rioh at 3am when your wallet is lighter and your purpose fades

i guess i should start by saying this place is a mess. literally. the streets are wet, not just from the rain that fell an hour ago but from some collective sigh of surrender. i woke up at 2:45 am to a knock on my hostel door. turns out a group of sad teenagers were trying to smuggle glow-in-the-dark underwear into brazil. i told them off and then immediately regretted it. maybe they were trying to chemical engineer a party. who knows?



this morning, i checked the weather. i just checked and it’s 22.26 out there. that’s like sitting in a sauna that forgot you existed. i don’t care. i’m standing in a puddle on cobblestones wearing socks with holes because my laundry machine rebelled last night. the humidity is 94%. i know that number. it’s the percentage of my soul that’s currently trapped in my hair.



the locals here are… something. i swear i heard someone say the neighbor down the block is a former tourist who now lives in a tent and quotes oscar wilde in spanish. i might’ve made that up. maybe. i think i did. at least 70% chance. but it fits. this city has a habit of making up stories about itself. like how the beach is actually a legal entity or that there’s a bus stop named after someone who definitely didn’t miss a single flight ever.



i’ve been told things. not by people. by things. my iphone overheard a treasure map in SMS. a Yelp review claimed this café has ‘the best mango smoothie since 1999’ which is either a liar or a spirit. i tried the smoothie. it tasted like sadness and expired fruit. kudos to the bartender for being horrified.



we made a map. or something that resembles one. the iframe below is our attempt at navigation. it might show a desert or a ice cream factory. don’t judge.

you need to see this. these images capture the soul. or the dust. who knows?

reviews here are all over the place. someone told me the metro might disappear if you look at it right. another said the food tastes like regret but that’s just the spice level. i heard the hostel owner is a lawyer who arrested a tourist for wearing socks. it’s all very brazilian.



if you get bored, there’s a whole city that’s just a short drive away. rio is big. big in the way your wallet hurts after third margarita. big in the way street performers will play your personal melodies on accordion. check TripAdvisor for ‘haunted hostels’-it’s definitely real. or not. maybe.



last thing. the coffee. i tried a place called Café X. the owner poured it into a cup that was clearly haunted. the price was 5.20 real. i gave them a 10 and got back ‘a bag of beans and existential questions.’ i’m still paying rent on that.

this place is real. the weather is real. and me? i’m just a blip in a system that forgot how to care. you can find me tomorrow without a plan. or a phone. or a brain. justarita.



p.s. if you need directions, ask a stranger. they’ll give you a riddle. drink it. it’s free. and probably terrible.

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