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You’re reminded of this contrast as you stroll the boutiques of Ipanema that New Yorkers might say reminds them of Soho, except for one detail. In front of the window selling $400 shoes is a guard armed with a machine gun. In front of every gated residence you’ll see him there too.

After you eat you’ll stumble on the plethora of street kids sniffing glue, laughing, high because their brain cells are being zapped. You’ll look at their young faces and realize that back home such homeless youth would be institutionalized.  It isn’t that there aren’t agencies there- there are-LL worked for one- and it isn’t because people don’t care. But there they are, poverty is such an anchor. They are ignored or sneered at, just as the homeless are here too. See them and you’ll begin to see how their existence is no difference than rats. Your heart will be weighted. Then a young one will approach you for food, you know he’s only like eight, but the way he asks you will make you realize how hardened he is, and that’s he’s a full fledged punk.

Perhaps you’ll be forced to think about this more in Rio while exploring its scenic beauty, its samba rhythms, its carnival, the joys emanating from the favelas, because your eye will also catch the silhouette of Christ the Redeemer, the gigantic statue overlooking the entire city from Corcovado mountain with open arms in the Rio sky. I wonder (I often wonder this), is it an embrace for love and protection that is being offered to us, acceptance, or is it an invitation, an acknowledgement of the agony of the cross?

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C-mixto thought it romantic to whisk me away to Brazil a few years ago. Rio to be exact.

If you’re never been to Rio, here are three points to consider before going:

1. If a woman traveling with your man, be very secure in yourself (I mean your looks and your relationship).
2. If you’re a man traveling with a woman you’re not crazy about, reconsider your travel plans; you will not be able to hide this once you land.
3. If you’re a man traveling solo or with other guys, you probably already know what’s up, hence why you’re going there to begin with.

One night, dining along the shores of Copacabana, C-mixto suggests we go dancing. To the “biggest club in Latin America”, he claims. We hail a cab, get in, and C-mixto tells the driver our destination. The driver begins to drive, but with hesitation.

“Eh, sir,” he says in a mixture of Portugese and Spanish. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” C-mixto says.

“But sir,” the driver says, glancing at me nervously. “Are you sure you want to take your señora there?”

“Yes!” C-mixto affirms. “We like dancing.”

The driver shrugs his shoulders and delivers us to our destination, shaking his head one last time before he leaves.

This place was grand. Full bar, open dance floor… C-mixto and I got right to it and made our way through the crowd and started to dance our best to the whatever semi-decent music they were spinning. But then I noticed something special about this crowd. The person to my left, right, front, back and every other possible angle were women. Where were the men? Lined outside the perimeter, taking their pick of the girls like grocers at Hunts Point. 

“You took me to a brothel?” I cried in disbelief.

Here’s what’s worse. I fit just right in-outfit, look and all. Nobody told me that only ladies of the evening wear red toe polish (decent ladies opt for clear and white). My toes were as red as the windows of De Wallen, Amsterdam.

C-mixto must have touched my shoulder or waist at some point (we were still trying to act normal and continued dancing), because like Agent Smiths, bouncer Johns came storming in, separating us with heavy hands.

“No touching!” they yelled in Portugese. “Not on the dance floor.”

“But it’s my girlfriend!” C-mixto explained.

“Yeah, you and every guy here.”

Mortified and feeling dirty  (but laughing because that shit is funny), C-mixto and I made two or three pathetic gestures at finishing the song, feet apart, then shamefully walked over to find a place to strategize our next move. I was both fuming and intrigued, like a spy broken into a forbidden place to take notes. The tables were all filled with ratios of like twelve girls to one or two guys. C-mixto got looks like, Okay, so you found your pick, why stay, though I don’t know why you’re only taking one.

Surprised I had to request that C-mixto take me back to the hotel? His mind was probably torn between sincere sadness for the plight of these girls, but also the pleasure of swimming in a sea of beautiful mixed women of every size, color and variety your heart could ever desire. Cosmic race indeed.

When we finally left, passing the Copa strip at twilight, we were solicited by a street variety of what was indoors. A woman stripped open her blouse, bared her breast, and asked C-mixto if he wanted some. C-mixto swears it wasn’t really a woman.

Rio has other charms, of course; this is just one story. You can’t dispute that Rio has a lot to offer.

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