Last night's storm has cleared the air; colors are brighter and the tips of the hill/mountains across the bay are haze-free. Pausing to soak in the amazing view of Sugar Loaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer on the horizon, I decide to indulge in one of my favorite past times--people watching. From my 11th story perch, Saturday beach looks very different from a weekday beach. Monday through Friday, groups of blue-shirted children shout and move in unison with directions from the whistles of their camp counselors. Weekdays the space is sparsley populated with walking couples. Now there are blue and red beach umbrellas that seem to have popped up overnight through the sand like so many giant flowers. Chairs filled with bronze brown sun worshippers are grouped in clusters around the space claimed by each umbrella. Now the bay boasts a few white-sailed catamarans, and pleasure boats putter or zip past.
As I soak in the bay breeze with all the sounds of people at play, I notice a volleyball game directly below the window. 5 men per side are really good at precise, long volleys. Then I realize, they never touch the ball with their hands! This Gringa is fascinated to watch perfectly executed plays with all the moves of a soccer player; legs, chests, and heads take the place of wrists, hands, and arms. How does that man place his shot so deftly with the slightest tilt of his head, and drive it high or low over the net with a twist of his neck? With a thump, another passes with his leg, or volleys with a knee. Arms held wide for balance clear the way for an open chest to direct the ball in a drop shot over the net. Powerful precision like this is learned pre-birth in Brazil. It must be genetically encoded.
What a treat, to see my first game of futevale (foo chee vol eh). Welcome to Brazil at play, Gringa.
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