I Know What I Know

Let me tell you a story. The date is January 27.

The alarm woke me up at 6AM. I blinked my eyes a few times and sat up. Thursday. I slid out of bed, wondering why I'd seen fit to drink so much on the previous night. I walked to the window. From where I was staying - the 9th floor apartment of my host family in Rio - you could see the Jesus statue high atop the Corcovado Mountain. But today it was cloudy. I cursed. It was always cloudy.

I showered, dressed, ate breakfast and made my way out the door, stopping to give the maid the customary pecks on the cheek. Down in the street, I caught the bus headed to town. Language school stared at 8.

Classes adjourned by midday, so the afternoon was free for whatever. Along with a friend, I took the bondihno (cable car) up to the top of the Bairro Santa Teresa, an opulent neighbourhood that affords a fine view of the city. We strolled down the hill slowly, stopping once every so often to peer through the white iron fences at the old colonial houses that line the drive. Near the bottom, we sat at a cafe and had lunch, sitting in a topical courtyard, enjoying the food and agreeing that this had been a wonderful day.

It's later in the evening now. I had promised my flatmate, an American named Raul, that I would join him for a few drinks, but at 10PM he was still missing in action. Stuff it, I thought, and I changed for bed, put on my headphones and laid down. Time passed.

There came a knock at the door.
"Mike! You ready?"
I looked at my watch. It was after 11.
"Huh? Now? Where have you been?"
"Yeah, sorry, got caught up. C'mon, Alex and Janacea are waiting outside."

Great. Not only has he waited till the last minute, but he's also invited two painfully annoying American girls. I hide my head under the pillow. Raul opens the door.
"Mike. I'm going home tomorrow. Last night. Get up."

Damn you, guilt. I go to the sink and splash water on my face, then throw on the closest thing I have to a clean T-shirt. Well, it's only a couple of drinks.

I smile reluctantly at the girls when I get downstairs. They are dressed very smartly, but I don't clue in. Raul hails a cab.
"Why the cab?" I ask. "Aren't we just going to the-"
"No," he interjects. "Somewhere better."

We head towards Leblon. I cringe. I'm not mentally prepared for a big night out. The cab pulls to a stop and I look out the window. We've arrived at a dance club of some sort. There are a dozen Brazilians lined out outside, and a massive MIB frisking people at the door. When we reach the front of the queue, a girl with a laptop asks me my name. I look at her, and say as sarcastically as possible in my 10-day-old Portuguese:
"Believe me, Lady, I'm not on the guest list."
"Okay. Than that will be 40 Reais."

40 Reais? That's 20 dollars! I peer around for an escape route. There is a taxi parked a few feet away. Bullseye. I'm about to exit stage left, but Raul must have thought me a flight risk, because he was poised at the ready. His pointer finger prods me in the back.
"Don't even think about it."
My shoulders drop. Fine. I pay the cover and go inside.

The air con is cranked. I'm suddenly freezing. I'm on a landing, and there is a sunken lounge below me, behind which a giant projection screen is playing surf videos.

That's when I see her.

She's down a small set of steps, leaning against the bar as she waits for a drink. Her auburn hair is tucked neatly back into a ponytail which bobs playfully against her back. Her complexion is light, almost creamy, and her eyes a deep brown. They blaze with an inferno of Latin sensuality. She's looking right at me.

I hot flash engulfs me. In a microsecond, my core temperature skyrockets to the brink of combustion. I can't move. My body has seized. I try my hardest to fix her with a look, something like Zoolander's Magnum. The end result is probably closer to Shrek's bashful grin.

My trance is broken my Raul as he enters the club. There is a dance floor upstairs, and that's where we head. The next 30 seconds are hazy, but when I finally regain my ability to speak, I say something to the effect of "Raul... thanks for bringing me here."

The party on the 2nd floor is in full swing. We grab some drinks and jostle our way into the middle, letting the music overtake us. There is little room to manoeuver, but the Brazilian girls still manage to groove as if the source of the rhythm is inside them. Meanwhile, the men lurk in the shadows of the periphery, watching the women like lions. The atmosphere is electric, but after 1 hour we are exhausted and in need of a rest.

We return to the lounge and seat ourselves at a table. I instantly regret leaving the dance floor, since the lounge music is quiet and I'm relegated to listening to the two American teeny-boppers once again. They are talking about bath gels. My mind begins to wander. I gaze around, searching for better options.

The I see HER again. She's sitting at the table next to us, chatting with a girlfriend. I must have stared too long, because she turns to look at me, and I'm forced to avert my eyes quickly. But no matter, I've already spotted my target: the empty chair at their table.

Now comes the difficult part: I am not shy, but I'm in a foreign country and I barely speak the language. My Portuguese is insufficient when it comes to ordering a drink - how am I going to talk up a couple of local hotties? I lean in their direction, trying to hear what language they're speaking, but the bath gel debate drowns out any other sound. I hesitate. I need a sign.

Fortunately, Oasis comes to my rescue. The DJ plays 'Wonderwall', and I watch as the girl sings the words. Perfectly. God she's cute. My mind is made up.

Grabbing my beer, I rise out of my seat. I don't even glance at the American girls, and Raul appears to be asleep. I approach the Vixen's table. Here goes.
Me, in Portuguese: Hi. My name is Mike. How are you girls?
Them: Fine thanks.
Well, that's it for the Portuguese. Time to revert to the mother tongue.
Me, in English: Great! So, um, do you speak English?
Dream Girl: Yes. (She smiles - oh Lordy). Would you like to sit down with us?
My ass is in the chair before she finishes the question.
Me, to the friend: So, what's your name?
Friend: Cintia.
Me: Nice to meet you. (I shift my gaze to the Fallen Angel). And yours?

She gives it to me, then looks me dead in the eyes with a raised eyebrow. It's an uncommon name, especially when pronounced the Brazilian way, and she probably thinks I didn't get it.

But I got it. Perfectly clear:

"Isis."

***

I'm off to Brazil to visit her for three weeks beginning just after Christmas. After that, the travels will continue to Asia as planned. New Years in Rio anyone?

"She looked me over and I guess she thought I was alright
Alright in a sort of an innocent way for an off-night" - Paul Simon