End In Two Acts.

Woke up startled yesterday morning. Explosions, fire brigade sirens, shouting and radio at full volume. Or was it the TV? Did not get up, the big game was scheduled for this afternoon and I thought that the neighbors were just testing their equipment. Shifted sides and on the first gentle meeting of my eyelids a familiar melody met my eardrums. The Brazilian national anthem. Could I possibly be wrong-could the game be in the morning, in 2 minutes to be precise? We had big plans for today, a grand, alcohol and samba infused fiesta. Everything was in place to celebrate the semis. Could this not be another perfect day?

Three hours later, with just a coffee in me, my yellow jersey in a wrinkly mood and a silly numbness in the air I found myself at Flamengo beach. A can collector asked for my empty container of liquid sugar. He was very animated, got excited about my origin but mostly my English. I was lazy but got excited about his origin and his Portuguese. He sat down, we gifted each other a three course meal of grammar, syntax and vocabulary and before sunset parted. While on his way, he fired back that he was very upset after the game, but now he was happy. Another day is coming tomorrow and he practiced his English, what was wrong with that? Me, I was on my way for another coffee.

It's Magic!

Football and the World Cup in particular, is no mere sport in Brazil. I know it sounds trivial and predictable but it really goes deeper than that. In the favelas the kids play football almost before they can walk, in the beaches of Zona Sul boys and girls play foot-volley all day long with jaw-dropping dexterity and the never ending national or State leagues are televised seemingly every day.

But the true essence of the World Cup is that it transcends all boundaries, it brings together in collective ecstasy or sorrow the whole of society. "During the World Cup, it is like the Carnaval. It does not matter who you are, where you're from, if you live in a favela or in Ipanema. When Brazil plays we're all the same; we'll cry and laugh and kiss and hug the person next to us and we'll drink together and sing till the morning. It is...magical."

And there's a common, overwhelming optimism -certainty almost- that Brazil will win this Cup again, of course it will, that we'll dance till the next Carnaval and beyond, that we're all the same and all together, we're all equal in our joy. And if it does not happen this year, we'll still be equal in our loss.

It's blatantly obvious that some people are more equal than others and the social gaps are tremendous, but now, this month we have the World Cup and it's like Carnaval, it is magical!

Not Another Friday.

BYesterday, there was Salgueiro, one of the best Samba schools in Rio, playing at the beach. The dancers and bateria were as impressive as I remembered them from February. There was also an air show, coloured trails of smoking planes making sketches in the sky. The usual beach vendors were in a fit, the music was deafening. And it was a Friday, glorious day and the beach was packed.

It dawned on me at some point that this a football game we're watching, just a football game. Why were there 30-50,000 people dressed like Carnaval, dancing samba on the sand, playing football and drinking beers and chasing kids and flirting? It was a Friday after all. But then I remembered, the schools close, the streets empty, the shops shut, the buses thin their routine and everything else stops when the Seleção is playing. The display was not impressive, the scoreboard showed a draw. Disgruntled, some started complaining and arguing, were prodded to take a sip, have a dive and come back from their friends, Salgueiro was still playing hard and a weekend was ahead. After a while I forgot myself what the question was. What did it matter after all?

Of Carzy Hats and Lithium.

Alzirão!

On a busy street I crossed paths with a girl yesterday. She was wearing a yellow t-shirt, a yellow and green football jersey to be precise. Same as me. And she was smiling while talking on the phone, walking with a discreet urgency. She had a small parrot on her right shoulder. I swear I thought he was smiling too.

Earlier I had met a bronze man, of perhaps 70 years, wearing a small speedo and tasteless sunglasses. He seemed to have spent two lifetimes in the sun without having sweated for an hour. The ocean and fine sand behind him, he was heading for his chair and umbrella. Where others were sipping Coco water, a bottle of Scotch was waiting him. First thing in front of the bronze man was a TV.

And later on there was a motley crew of kids, boys or girls I could not tell. They were taking turns diving into an orange bin and breaking into laughs every time someone fell off. They were wearing odd sized t-shirts of indistinct colours and a big number 10 on their back. Later I saw them running and blowing broken horns, with silly headgear and wigs on.

I was on my way to Tijuca and the day was full of faces, smiling and passionate ones. At the end of the game, the local winning song of this year's Carnaval was blasting out.

Yellow Fever.

The World Cup has commenced. We know it has because the Brazilian team played their first game last night and no World Cup is really under way before this. How do you describe this almost metaphysical effect?

All over the country a wild party exploded. In Recife, in torrential rain, boys and girls were dancing Forro under the bouncing umbrellas, in Belo Horizonte it was cachaça raining from the heavens, in São Paulo a pop concert kicked-off the long night after the game and in Salvador the African drums were calling the spirits. The whole nation rejoicing and celebrating in a Dionysian fit, a second Carnaval bringing everybody together, crossing every possible border in it's wake.

And in Rio? Well, how it could not have been special? The city is transformed, every corner shop, every house, every public space, virtually every single corner is in disguise. In Copacabana giant screens have been erected and thousands upon thousands of people, in yellow, green and blue flooded the beach. Drums and flags, whole Samba orchestras and dancers, toddlers (and old gran-dads) barely capable of walking and families, teenage couples and gringos and more, many many more. I'm sure that not everybody was there. Could they know of someplace even better?