A Copacabana Sunday

The hottest Sunday of the winter, sand down by the shore still in the sun and crowded at 5 pm, the beach road in shadows, half of it closed to cars. Several slack wires set up between the palms, experts demonstrating their skills or helping absolute beginners anxious to try their luck, like me yesterday. Gay rights marchers chanting their way up the avenue. Live music from the crowded kiosks. Bikes and tricycles, pedalos, skateboards, rollerblades, baby strollers, runners. Everything from hats to feather earrings to indigenous artwork to clothes to snack and drinks for sale. People of all ages and races, shapes and sizes. A transvestite dancer – so thin - with pointed brass breast. Rich and poor (well, not many rich). Police standing around in groups. Inspectors hassling unlicensed pavement sellers. Queues for public toilets. On the sand, people playing volleyball, Frescobol, using the gym equipment. Elections posters everywhere.

And a chase. On the way back up the road, a figure streaked round a corner on the other side, someone else in hot pursuit. Usain Bolt would have been proud of the pursuer – boy, was he fast! Everyone stopped to shout and stare, but we couldn’t see whether the thief had been caught. Then a police car, screaming up the road the wrong way, lights flashing and siren blaring. Did they catch anyone? We’ll never know.

Stopped by the bakery on my way home to get some banana cake. Seemed like the right thing to do on a Sunday.