessible by a 45 minute ferry, or Niteroi across the bridge. There’s Petropolis for another nearby day trip and a bit of colonial history, or any of the beaches–Sao Conrado, Leblon, Ipanema, Copacabana, or Flamengo– and those are just the main ones. There’s Maracana Stadium and the Sambadromo for football and celebrations and concerts, then there’s Jardim Botanico, the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve ever seen.
Monday March 14 found us driving to the top of Pedra Bonita with our guide Daniel and his friend Carlos who suited us up for tandem paragliding off the top of the mountain down to Sao Conrado beach below. Andrew went first with Carlos and I followed with Daniel. I’d pictured that we’d be jumping off a cliff or some high point, but instead we drove to the top, parked in the parking lot and walked to a covered set of bleachers built into the side. In front was a slanted platform steep enough to make you watch your step on the non-slip astro turf and the idea was that, once ready, you’d simply walk off the edge.
Daniel had me try a practice walk across the platform, saying the key was to walk firmly and confidently, pulling hard enough against the sail strapped to your shoulders to allow the air to catch it and lift it, pulling you into the air before you actually stepped off the edge. That’s all great in theory but when it comes time to actually do it, somehow it seems easier to close your eyes and jump rather than to march forward without hesitation to the edge of a cliff then take a step into the air.
Well I suppose if this kills me it won’t matter if I jump or walk calmly or rush off to my death. Falling is falling so I might as well fake confidence and do my best.
Sure enough, as I pushed forward toward the edge, Daniel strapped behind me and matching my footsteps, I felt the sail inflate and rise as if it was a set of lungs filling with a single breath of air. By the time I reached the edge I realized that at some point my feet had left the ground and I was floating–hanging slightly awkwardly off the edge of my seat, but floating. I raised my knees to my chest in order to scoot myself back in the harness, all the while holding the stupid selfie stick that they’d insisted I carry.
Immediately we caught an updraft and began to rise. Daniel had an altimeter strapped to his shoulder that beeped as we rose. The faster we rose the faster it beeped so that as we caught the strength of the updraft and pushed higher and higher, spiraling into the sky it beeped as if time were running out on a bomb.
When we’d rode the current higher than the surrounding mountains, with the other paragliders far below us, Daniel directed us out over the water which made me more nervous than before. I knew it made no sense–falling is falling and whether I’d hit the trees, the rocks, the water, or the buildings I’d be doomed–but somehow it felt more precarious being far out over the water, as if we could blow out over the Atlantic, never to be found.
“Here, you steer!” Daniel said, and handed the command lines over to me. We had not discussed this. I gripped them in horror–what if I accidentally let go? The handle would fly up out of reach and we’d lose control and die. How could he have been so stupid as to entrust something so critical to a terrified newbie like me? I clung to the handles, barely hearing what he was saying, until I finally pulled on the right handle and felt our position tilt. I steered right, then left, getting a feel for the turn and the responsiveness. Then the thrill seeped in–the excitement of controlling something that controlled me–and I realized how someone might spend every weekend doing this over and over again.
When we’d first planned our South America trip many people said, “Oh be careful! It’s dangerous!” This wasn’t unusual, any time we’ve visited a place not in Europe we’ve had people suggest that we would most definitely die and then seemed surprised when we came back in one piece. But Americans just don’t get a good version of reality from watching television–the news highlights the extremes, the unusual, and the horrors without balancing it with the average or the mundane. And if something extreme does happen, a serious event triggers increased security and caution (and better prices) because everyone wants to be a safe place for tourists. No one wants tourists to go home and tell their friends not to visit Country X because they got mugged and left for dead. In fact, the only time I’ve had anything close to a security issue was when, in Egypt, the police were so cautious of protecting American tourists that they pulled over our driver for being lazy and not filing the proper paperwork showing that he was carrying such precious cargo.
“I have a bad feeling about this!” said a friend of mine when we described our trip to Buenos Aires, Iguazu Falls, and Rio de Janeiro. I wanted to point out if her feeling was truly a warning, that it would have been more efficient to warn the person buying the tickets (i.e. me) rather than to trust the message to a third party delivery service. Then I wanted to let her know that every time I get into an airplane I have a horrible feeling that this might be it and that this is the flight where our number is up and we might crash. The anxiety doesn’t get too far because I’m a numbers gal and constantly play the odds–there hasn’t been an airline disaster in decades–but heaven forbid something actually did happen, it doesn’t prove causality. Besides, no one ever thinks, when they return safely, Well, that nasty feeling I had that I thought was a premonition obviously wasn’t accurate. Maybe those feelings I get are just my nerves, I should take note of this for the future.
But this trip to Rio had me on a low level of alert. I do a lot of research prior to a trip. It doesn’t matter where we go, the The State Department will say that it’s dangerous and that we should rethink things. It is easier to put this into perspective when you hear that the UK likewise warns its citizens about travel to the U.S. Dangerous?? It’s dangerous to travel here? How? Well if you look at the random everyday things that routinely happen across the country, taken cumulatively they add up to a big fat “Do Not Go There It’s Dangerous” label for nervous Europeans. Every city in the world has places you shouldn’t go after dark; it’s always dangerous to go out drinking late at night, especially alone, especially for women; and no one should ever flash money around on the street like a moron begging to be mugged.
However, with other cities I’ve visited, I didn’t see average travelers or expats giving out warnings–but that was different with Rio where people online routinely warned against certain behaviors or areas. Not in a hugely significant way but with enough earnestness to make me determined to not be stupid. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
But Rio was lovely! Sweet smelling and cheerful, it was cleaner than most cities, with people out every morning sweeping the lovely tiled sidewalks that sported different black and tan patterns depending on the neighborhood. No trash, no feral cats, no drunks on the sidewalk, in short a charming and beautiful place.
Be careful of the beaches! We’d been particularly warned about these but Copacabana is wide and clean and carefully patrolled by police officers, particularly as the sun gets low. At night it’s well lit with huge stadium lights and the famous boardwalk feels as safe as any other big city–just watch your bags and keep yourself on guard and you should be fine.
Of course, we didn’t take any of those dreadful tours into the favelas where rich tourists gawk at the locals, we stuck to the major areas and arteries, didn’t go out late at night, and never frequented bars or clubs. So within those parameters we felt completely safe and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
I didn’t expect it, we went on a whim because it was one of the few places to go where it was warm in March, but couldn’t have dreamed we’d find so much fun there. Definitely one of the best.
What makes these special? Hmmm . . . well, start with the energy of the place. These are cities that have a vitality other places lack. Some would argue New York has it and I suppose so but just having movement–or in New York’s case, a good dose of attitude–doesn’t count. On the streets of London you feel excitement and motion in the theater, the cockney, the cheekiness; in Hong Kong it’s encapsulated in the lights–everywhere the lights–and soaring verticality. In Rio it’s the rhythm of the waves on the beach mixed with the samba of the dance and the tropical colors.
These are the cities where there’s not only monuments, castles, statues, ruins, or historic sites to tour, there’s places you need to stand in to find scope. In Hong Kong you have to ride to the top of Victoria Peak or be on the deck of the Star Ferry to see the city properly. In Rio it’s Sugarloaf Mountain and Corcovado for that perspective.
We’d planned on taking the Trem do Corcovado to see the Cristo Redentor statue but left the day open to accommodate the weather. With the possibility of rain I didn’t want to go when we’d be fogged in. When we woke up on Thursday morning March 10th the sky was brilliant and clear, so after breakfast on the 15th floor of the Ritz Copacabana we grabbed a cab and worked our way through the mid-morning traffic counter clockwise around Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas and over to the edge of Tijuaca National Park where the station lay.
The heat was coming on but not yet strong enough to really wilt us and we stood in the shade waiting for the tram. Once seated the heat became harder until the car moved and circulated the air currents through the open windows as we headed up the mountain, held firmly against the backs of our seats by the steep incline. On the hillside the forest was thick, with semi-isolated houses and wandering dogs but once at the top we could see the city from all sides, laid out for us, as we climbed the remaining way up the stairs to the foot of the statue.
I had planned on visiting the statue of course but I wasn’t prepared for the experience. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty, the Great Wall of China, the great pyramids of Giza and all are inspiring but this is different. On the top of Corcovado Mountain (meaning “Where is my heart going?”) the 125 foot resurrected Savior stretches out his hands to His people, offering them the protection He describes when He says, “How oft would I have gathered you as a hen gathererth her chickens!” This isn’t the usual Christ in agony on the cross, twisted and distorted with suffering, emaciated and effeminate, this is the risen Lord in glory presenting Himself as a ransom for sin. I felt tears in my eyes as I stood in the shadow, taking it in and yet watching the masses of people milling about–some looking for their photo op for Instagram, some selling beach towels and other souvenirs, most stretching out their arms in an ignorant imitation as their friends took pictures. One woman wore an black t-shirt that shouted, “RELIGIO SIDADE MATA” (religiosity kills) while she and her family took turns snapping selfies in front of the statue. I wanted to ask her if she had planned on being ironic or merely offensive when she got dressed that morning.
The Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum is impressive, some think it beautiful, but it doesn’t have the power to inspire that kind of feeling when you visit.
There are lots of cities where you can find fun things to do–Los Angeles has its theme parks and entertainment industry, Bangkok has canal tours, Buenos Aires can teach you to tango but like Rio’s colorful markets with stacks of fruits you’ve never seen before, only in these super cities is there so much variety.
As I’d planned our trip to Rio I stretched our time as my list of things to do grew. Rio has the largest urban green space in the world–Tijuaca Park–and the trails give you access to waterfalls, marmosets, capuchin monkeys, sloths, and coatis. You can hike on Sugarloaf and if you still want more there are day trips just outside the city–such as on Ilha Grande, also great for snorkeling and diving and beaches and generally getting away from the noise of the city.
There’s Paqueta Island, accessible by a 45 minute ferry, or Niteroi across the bridge. There’s Petropolis for another nearby day trip and a bit of colonial history, or any of the beaches–Sao Conrado, Leblon, Ipanema, Copacabana, or Flamengo– and those are just the main ones. There’s Maracana Stadium and the Sambadromo for football and celebrations and concerts, then there’s Jardim Botanico, the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve ever seen.
Monday March 14 found us driving to the top of Pedra Bonita with our guide Daniel and his friend Carlos who suited us up for tandem paragliding off the top of the mountain down to Sao Conrado beach below. Andrew went first with Carlos and I followed with Daniel. I’d pictured that we’d be jumping off a cliff or some high point, but instead we drove to the top, parked in the parking lot and walked to a covered set of bleachers built into the side. In front was a slanted platform steep enough to make you watch your step on the non-slip astro turf and the idea was that, once ready, you’d simply walk off the edge.
Daniel had me try a practice walk across the platform, saying the key was to walk firmly and confidently, pulling hard enough against the sail strapped to your shoulders to allow the air to catch it and lift it, pulling you into the air before you actually stepped off the edge. That’s all great in theory but when it comes time to actually do it, somehow it seems easier to close your eyes and jump rather than to march forward without hesitation to the edge of a cliff then take a step into the air.
Well I suppose if this kills me it won’t matter if I jump or walk calmly or rush off to my death. Falling is falling so I might as well fake confidence and do my best.
Sure enough, as I pushed forward toward the edge, Daniel strapped behind me and matching my footsteps, I felt the sail inflate and rise as if it was a set of lungs filling with a single breath of air. By the time I reached the edge I realized that at some point my feet had left the ground and I was floating–hanging slightly awkwardly off the edge of my seat, but floating. I raised my knees to my chest in order to scoot myself back in the harness, all the while holding the stupid selfie stick that they’d insisted I carry.
Immediately we caught an updraft and began to rise. Daniel had an altimeter strapped to his shoulder that beeped as we rose. The faster we rose the faster it beeped so that as we caught the strength of the updraft and pushed higher and higher, spiraling into the sky it beeped as if time were running out on a bomb.
When we’d rode the current higher than the surrounding mountains, with the other paragliders far below us, Daniel directed us out over the water which made me more nervous than before. I knew it made no sense–falling is falling and whether I’d hit the trees, the rocks, the water, or the buildings I’d be doomed–but somehow it felt more precarious being far out over the water, as if we could blow out over the Atlantic, never to be found.
“Here, you steer!” Daniel said, and handed the command lines over to me. We had not discussed this. I gripped them in horror–what if I accidentally let go? The handle would fly up out of reach and we’d lose control and die. How could he have been so stupid as to entrust something so critical to a terrified newbie like me? I clung to the handles, barely hearing what he was saying, until I finally pulled on the right handle and felt our position tilt. I steered right, then left, getting a feel for the turn and the responsiveness. Then the thrill seeped in–the excitement of controlling something that controlled me–and I realized how someone might spend every weekend doing this over and over again.
When we’d first planned our South America trip many people said, “Oh be careful! It’s dangerous!” This wasn’t unusual, any time we’ve visited a place not in Europe we’ve had people suggest that we would most definitely die and then seemed surprised when we came back in one piece. But Americans just don’t get a good version of reality from watching television–the news highlights the extremes, the unusual, and the horrors without balancing it with the average or the mundane. And if something extreme does happen, a serious event triggers increased security and caution (and better prices) because everyone wants to be a safe place for tourists. No one wants tourists to go home and tell their friends not to visit Country X because they got mugged and left for dead. In fact, the only time I’ve had anything close to a security issue was when, in Egypt, the police were so cautious of protecting American tourists that they pulled over our driver for being lazy and not filing the proper paperwork showing that he was carrying such precious cargo.
“I have a bad feeling about this!” said a friend of mine when we described our trip to Buenos Aires, Iguazu Falls, and Rio de Janeiro. I wanted to point out if her feeling was truly a warning, that it would have been more efficient to warn the person buying the tickets (i.e. me) rather than to trust the message to a third party delivery service. Then I wanted to let her know that every time I get into an airplane I have a horrible feeling that this might be it and that this is the flight where our number is up and we might crash. The anxiety doesn’t get too far because I’m a numbers gal and constantly play the odds–there hasn’t been an airline disaster in decades–but heaven forbid something actually did happen, it doesn’t prove causality. Besides, no one ever thinks, when they return safely, Well, that nasty feeling I had that I thought was a premonition obviously wasn’t accurate. Maybe those feelings I get are just my nerves, I should take note of this for the future.
But this trip to Rio had me on a low level of alert. I do a lot of research prior to a trip. It doesn’t matter where we go, the The State Department will say that it’s dangerous and that we should rethink things. It is easier to put this into perspective when you hear that the UK likewise warns its citizens about travel to the U.S. Dangerous?? It’s dangerous to travel here? How? Well if you look at the random everyday things that routinely happen across the country, taken cumulatively they add up to a big fat “Do Not Go There It’s Dangerous” label for nervous Europeans. Every city in the world has places you shouldn’t go after dark; it’s always dangerous to go out drinking late at night, especially alone, especially for women; and no one should ever flash money around on the street like a moron begging to be mugged.
However, with other cities I’ve visited, I didn’t see average travelers or expats giving out warnings–but that was different with Rio where people online routinely warned against certain behaviors or areas. Not in a hugely significant way but with enough earnestness to make me determined to not be stupid. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
But Rio was lovely! Sweet smelling and cheerful, it was cleaner than most cities, with people out every morning sweeping the lovely tiled sidewalks that sported different black and tan patterns depending on the neighborhood. No trash, no feral cats, no drunks on the sidewalk, in short a charming and beautiful place.
Be careful of the beaches! We’d been particularly warned about these but Copacabana is wide and clean and carefully patrolled by police officers, particularly as the sun gets low. At night it’s well lit with huge stadium lights and the famous boardwalk feels as safe as any other big city–just watch your bags and keep yourself on guard and you should be fine.
Of course, we didn’t take any of those dreadful tours into the favelas where rich tourists gawk at the locals, we stuck to the major areas and arteries, didn’t go out late at night, and never frequented bars or clubs. So within those parameters we felt completely safe and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
I didn’t expect it, we went on a whim because it was one of the few places to go where it was warm in March, but couldn’t have dreamed we’d find so much fun there. Definitely one of the best.
This post first appeared on Scribbit | A Blog About Motherhood In Alaska, please read the originial post: here
