I woke up on my first morning in Rio to the soft glow of winter sunlight (it was August, Brazil’s “cool” season) streaming through my hotel window. Peeking outside, I saw Copacabana Beach curving along the coast like a golden crescent. Early joggers trotted on the sand and vendors were setting up their stands.
Down below, the iconic black-and-white wave pattern of the sidewalk mosaics ribboned along the promenade – a classic Copacabana sight that immediately made me smile. This bustling city of over 6 million residents somehow felt laid-back in that moment.
I could smell the ocean salt mixed with the aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. As I sipped a strong Brazilian coffee and watched the Atlantic surf roll in, I felt equal parts excitement and trepidation. Rio’s reputation had preceded it – a wonderful city full of sun, sea, friendly people and nightlife, yet also a place of constant motion and occasional chaos.
I took a deep breath on that balcony, letting the humid air fill my lungs, and promised myself I would embrace everything Rio had to offer – the beauty and the mess alike.
If you’re arriving from a long flight, consider booking a hotel with a ocean view in Copacabana or Ipanema for your first nights. Waking up to the sight of the beach helps shake off jetlag and immerses you in Rio’s scenery right away.
I stayed in a simple hotel in Copacabana with a rooftop terrace – budget-friendly and right across from the beach.
Also, use official airport taxis or rideshares from Galeão International Airport; it’s a safe and fixed-price way to reach the city. On arrival, ATM lines can be long, so have some Brazilian reais handy for tips and taxis.
Copacabana & Ipanema
Stepping onto Copacabana’s golden sands that first day, I felt I had entered a living postcard. The morning grew warm as I strolled along the water’s edge. Beach life here is not just about sunbathing – it’s a lifestyle.
Cariocas (Rio locals) were out in force: groups of friends playing futevôlei (foot-volleyball) with enviable skill, vendors pacing up and down hawking ice-cold coco gelado (green coconuts) and biscoitos Globo (those iconic ring-shaped biscuits), and families camped under rainbow umbrellas.
I learned quickly to travel light to the beach. Locals don’t lug big coolers or heavy bags; they typically bring only the essentials – sunscreen, some cash, maybe a sarong (known as a canga) to sit on instead of bulky towels. Following their lead, I carried just a kanga and a few reais tucked in my swimsuit.
Everything else I could buy on the spot. Need a chair or umbrella? One of the many barraca kiosks will rent you a set. Hungry or thirsty? No problem – strolling vendors will sell you grilled cheese on a stick, shrimp skewers, refreshing mate iced tea from steel canisters, or mix you a perfect caipirinha right there on the sand.
In Rio, beaches are to the city what cafés are to Paris – the center of social life. People of all ages and sizes proudly wear the skimpiest of swimwear without a hint of self-consciousness, which is infectious.
By my second beach day, I had ditched my baggy “gringo” boardshorts and was sporting a locally bought sunga (the Brazilian men’s swim brief) – initially with some shyness, but eventually with unabashed confidence.
On Sunday, I walked from Copacabana over to Ipanema Beach, just around a headland, to see how it compared. If Copacabana is the extroverted grand dame of Rio’s beaches, Ipanema is her cooler, more genteel cousin. I noticed the crowd skewed a bit younger and trendier.
Near Posto 9 (lifeguard Station 9), which I’d heard is the place to see and be seen, the sand was nearly invisible beneath throngs of beautiful sun-bronzed bodies. It was like a giant open-air party – samba music drifting from a portable speaker, people passing around a soccer ball, and spontaneous applause when someone stuck a tough volleyball save.
Between Posto 8 and 9 I saw the famous section with rainbow flags, marking Rio’s inclusive LGBTQ+ friendly beach spot. The atmosphere was joyful and free. Later, as the afternoon light mellowed, I wandered toward Posto 11 and 12 in Leblon (the western end of Ipanema), which were much calmer and more family-oriented.
There, I treated myself to grilled queijo coalho (salty cheese) from a vendor and a final swim. Floating on my back in the cool Atlantic, looking at the emerald peaks of the Dois Irmãos (Two Brothers mountains) looming over the western skyline, I felt an immense gratitude.
The sun began to dip behind those hills, painting the sky orange and pink. On Ipanema, everyone claps at sunset – a daily ritual of appreciation. I found myself clapping along, tears pricking my eyes behind my sunglasses. It was just Day One, and already Rio’s beauty was overwhelming me.
Travel Tips: Beach etiquette in Rio might surprise you. Dress down, not up – Brazilian beach fashion favors minimal coverage for both women and men, and no one bats an eye. Leave your jewelry and fancy watches at the hotel; flashy items will only attract the wrong kind of attention (and really, nobody cares on the sand).
Bring only what you need to the beach: a bit of cash (for snacks or chair rental), sunscreen, and a phone if necessary (ideally in a waterproof pouch). It’s polite (and practical) to patronize the beach vendors and kiosks rather than bringing a big cooler of your own food.
Not only does this lighten your load, but it’s also part of the culture to buy a cold drink or fried pastel from the hardworking vendors. Lastly, don’t stay on the beach after dark – as magical as a moonlit shore seems, Copacabana and Ipanema can get sketchy at night, so stick to well-lit areas or move your stroll to the sidewalk promenade in the evening.
Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf Mountain
Of course, no trip to Rio is complete without visiting its most iconic sights. On my second day, I set out early to beat the crowds and head to Cristo Redentor – Christ the Redeemer.
This colossal Art Deco statue of Jesus with outstretched arms stands atop Corcovado Mountain at about 2,300 feet above the city. I decided to take the classic route: the little red cog train that departs from Cosme Velho.
As the train creaked and climbed its way up the steep mountain through dense Tijuca Forest, I caught glimpses of the city below framed by jungle foliage – a monkey swinging in the branches here, a burst of tropical birdsong there. The ride itself felt like a quiet pilgrimage, trundling higher and higher.
At the top station, after a few escalators and stairs, I found myself nearly at the feet of Christ the Redeemer. The statue towered above – 98 feet (30m) tall, with arms stretching 92 feet across – far larger in person than I’d imagined. And the view… words don’t do it justice.
All of Rio de Janeiro sprawled below in a 360-degree panorama: the gleaming skyscrapers of downtown, the sparkling sweep of Guanabara Bay, the patchwork of rooftops and greenery, and the endless Atlantic beyond. I felt a lump in my throat as I took it in.
Around me, throngs of people from every corner of the world were jockeying for photos, yet a reverent hush seemed to hover in the air as we all gazed up at the Christ statue. In that moment, I understood why this place is a pilgrimage for so many – regardless of faith.
The statue’s serene face gazes out over the city as it has since 1931, as if eternally blessing Rio. It’s the symbol of Brazil, instantly recognizable and deeply moving to behold. I asked a fellow traveler (a kind Norwegian with whom I’d been trading cameras for pictures) how he felt.
He simply gestured at the view and said, “Impossible to describe, isn’t it?” I nodded. We stood there for a while, not needing more words.
Later that afternoon, I chased another classic Rio experience: Pão de Açúcar, or Sugarloaf Mountain. This distinctive cone of granite guards the entrance to Guanabara Bay and offers another jaw-dropping vantage point over the city.
To get up there, I went to Praia Vermelha (Red Beach) in the Urca neighborhood and bought a ticket for the famous bondinho cable cars. These glass-walled cable cars have been operating since 1912 – one of the first of their kind in the world – and riding them is both fun and a bit nerve-wracking.
The first cable car whooshed me up to the lower peak, Morro da Urca, where I was greeted by mischievous little marmoset monkeys hoping for treats from tourists (they’re practically mascots up there).
There’s a small museum displaying one of the original early-1900s wooden cable cars and a statue of Augusto Ramos, the engineer who dreamt up this aerial route.
After snapping photos of Sugarloaf’s imposing pinnacle from that midpoint – and marveling at how it actually resembles its namesake (the conical sugar loaves of old) – I boarded the second cable car. It swung us high over the green hillside and up through a wisp of cloud to the summit of Sugarloaf.
Up top, I arrived just in time for sunset. The city was spread out below, glowing in the late afternoon light. I could see Copacabana Beach curving off to the south, and beyond it the silhouette of Corcovado and the tiny statue of Christ – now looking very small in the distance.
As the sun sank, the sky turned tangerine and violet, and the lights of Rio began to twinkle on – from the office towers downtown to the favelas on distant hillsides, each cluster of communities becoming a constellation of its own. A collective murmur went through the crowd on Sugarloaf’s viewing terrace.
Strangers exchanged smiles. It was one of those travel moments that imprint on your soul. I remember whispering to myself, This city is impossibly beautiful. In the gathering dusk, I could just make out tiny dots of people far below still playing soccer on Flamengo Beach, and cars snaking along the coast road with their headlights like a necklace of pearls.
It was hard to leave when the last cable car of the night beckoned, but I did – descending back to earth with my heart full and my camera useless to capture what my eyes had seen.
Travel Tips: For Christ the Redeemer, go early or late in the day to avoid the heaviest crowds (and midday glare). I took the first morning train and it was still busy, but manageable. You can also reach the statue by official vans or even by hiking a trail (strenuous and only recommended in a group).
Book your Corcovado train tickets online in advance if possible to secure a time slot. On Sugarloaf, aim for sunset for a magical view, but note that many others do the same – arrive a bit before golden hour to stake out a good spot.
The cable car runs in two stages (ground to Morro da Urca, then Urca to Sugarloaf) and you can linger on the mid-level as long as you want. Don’t forget mosquito repellent for late afternoon up there (the jungle is close by).
Also, bring a light jacket; even on a hot day the breeze at the summit can be chilly after sunset. Both sites have cafes and bathrooms at the top.
And a fun fact to enrich your visit: the name Sugarloaf comes from the 16th-century Portuguese practice of molding sugar into conical loaves for shipping – the mountain’s shape reminded settlers of those sugar cones.
Bohemian Hilltops
Eager to see a different side of Rio beyond the beaches, I ventured inland to the hilltop enclave of Santa Teresa on my third day. This charming neighborhood sits on a hillside overlooking the city center, and it’s often called Rio’s bohemian heart.
To get there, I did something delightfully old-fashioned – I rode the historic Santa Teresa tram. For a few reais, I hopped on the bright yellow bonde tram at its downtown terminus by the Lapa arches, and it clattered and swayed its way uphill, crossing the aqueduct and then winding through narrow streets.
Locals and tourists alike grinned as we passed colorful graffiti murals and colonial-era houses. At one point the tram was so close to buildings that I could have high-fived a person on a balcony (note: keep arms inside!). This little ride felt like a joyful step back in time.
Santa Teresa greeted me with cobblestone streets, art studios, and an easygoing vibe. I spent the afternoon wandering without a strict plan – exactly the right approach here. I found art galleries in renovated mansions, peeked into quirky antique shops, and admired street art on crumbling old walls.
The views would surprise me at random turns: a sudden panoramic peek at downtown skyscrapers in the distance, or a glimpse of the glittering Guanabara Bay far below between two rooftops.
Santa Teresa’s appeal lies in these contrasts – it’s peaceful and village-like up here, yet the big city buzz is visible and near. I visited the famous Escadaria Selarón from its top end in Santa Teresa. These are the Selarón Steps, a long staircase tiled in thousands of vibrant pieces of ceramic from all over the world, the life’s work of Chilean artist Jorge Selarón.
Walking down those red-green-blue mosaic steps (and pausing to admire the myriad of tile designs – I even spotted one from my home country) was like descending into a kaleidoscope. The steps led me right into Lapa, but I saved exploring Lapa for later that night – the sun was still up, and Santa Teresa had more to offer.
By late afternoon, I found myself at a local institution: Bar do Mineiro. This unpretentious corner bar is beloved, and as soon as I walked in, I knew why. The walls were lined with black-and-white photos and vintage bottles; the tables were full of cariocas laughing, arguing, clinking beer bottles.
I squeezed into a spot and ordered their famous feijoada – a hearty black bean stew with pork, Brazil’s national dish – and a caipirinha to wash it down. The feijoada arrived in a clay pot, accompanied by rice, collard greens, farofa (toasted cassava flour), and orange slices.
It was delicious – savory, rich, and clearly made with love. Locals at the next table noticed my delighted expression and struck up a conversation, curious about my impressions of Rio. Before I knew it, we were trading travel stories and toasting with another round of caipirinhas.
The vibe was so friendly that I felt like I’d lived in Santa Teresa for months. They told me Thursday nights are great for live samba at another classic tavern, Bar do Gomes (Armazém São Thiago), just down the road – “next time, you must go!” one of them insisted.
As I left Bar do Mineiro, pleasantly full and a bit buzzed, golden hour light was hitting Santa Teresa’s colonial facades. I could hear music wafting from a nearby window – someone strumming a guitar and singing a soft bossa nova tune. Children were playing football in a sloped alley.
In that moment, Santa Teresa felt like a small town perched above a metropolis, a place of nostalgia and creativity. It was hard to pull myself away, but nightfall was approaching and I had plans: a night out in Lapa, Rio’s legendary nightlife district, beckoned just downhill.
Travel Tips: Santa Teresa is a perfect area to stay for travelers who want a more local vibe and stunning views. There are boutique guesthouses and B&Bs here that offer a quiet retreat from the busy beachfront zones – for example, Gerthrudes B&B and the upscale Hotel Santa Teresa MGallery, a gorgeous hotel set in a restored mansion.
Staying up here, you’re close to the city center sights (like the Selarón Steps, the colorful Metropolitan Cathedral, and museums) and a quick taxi or rideshare to Lapa’s nightlife. Do note that Santa Teresa’s streets are steep and sometimes poorly lit at night – taking a taxi or Uber up the hill after dark is wise (it’s inexpensive and safer than walking the quiet streets solo).
The tram is a fun daytime activity (weekdays and Saturday), but it stops running in the evening. When dining or bar-hopping, carry cash; many small eateries and bars here are cash-only. And if you’re looking for a gift or souvenir, Santa Teresa’s artist studios and little shops are great for finding one-of-a-kind crafts, paintings, and jewelry, often sold directly by the artists.
Samba Nights in Lapa
When the sun goes down in Rio, Lapa turns up the volume. This historic downtown neighborhood, once a bit run-down, is now the pulsating epicenter of Rio’s nightlife – a place where live music pours into the streets and caipirinha vendors set up shop on every corner.
I arrived in Lapa on a Friday night, energy levels high and curiosity piqued. My plan was simple: go wherever the music lured me. I started under the imposing Arcos da Lapa, the white arches of an 18th-century aqueduct that tower over the neighborhood.
Lit up at night, the arches looked majestic, and I marveled knowing they now carry the little Santa Teresa tram across their span. The scene around the arches was already buzzing – groups of friends mingling, street performers juggling, and vendors calling out cold beer for sale.
As I wandered Rua dos Arcos, the main strip, I was swept up in a sea of people from all walks of life. Lapa doesn’t discriminate – in the humid night air, locals and tourists, young hipsters in band t-shirts, elders, backpackers, and even a few well-heeled socialites stepping out of chauffeured cars all blended together.
I passed a stand where a grinning man was mixing caipirinhas in plastic cups two at a time – I couldn’t resist. With that sweet hit of cachaça, lime, and sugar in hand, I let the music guide me. Almost every bar and club had live performers that night. Samba, forró, funk, rock – a different rhythm from each doorway.
I ended up ducking into a samba club that looked inviting (and had no cover charge before 11). Inside, it was like stepping into another era. There was no formal stage; instead, a circle of musicians sat in the center of the room playing samba pagode style – guitars, cavaquinho (a tiny samba guitar), pandeiro drums – and everyone was dancing around them.
Strangers pulled strangers to dance; I was soon attempting some semblance of samba steps with a laughing Carioca partner who spun me around with dizzying speed. The music was infectious – fast, raw, and heartfelt.
Each song ended with whoops and cheers from the crowd, followed by the unmistakable sound of beer bottles clinking as waiters delivered more drinks. I felt sweat on my forehead and realized I’d been dancing nonstop. This was pure joy.
At one point, the band launched into “Cidade Maravilhosa” (Rio’s unofficial anthem), and everyone in the club sang along at the top of their lungs. I didn’t know the words, but I felt the pride and love in that room and hummed along in solidarity.
Back out on the street later, I grabbed a quick bite from a street vendor – a skewer of grilled beef known as espetinho, doused in vinaigrette – to recharge. The night was still young by Rio standards (maybe midnight) and Lapa was in full swing.
I walked through the main square by the arches, where an impromptu dance circle had formed. A tattooed man strummed a guitar and a kid banged rhythms on a flipped bucket, trying to be heard over the boom of a nearby sound system. It was chaotic, a bit gritty (I stepped around a broken beer bottle or two), and absolutely thrilling.
Sure, there were a few shady characters on the fringes – I kept an eye on my pockets and stuck to the crowd, as any traveler should in a big city party. But I never felt unsafe amid the throng; in fact, I felt oddly embraced by it. At one point a tipsy old gentleman in a fedora tapped my shoulder and wordlessly motioned for me to join him in a samba step on the sidewalk.
We danced a clumsy little duet to the delight of onlookers, and then he tipped his hat and vanished. Where else in the world does this happen? I thought, laughing.
By around 2 AM, my energy was fading (blame the jetlag that still lingered). Lapa, however, showed no signs of stopping. Street bars were still packed, music still blared, and people kept dancing as if tomorrow would never come.
I figured it was wise to call it a night – with a head full of music and a heart full of Rio. I found a marked taxi stand under a streetlight and took a cab back to my hotel, watching the fever of Lapa recede in the rearview mirror. My ears were ringing and my feet sore, but I felt triumphant. I had experienced the bohemian soul of Rio and it was unforgettable.
Travel Tips: A night in Lapa is a must if you enjoy nightlife and live music. Go with the flow but stay smart: stick to well-lit, crowded areas and don’t wander down quiet side streets alone.
Petty crime can happen in the chaos, so carry just enough cash for the night and keep your phone secure (maybe in a front pocket or hidden pouch). It’s perfectly fine to drink on the street here – in fact, some of the best (and cheapest) caipirinhas are sold by street vendors for a few reais, but ensure your drink is made in front of you and watch it (standard travel wisdom).
Popular spots include Rio Scenarium (a famous multi-level samba club filled with antiques – touristy but fun) and Carioca da Gema (a classic samba bar). Expect lines on weekends. If you’re not into clubs, you can still enjoy Lapa by hopping between the open-air bars and joining the street parties – there’s often live samba right on the sidewalk.
Getting home: do as the locals do and take a registered taxi or app-based ride home when it’s late. It’s inexpensive and much safer than walking far or taking night buses. Finally, mind your footwear – the streets are ancient and uneven, so wear comfortable shoes you don’t mind getting a bit sticky from spilled drinks!
Into Rocinha
Among the most impactful and unexpected moments of my Rio journey was the day I visited Rocinha, the largest favela in Brazil. Rocinha is a sprawling hillside community – a city within the city – home to about 70,000 people in a dense maze of streets and alleys.
I wasn’t initially sure if I should go. I’d read all the ethical debates about favela tours – whether they’re voyeuristic or respectful. But my desire to understand Rio beyond the tourist veneer won out.
I booked a walking tour with a local guide who was born and raised in Rocinha, ensuring that my visit would be mindful and that some of my money would benefit the community.
On the morning of the tour, I met our small group at a metro stop, and we took public vans to the base of Rocinha. From there, the adventure really began: we each hopped on the back of a moto-taxi, clutching the seat as skilled riders zoomed us up the steep winding road that serves as Rocinha’s main artery.
The wind whipped at my helmet and the scenery blurred – rows of improvised brick houses, storefronts painted with murals, kids in school uniforms darting out of the way – until we reached a high point where the bikes stopped.
Slightly exhilarated (and relieved), I realized we had been whisked to one of Rocinha’s hilltop entrances. And oh, the view from up there: a stunning, if hazy, panorama of Rio’s high-rises, mountains, and the sea in the distance. It was a reminder that Rocinha occupies some prime real estate – a fact not lost on its residents.
Our guide, a warm woman named Maria, led us on foot into the warren of Rocinha’s interior. Instantly, I was immersed in a world very different from the beach districts. Narrow alleys branched off the main street like capillaries.
We ducked under sagging electrical wires and stepped over trickles of water from who-knows-where. I saw lines of colorful laundry crisscrossing above and countless satellite dishes clinging to rooftops.
The air was filled with the smell of home-cooked food, and the sound of funk music thumped from some unseen speaker deeper in the maze. As we walked, Maria greeted neighbors, who eyed us curiously but kindly.
She explained that Rocinha is practically a city, with its own shops, schools, banks – even a surfing NGO. Hearing that surprised me, but I then spotted evidence: we passed a tiny bakery, a barbershop the size of a closet, and even an internet café plastered with graffiti art. Life here was vibrant and resourceful.
We stopped at a local community center where a group of children were practicing capoeira, the Afro-Brazilian martial art that looks like a dance. They showed off some moves for us – all smiles and backflips – and then pulled us in to join a little samba circle.
I found myself laughing and dancing with kids half my height, marveling at their energy. The joy in that small concrete courtyard was palpable.
Before we left, I bought a handmade bracelet from their little stall – a keepsake imbued with meaning. I also made sure to tip the program a bit, remembering Maria’s advice that supporting these community initiatives is important when visiting.
As we continued deeper into Rocinha, the reality of the place became more complex. We moved from sunlit open alleys into tighter passageways between homes, some so narrow I had to walk sideways.
I noticed some grim things too: piles of uncollected trash in a corner, an open drain, a rat skittering away. At one point, Maria quietly said, “No photos here, please,” and I understood why – out of the corner of my eye I saw a few young guys perched on a stoop with walkie-talkies and even what looked like a weapon slung under one’s shirt.
They were lookouts, part of the invisible system that governs this favela. It was a sobering sight – a reminder that Rocinha, for all its community warmth, is also entangled with gang control. I felt a nervous flutter but also realized that we were not of interest to them; we were just passing through, and our local guides knew the boundaries.
In a strange way, daily life carried on around these tense nodes – a grandmother toting groceries walked right past the lookouts unperturbed. It struck me how normalcy and danger coexisted here.
Soon we emerged onto a rooftop terrace that one enterprising family had turned into a little café with a view. We climbed a ladder into their living room (literally stepping through their home to get to the roof).
Up top, any lingering tension I had dissipated as I beheld one of the most incredible views of my trip: the chaotic, colorful expanse of Rocinha cascading down the hill, with the pristine blue of the Atlantic Ocean beyond. It was both beautiful and jarring – beautiful for the obvious reasons, and jarring because it highlighted Rio’s contrasts.
From that rooftop, if I turned one way I saw the affluent São Conrado district with its luxury high-rises and even a gleaming shopping mall at the foot of the hill; turning the other way, I saw the tightly packed cinderblock homes of Rocinha with satellite dishes pointing in every direction.
The distance between those worlds was literally a few hundred meters – and yet worlds apart.
Over a cup of strong coffee at the rooftop café, I chatted with Maria about her life. She spoke with pride about how Rocinha has a strong community spirit, how neighbors help each other, how culture thrives here in ways outsiders don’t realize.
She acknowledged the challenges – violence, poverty, stigma – but also smiled as she pointed out her own childhood home’s roof down below, describing how every year during Carnaval the favela bursts into celebration just like the rest of Rio, with street parties and samba.
I realized then that Rocinha isn’t an “other” place separate from Rio; it’s an integral part of it, contributing to the city’s workforce, culture, and identity.
As we descended the maze toward the bottom of the hill, my mind was whirring. The tour wrapped up safely where it began, and I said goodbye to Maria, thanking her earnestly for sharing her world.
I left Rocinha profoundly moved. It’s one thing to gaze at a favela from a lookout point – like I had from Sugarloaf or the Christ statue – and another to walk its alleys, exchange smiles with its residents, and witness everyday life there.
The experience was messy and beautiful all at once: messy in the literal sense of the jumble of buildings and infrastructure, but beautiful in the human connections and resilience I’d felt. It defined my trip in an unexpected way – giving me a deeper understanding of Rio’s complex soul.
Travel Tips: Visiting a favela can be a rewarding, eye-opening experience, but do it responsibly. Always go with a knowledgeable local guide or tour – they know the community and will keep you safe while educating you (wandering in alone is not advisable).
Several tour companies operate in Rocinha and other favelas; look for ones that are run by residents and that contribute back to the community. Ask permission before photographing people or homes, and respect any guidance about no-go areas or no photos (there may be sensitive spots related to local security or gangs).
Dress modestly and wear good walking shoes – you’ll likely be clambering up and down uneven steps. Bring a bit of cash if you want to buy snacks, souvenirs, or to tip locals who might host you (like at the capoeira school or a cafe).
Most importantly, go with an open mind and heart. Favelas are often portrayed negatively, but you’ll likely find friendliness, creativity, and hope amidst the hardship. As my guide reminded me, “This is a community, not just a sight.” I couldn’t agree more.
Cidade Maravilhosa
On my final day in Rio de Janeiro, I did something I hadn’t had time for earlier: I went up to the top of Pedra Bonita, a viewpoint in the Tijuca Forest, for one last grand look at the city.
From there, high above even the tallest buildings, Rio was spread out like an abstract painting – splashes of green rainforest, blue ocean, white buildings, and red tile roofs. I reflected on the past week and how the city had exceeded every expectation.
Rio had pushed my senses to the limit: I had felt the relentless sun on my skin and the cool relief of the sea; I had heard the percussion of samba and the quiet hush of a hillside morning; I had smelled churros frying on a street cart and the damp earth of the jungle; I had tasted salty tears of joy at a sunset and the sweet burn of cachaça on my tongue.
I had been initially cautious, even nervous, about Rio’s chaotic reputation – and yes, I encountered the chaos, but I also found profound beauty in it.
There’s a Brazilian Portuguese word I learned from a local friend: “saudade.” It’s often described as a melancholic longing or nostalgia for something, often something that isn’t coming back.
As I stood there overlooking Rio, I realized I already felt saudade for this city – and I hadn’t even left yet. Perhaps it was because I knew no matter how many photos I took or stories I wrote in my journal, I could never fully bottle the feeling of being here. Rio is not a city that you can simply tick off a list; it’s a city that stays with you, that changes you a little.
Before heading to the airport, I allowed myself one more very “Rio” moment. I went down to Copacabana one last time and bought a agua de coco from a beach kiosk – a chilled coconut with a straw poking out. I sat on the sand, watching locals play a last spirited game of foot-volleyball as dusk approached.
In the distance, music was playing – a samba tune that I had heard before during my nights out. The city was gearing up for another evening of life: the vendors lighting up their stands, the lovers taking sunset strolls, the nightlife about to hum. I toasted the city with my coconut water as one would with champagne.
Rio de Janeiro was messy – I won’t sugarcoat that. I saw graffiti and traffic jams, felt the stress of keeping an eye on my belongings, and witnessed social divides that made my heart ache.
Rio was also breathtakingly beautiful – in ways I expected (those views, those beaches) and in ways I didn’t, like the human warmth that emerged from unexpected corners.
And more than anything, Rio was impossible to forget. As I left, I knew the sounds of the samba drums and the sight of Christ the Redeemer glowing at night would echo in my mind for years. I knew the lessons I learned – about joy, resilience, and embracing life in all its color – would stay imprinted on me.
Practical Last Tips: When it’s time to leave, budget extra time for the airport – Rio’s traffic can be chaotic, and you don’t want to miss your flight. If you have a morning departure, consider heading out before rush hour.
Also, note that Brazil imposes a departure tax (usually included in your ticket, but double check). For any travelers inspired to catch Carnaval here in the future: plan well ahead.
Hotels and flights book up fast, and the city’s energy during Carnaval is both thrilling and overwhelming – definitely a bucket-list experience for another time.
Even if you visit outside Carnival season, you can get a taste of it by visiting a samba school rehearsal or simply enjoying the year-round street roda de samba (samba circles) that happen in neighborhoods like Pedra do Sal. Lastly, learn a few phrases of Portuguese if you can. A friendly “Bom dia” (good morning) or “Obrigado/Obrigada” (thank you) goes a long way and often brings out a smile from locals.
As my taxi pulled away, I looked back one last time at the mosaic sidewalks and palm-lined avenues, the mountain silhouettes and favela lights. I silently thanked Rio for everything it had given me – the adventures, the stories, the emotions. Not every moment was easy, but every moment was alive.
Até logo, Rio – see you later. I don’t know when, but I do know I’ll be back. The Marvelous City has cast its spell on me, and I’ll carry its messy, beautiful memory forever in my heart.
