Rio de Janeiro scared me at first. I landed at night in a rainstorm and from the airport took a taxi whose driver had no idea where I was going. I did not speak Portuguese; he did not speak iPhone. We drove through dark streets where the 7ft fences around each smart apartment block gave way to the concrete walls of the favelas. At the cocktail bar where we made our first stop, two burly men stood at the drive clutching machine guns. This didn’t calm my nerves.
I suppose that partly I was overwhelmed by the scale of the city and its looming ambition. Publicity photographs of Paris or London are taken from street level, gazing up at the Eiffel Tower or the London Eye. The typical postcard of Rio offers a God’s-eye view over Christ the Redeemer’s shoulder.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in