Going Crazy in Brazil

On Thursday evening I was sitting at the bus stop on Overland and Washington waiting for the public limo after having purchased a sack of rice and plantains at the El Camagüey supermarket. I rarely grab the green bus at this stop, though on this day the weight of the groceries kept me from walking the mile back to my place.

As I sat on the bench I began to hear a woman screaming. I squinted down the block and spotted a middle aged white lady directing her angry diatribe at the cars and the Sony Picture Studio across the street. The sounds of her squeals increased as she walked closer to the bus stop. Much of what she said was illogical though she continued to declare the fact that she had been wrongly accused of something. As she stopped at the corner and viciously shrieked at no one in particular, I was reminded of the time when I had done something similar while living abroad.

Have you ever thought about what it would take for you to become that crazy person at the street light, pushing a shopping cart full of dead cats? I have always seen these eccentric characters with the assumption that I would never be like them, however one night, five months after arriving in Brazil; I had an experience with other-mindedness.

It was 7pm on Mother’s Day of 2005 and after going to the pay phone to give my mother a ring, I went back to my apartment to prepare for the my weekly pilgrimage to Barronnetti, a club in Ipanema.

I had not felt any sense of homesickness while in Brazil, beyond the first few days when I arrived in Bahia, although on this day I was struck with an incredible longing for home, or as we say in Portuguese, saudades. I decided that a healthy dose of clubbing would be just the cure for these saudades.

I went back to my flat, though I realized that since I didn’t need to show up at the club until midnight, I still had five hours to spend. I decided that I was thirsty and thus spent the subsequent 300 minutes blending up fruity cocktails, which I consumed on an empty stomach. This was the first mistake. The signs of my drunkenness could be seen in the fact that I had vandalized the living room floor with poetry, which my roommate had to scrub the next day while I was on my deathbed. The amount of alcohol I had consumed is uncertain, but it was more than I had ever quaffed in my lifetime. Five hours of imbibing later, I was still itching to hit the Ipanema dance floor. Just before the clock struck 12, my friends and I made it over to Barronnetti where we usually went to ear our guilty pleasure songs while observing the young Brazilian elite.

On this night, as I was completely and utterly inebriated, I have little memory of the time between entering the club and getting tossed out by security. All I recall is that I saw a bucket of Smirnoff ice on a VIP table, which I proceeded to steel and pass to my friends. Seeing as how I was a wee bit blasted, I didn’t think to look around me to see who was watching. After giving the drinks to a friend, I decided to go back for round two, at which point a security guard reported me. I was then charged 100 Reais (about 50 dollars) for drinks I don’t remember consuming and was told to leave.

I was angry that the night was over so quickly and I started to ball my eyes out in front of the club, saying that I had been cheated. My friends then escorted me to a taxi for the ride home. I was not in the mood to return home, and continued crying to the taxi driver, saying things in Portuguese and English that were rather incoherent. When we arrived at my apartment in Lebon, I jumped out of the cab as my friends were paying the driver and ran down the block. I heard my friend call my name, assuming I would be right back. I didn’t return for hours.

I had no idea where I was going, it was 3 in the morning and I was in Rio de Janeiro, crying and yelling in English that “they cheated me”. I could do nothing to halt these hysterics and amongst my tear filled vision I saw the faces of the apartment guards through many gates as I ran down the street behind my building. At this point I really had to pee.

There was a great big canal at the end of the street between where I lived that led to the Catholic University so I assumed that would be the ideal place to release the juices. There happened to be an enormous tree in the middle of this canal, which I thought would also serve to block my undressing from the after-club traffic. I was so out of it that in the midst of peeing I looked up and saw that it was a two-sided street, that although I had managed to hide my backside, the cars in front of me caught occasional glimpses of my American insanity as their headlights flashed me.

I pulled up my pants, tripped over a tree and cried for an uncountable amount of time. My eyes burned from the mascara that drained into my eyes. My lashes were like wet leaves, as I blinked little salty drops would fall off the edges and sting my vision. I continued to cry and roam the empty streets, catching the attention of each and every doorman in Leblon. I continued to scream in English and Portuguese, talking to myself, and asking “Why did they cheat me? I didn’t do anything.”

At some point all the grief I had piled up from the death of two friends that had occurred in the months leading up to my trip to Brazil was released in one head-splitting fiasco of hysterics. I staggered along the sidewalks of Rio, yelling, “Why did they have to die”? I heard doormen attempting to shush me, though others asked if I needed help. I twisted and twirled down the blocks until finally crawling up the stairs to my apartment. Upon returning, I noticed that my friends were not there and when I called another friend I was informed that my roommates were out looking for me and were pissed that I had taken off.

I had a second bout of hysterics and returned to the streets for one final round of neighborhood shame. I was incredibly thirsty, and somehow I managed to find a gas station in the midst of the crying and screaming in English and Portuguese and drank 20 ounces of carbonated water in a minute. At this point I retuned home and hit the hay.

The next day I woke up so incredibly ill that I took two doses of Dramamine and slept for another 12 hours.

It took me days to raise my head after that shameful experience. My friends forgave me for having acted a fool, though I never quite forgave myself for going so far. Granted I’m really not one to show my emotions, it pains me to cry in front of people, let alone in public. I am comfortable sharing the most private of information, but when it comes to crying or talking about my feelings in a non-joking manner, I cannot handle it. Thus, when I realized that the entire neighborhood had witnessed me lose my mind, I contemplated never leaving the house again. But then I remembered this really beautiful person I met at the beach and couldn’t be late for my date…