05. Santa Teresa

You have just crossed the Largo da Carioca, barely escaping the roaring buses which, like blind monsters, were rushing toward you. Still trembling and with the memory of their pestilent breath, you settle down, sighing in relief, in the wagon of an old streetcar which is certainly more than half a century old.

The driver whistles the departure, and there you are taken, transported, bouncing and joggling. In an instant you dominate Rio. The streetcar passes the viaduct which strides over Lapa Street. The roofs of the city spread at you sight. Humanity sweating and fizzing under your feet.

Relaxed and refreshed by a slight breeze coming from the bay where the ocean sparkles on a background of foggy mountains, you turn your head toward your fellow commuters. An old couple distinctly British neighbors an imposing Negress. Young athletic people elbowing white-haired women very strictly dressed. Tend an ear, German, French, English, Italian are spoken, and even Portuguese.

The streetcar goes up along the slope. The racket from Rio diminishes. The air is lighter. We pass among old low houses and superb palaces buried in the middle of exuberant vegetation. The streetcar awakens with its creaking the little provincial streets.

You are in Santa Teresa.