Rio de Janeiro, the tomb of silence – 04/08/2023 – Cozinha Bruta

This city is hell for introverts.

In Rio, an Uber ride often ends with the driver giving sentimental advice to the passenger (or vice versa). If they get stuck in a traffic jam, there is a risk that one of them will be called to be the godfather of the baptism of the other’s child.

Here, I’ve already been called to arbitrate an argument between the girl at the cashier and the lady who was in front of me in the queue at the market, a divergence regarding the amount of change.

I shook my head silently and dove back into the phone’s screen, enough for both of them to curse me.

Rio explodes in light and colors, but also in sounds. Samba sound, funk sound, egg car sound, junk car sound, popular store speaker, sound of people talking.

Cariocas and Rio residents speak volumes. People talk to strangers all over the place, something strange for a São Paulo native with a tendency toward misanthropy.

Can’t complain too much though. I dated a girl who asked me a silly question, out of nowhere, during a chorinho performance in Gávea.

There, in a bar in Santa Teresa, the two of us started talking to a group of strangers. We all went together to drink a little more in Prainha square.

Introverted until the second sip of beer, I feel a little less foreign when I’m in a tavern. Luckily, Rio has them by the thousands.

The Rio bar is hell for those who want to drink in silence, absorbed in their own thoughts. The silent drinker is an object of irresistible curiosity.

Everyone in the bar wants to know who you are, what you do, where you come from. What’s wrong with that person who doesn’t talk?

I don’t care, I even like it. If I wanted to drink alone, I stayed at home.

But there are days when you just want to have lunch. This was the case this week at a corner bar in Grajaú, the uninhibited neighborhood of Rodrigues.

I took a table under the awning and behind the television. I ordered a beer and the menu. And I started watching people.

Next to me, also alone, another middle-aged man was making life hell for a waiter.

In a condescending tone, he talked about how the freezing threshold is the ideal serving temperature for a beer.

“Here in Rio we call it mason’s cinnamon”, he said. The brown one on the bottle is the worker’s leg. The white surface of ice crystals represents lime.

After the sabbath, the waiter left. I had a feeling it would be left over for me.

On TV, the news changed to something about Robinho, a former player who is in Brazil to escape jail for rape in Italy. The man next to him turned to watch. His gaze met mine.

“There’s nothing else you can do… the Maria da Penha law… you can’t whistle at women anymore…” I just wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less get into a bar fight.

Then the carioca miracle happened: on zap, a friend invited me to lunch somewhere else. I paid and left the unfortunate man to talk to himself.

Nothing against chatting with strangers, but it’s always good to have people you know to save you from them.

PRESENT LINK: Did you like this text? Subscriber can release five free hits of any link per day. Just click the blue F below.