I never really understood what all of the fuss was about. Dancing and drinking, crowds that compress everyone into one moronic mass, inflated costs for every bit of it. Sounds like Mardi Gras or New Years Eve in Times Square, hyped up events that leave countless people hungover but disappointed. These are the occasions when I yearn to curl up with a simple book. When I actually find it elating to fart loudly and liberally since no one in the swarm will know it was me…
I was summoned to watch the samba schools rehearsing for Carnival one night. How could I not accept? Together with some Brazilians, Israelis, and a French brother and sister, we hopped on a bus (R$2.10) to Sambódromo. (Think 700 meters of street transformed into a permanent parade ground for 65,000 pairs of eyes.) There were thousands of people under the bright stadium lights, dancing at various speeds and abilities. The drums and voices emitting from the Sambistas’ float vibrated our bodies along the bleachers. Rain was falling, light and fast and golden against the stadium’s beams. We ran through puddles to keep up with one school, and then we waited at a gate, panting and smiling. Then it opened, and we blended with the dancers under the rain.
|  | 
|
