Making the Best of an Awful Situation

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
September 12, 2001

After a series of fitful, intermittent, overnight naps, I awoke early this morning, knowing that yesterday’s pall would hang over today’s dawn.

But the sun did rise, and pulled me with it. I cleaned up, grabbed my small bag, met my co-workers, and headed to the airport. A couple hours later we left Sao Paulo on our complimentary TAM tickets, and landed in Rio.

We decided first to visit our local office in hopes of receiving any update when planes might fly to the US, and we might get on one. Our South America Regional Sales Director, Christophe Didier, welcomed us with a few pastries, some fantastic coffee, and no news.

He had no idea when flights would resume, and was hoping that with our Network connections we might be the ones with insight. We weren’t, and calls to Atlanta provided none. Realizing we were here indefinitely, Christophe offered to arrange transportation and tours around Rio. Our only recourse was to accept. It would have been rude not to.

If I can’t be with Rita and Alexander during this ordeal, I can think of few places more distracting or relaxed than here. This is in contrast to what we hear from colleagues in Paris and Rome, whom we called from the office. In both places, they told us, tension in the city is high, and local moods are low. 

Here on Guanabara Bay – excepting the CNN feed in the hotel lobby, or the front pages of International papers in corner news racks – nothing indicates anything untoward happened in the US, or anywhere else in the world.

Streets are busy, beaches are bustling, people are smiling, drinks are flowing, and tourist attractions are full. It looks like Spring Break. Come to think of it, since we are south of the equator, maybe it is.

So we decided to go to the beach. We offered to help in the office, but were relieved when Christophe suggested we explore Rio. I think he just wanted us out of the way, and we were happy to oblige.

But first, we needed new clothes. I planned to be in Brazil barely 24 hours, and brought only business attire. The weather is clear, yet warm and humid. Unless you’re Adolphe Menjou, long pants, button-down shirts, and suit jackets are out of place when walking along Copacabana or indulging Ipanema. We checked into the Marriott Copacabana, and then went shopping.

The dress code here is easy, just a notch either side of Longboat Key or Venice Beach. After buying a few touristy T-shirts, a couple pair of shorts, and some cheap tennis shoes, we returned to the hotel, locked our valuables in the room, and wandered wide-eyed along one of the most famous beaches in the world.

It was like a movie set, the extras straight out of central casting. Sleek bronze bodies filled the beach, with few tan lines marring the consistency of deep base coats. Volleyball is ubiquitous, as are round objects bouncing on either side of the net. They join an elaborate array of bright white sand, deep blue sea, and lush green mountains to provide a sumptuous feast for the eyes. Up the beach and away from the crowds, several sand sculptures vied for eyeballs like glitzy “.com” stocks susceptible to a corrective storm or the inevitable tide.

Our eyes satiated, we set our sights on our stomachs. At the south end of Copacabana, a thatched roof surrounded by tiki torches (what else?) covered a quantity and assortment of meats that flowed as if from a spigot with a valve welded open. 

As I was eventually informed by those sitting back to digest the infusion, the only way to stem it was to flip a card beside my plate from green to red. By the time I did, I had consumed enough flesh to clog an artery the size of the Caldecott Tunnel. 

After gorging ourselves, a walk was necessary. We proceeded around a bend toward Ipanema, and continued a few hundred yards along the relatively empty beach. The evening crowd had thinned. The view across the moonlit ocean was beautiful, but the feeling on the quiet beach was eerie. 

Even with six of us in a relatively safe area, we realized that wandering around after dark was not wise. We sought security in one of the high rise hotels, and asked if they could call us a cab. Within twenty minutes, it arrived, and we began driving inland.

“Are we going the right way?”, Kristi asked as high rise hotels dissolved into colorful, yet dilapidated shacks. Amy suddenly leaned forward and said something indecipherable, but with the word “Marriott” tacked to the end. The driver tilted his head back with a gasp of realization, and quickly reversed course.

“Do you speak Portuguese?”, Brian asked Amy. 

“Yes. I learned it a couple years ago when I worked for an farm export company. I haven’t had a chance to use it in a while, but apparently he understands me. I am not sure where he thought we were trying to go, but he said he wasn’t sure why we would want to go there.”

We spent the day making the best of an awful situation. Had Amy not worked for her prior company, we may very well have made the worst of one.

JD