Having been an armchair traveler far longer than I have been an actual one, the mere names of world cities like Cairo, Moscow, and Rio de Janeiro remain shrouded in such awe that they almost feel fictional. When I think of Rio, I envision a vibrant, colorful South American metropolis with entrancing samba music and ever-flowing cachaça set against the backdrop of lush mountains and the white foam of fast-breaking waves. Cairo conjures up sounds of beeping horns and the clamor of vendors laying out their wares on tapestries spread before the Great Pyramids of Giza, while Moscow feels set in eternal winter: snow falling on the spires of St. Basil’s Cathedral as Tchaikovsky emanates from a crowded ballet in a grand theater.
I have yet to visit the bustling markets of Cairo or the cobblestone streets of Moscow, but I arrived in Rio de Janeiro a few weeks ago. It proved not to be the postcard-ready first encounter I might have envisioned. We landed on a cold, rainy day and I found myself sick as a dog. With no appetite, lingering fatigue, and in desperate need of a shower, I tried my best to power through the immediate hours-long orientation that followed our Portuguese language program’s entry into Brazil. The next few days were somewhat of a blur. I went to bed ridiculously early (single digits early), zombie-walked to school in the morning, and could stomach no more than a few saltine crackers over the course of an entire day. Intent on not missing key social integration, and having confirmed that I was not contagious, I found myself struggling to keep awake at group dinners and watching foggy, rainy sunsets with little appreciation.
I spent most of these early days either at home or wishing that I was. Where other classmates would have been confined to a stuffy apartment, however, I lucked out with an open-air, leafy terrace where I can watch the rain fall and listen to the birds chirp in the morning. The terrace quickly became my base camp from which I called my parents often, turned on my favorite playlists, and consumed electrolytes in the form of Gatorade to mimic the comforts of home. Though I did not realize it, I first became acquainted with Rio on those cloudy mornings and during those late afternoon thunderstorms. The sounds of the city—taxi drivers tapping their horns, the whoosh of buses rushing by, dogs barking for no reason in particular—sunk in just as much up on the roof as they did along the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, often sleepy in this mild Brazilian winter.
With the stakes lowered because a few sick days would not mean washing out half of the trip, I acquainted myself with the neighborhood and its fruit vendors, laundromats, book stores, and coffee shops. There have been tangible benefits of this down time, too: I eat breakfast each morning at a sidewalk bodega that I found while browsing Google Maps in bed sick instead of traipsing around Rio. Though I am glad to feel better (at last), I am grateful to have come to know this corner of the city in a more intimate way than I might have otherwise. At least for a little while, time seemed to slow down as I eased into this experience. It does not often do so.