I could talk about...

I realized that I’ve been delaying posting because I want to convey something deep and meaningful about my experience here, and it’s quite hard to do that. I keep imagining titles for pieces, so I decided to take a page out of the interplay playbook and let you know all the things I could write about, without actually writing in depth about them. Maybe sometime I will...

I could write about kids sleeping on the streets.
I could write about people partying every night in Lapa.
I could write about humidity, and what it does to cars, to houses, to people.
I could write about the Rio dialect, and turning every s into sh.
I could write about couchsurfing.com, the nature of friendship, social awkwardness, and loneliness.

I could write about climbing sugarloaf, and watching the sunset.

I could write about the most dangerous city and the largest urban forest in the world.

I could write about depression.

I could write about fireworks on Copacabana beach.

I could write about not kissing anyone on New Year’s Eve.
I could write about setting up a hammock on the deck.
I could write about half-broken internet connections, and skype calls that keep getting interrupted.
I could write about hopes for tomorrow, and next week, and next fall.
I could write about playfully covering my face when I confess that I am an American.
I could write about old men telling me I’m like God, and about being told I can be a Brazilian because I speak eight words of Portuguese.

I could write about telling myself what I should do, and promptly proceeding not to do it.

I could write about the three kids who tried to steal my friend’s purse because we didn’t give them money when they asked, and about the eyes of an eight year old as I glared and made him run away.
I could write about waking up sweating every morning.
I could write about an idealized version of myself, who is excited by every new experience.
I could write about the German consol who lives next door.
I could write about lying on the beach reading Hannah Arendt.

I could write about the signs telling us how many people died or were injured on a street.

I could write about rituals, a sea-goddess, wearing white, and all the reasons to drink alcohol.
I could write about a dread-locked artist on the beach who made me a guitar bookmark and told me he wanted to be friends before asking for a donation.
I could write about collecting cans that are thrown onto the ground.
I could write about the botanical gardens created by the Portuguese royal family.

I could write about wondering whether to take a bus at night.
I could write about the price of an apple laptop, and the average wage in Rio.
I could write about emails that never get returned, and emails that I never return.

I could write about the largest image of Christ in the world, arms spread open and uncrucified, visible from every part of the city.
I could write about the way you walk to look tough and aware, and the way I walked before I turned twelve, and before anyone told me to walk differently.
I could write about wanting to adventure and missing home.