Friday Afternoon

We three walk just steps away from the apartment to a convenient bus stop in order to board a bus that will take us to the movie. It's a gray day, one cool enough to wear a shirt with sleeves and jeans without misery. There are three umbrellas tucked into my bright yellow Sak backpack along with a light shawl. A week ago I used this same shawl to mop my face as we braved oven-like streets to the courthouse; now I might need it to fend off the damp, stiff breeze off the bay. Black and white mosaic sidewalks are wet and there are puddles in the gutters from last night's soaking rains. Buses queue up by twos and threes at this popular stop on Praia de Icarai, the boulevard named for the beach that borders it's west side.

Cecilia and Will find the right bus and we're part of a small but orderly crowd that boards. Cecilia first--trooper that she is, she takes the steep steps, and fits through a narrow red turnstile even with her blossoming Daniel belly. The man who's tending the turnstile is collecting fares. He prohibits my entry, holding the barrier as firmly as his face, until he sees that Will has the money for all three of us. We jerk to our seats as the bus starts.

This vehicle is not air conditioned, but it's clean and the day is very mild. My fellow passengers are getting off work a little early this Friday. Just a few have been to the beach or have been shopping in the neighborhood. Seated across the aisle and looking a little like Fernando Lamas, there's a handsome older gentleman with neatly trimmed grey hair and mustache. His round deep brown eyes never look from the floor. I wonder if he's sad or just at peace as we rock along. A trim young woman in a black knit dress boards at the next stop. How does she manage to sway so gracefully up the aisle of this moving bus in her straw wedged sandals? Will and Cecilia are situated together, talking, just like other pairs and couples here and there. As I absorb the soft sounds of Portuguese, my eyes start taking in the view from my window.

The bus picks up speed now that we've left the Icarai neighborhood of multi-storied beach-front apartments. Construction that choked the street last Saturday afternoon is now complete, and we move more quickly toward our destination. As we roll under an overpass, I'm surprised by graffitti tagged on a concrete retaining wall. A small, dramatic art exhibition is whizzing past my window. For a second, I think that maybe the city has commissioned the pieces to enliven this pale utilitarian area. But then I realize that it's the work of artists with multi-colored cans of spray paint and amazing flairs for large displays of untrained raw talent. Giant angry man breathes yellow haze. Black hieroglyphics undulate. Expressive red and blue figures fly past, attached to cartoon balloons.

Now we're making our way through a neighborhood whose small neat houses sit close to the road on both sides. A Coral Vine spills its pink and spring green over this fence. Aloe and spikey Yuccas are the next homeowner's choice. As I travel, fuschia Bouganvilla mingle with tropical yellow and orange and every shade of green imaginable. The bus bumps and turns as this Gringa tries to capture each new picture without a camera.

Transported back inside the bus, I check to make sure Cecilia and Will are still onboard. Of course, they wouldn't leave me sitting on the bus, but I feel as if I've left them for a short journey myself. When Will pulls the signal cord, we all stand, preparing to exit. We descend three steep metal steps, move to a wide blue-striped crosswalk, and wait for the traffic signal to cross this four-lane divided boulevard. Will explains that this area is both a bus and ferry terminal. Catch a passenger ferry here, and you make your way from Niteroi to Rio. Another day, I'm sure; but now we're on our way to see "Sherlock Holmes" at the Cinemark Theatre--in English--with Portuguese subtitles.