We have been away for two weeks now, and I am beginning to get comfortable with feeling like an alien on Earth. Things are very different here. Red lights don’t mean stop, they mean stop if you want, otherwise dodge the pedestrian. I have not worn a jacket since I left California. Nothing is in English, I can’t even understand how to use a washing machine because it’s in Portuguese. The Subway is not a subway, it’s a tiny box that hundreds of people squeeze into and pray for a safe journey as they shoot through the cavernous tunnels below Rio. There are so many people here, it’s bewildering. Gunshots, fireworks and the cheering from fanatic fans all combine to infect you with enough energy to want to roam around favelas, dodging potholes and gaping at gutted brick buildings. Before I go to sleep, I look out the window and wonder if I am still on the same planet.
Today I woke up to a foreign land that I believed was only a dream. I stood in absolute silence, staring at a landscape that was exotic and strange as far as the eye could see. Palm trees, Banana plants, Mango trees; trees that are every shade of green, except for my comfortable Pine or Eucalyptus grow wherever they can thrive, which seems to be everywhere. Buildings composed of brick and sheet metal huddle to support each other through the thick humidity and relentless heat. The air smells of dirt, gasoline and sweat. The streets are arteries congested with trash and gravel, always packed with cars and trucks, groaning like lumbering giants struggling to bear their loads of sugarcane, gasoline, water, cement, people and whatever else workers manage to strap down, by whatever means necessary. Motorcycles zip between trucks and buses, buzzing by mere inches, never flinching, always looking for the next gap to slip into. No helmets; flip flops and t-shirts are all you need if you’re a local. The bus drivers are the most insane people I have ever seen entrusted with a public service occupation. These men and women can make a manual transmission sing like a baritone with Leukemia. I’ve never been a religious person but after my first time on a bus in Brazil, I had found my faith; not in a God, but in the hands of every bus driver who navigates through the chaos, and still manages to have a conversation with some passengers about whether or not Brazil will win the World Cup.
The World Cup has been underway for a week now, and we have watched most of the games from Copacabana. We’ve seen the Brazilians dance all night when they won their opening game against Croatia, witnessed Chileans losing their minds when they beat Australia, saw the Argentinians light flares when they barely stole a win from Bosnia, gasped at the Spanish losing to Holland, and stood in fear as Germany delivered a crushing blow to Portugal, goal after goal. When the USA played Ghana, the rest of the world doubted our men on the pitch. A Ghana fan approached Nick and I and asked, “Do you really think you can win?” 30 seconds into that game, he was asking himself the same question.
That night, the chanting in the streets of Rio had changed, it was our night, and every American was singing the same anthem,
“I believe that we just won”
