Reflections of white on the inland water. Narrow streets, the sun filtering through the tall trees. I’m in the backseat of a small car, driving in a big country, making my way to an iconic place.
The white reflections are the apartments for some of the 16 million people who live in Rio de Janeiro. The small car is a necessity for the many streets that have not been widened since the Portuguese first landed in South America.
There is a calm expedited way of the people in Copacabana. Able to relax, but always active; the people here make eye contact and smile.
Through a tunnel hand carved, out of a single rock jutting out of the land; we straddle the lane because here the line is a suggestion of how and where but not a requirement.
Snaking through neighborhoods we come to the base of the mountain. The road changes to cobblestone made from the tailings carved from the rock we just drove through.
Nothing is wasted; as seen in the construction of the favelas that dot the hillsides, the land thought not to be useful by many. As with all countries there are the rich, the poor and the many between. In the big cities of Brazil, favelas have been built by the poor on unclaimed land with discarded materials. These homes are built for one purpose, shelter. The shape, size, color or any other “must have” for an estate home is thrown out the window and basic necessity is kept as the foundation of the building. Colorful squares stacked on top of each other makes one think that as the need arises, a neighbor may just ask if they can build beside or on top of another neighbor’s home. The answer seems to always be yes.
The favelas fade as we ascend the steep mountain. We pass bicyclists who have taken on the challenge as well. It’s early in the morning so there isn’t much traffic coming down the mountain. The cars we do confront are careful to find a place wide enough to pass. We exchange smiles and continue on our way.
We arrive at a busy place. Officials waving their arms at cars, directing us to a turn around. We can go no further by car, I will walk to the next place from here. I’ve only been given a short tutorial by a friend on what I need to do to get to my destination and my memory is not matching what I see, so I start walking.
It was a short walk up the hill to the sound of more people like me, excited for what was to come. I had found the visitor’s center and the landing area for the shuttles that would take me to this place I had only seen in pictures from 6000 miles away.
I bought my ticket and boarded my shuttle. I could see and feel the excitement of the others around me. There was an unheard buzz, a silence we could not break even as we all wanted to burst.
Another narrow, winding road. Shuttle drivers waving to one another as they passed. Smiling a joyful smile, knowing they made another group happy and fulfilled.
The shuttle’s final stop is a small courtyard where the driver must navigate people drunk from the breathtaking view and the bicycles I had passed earlier on my journey. I say thank you and exit; my eyes up because I’m still not at the top, but He is. My shuttle ticket is scanned again as I pass through another gate. There is a short line for what look to be elevators, so I go. There are two elevators; as mine opens I can see it will only hold six people. I get in with two couples and the journey continues.
The door opens and I see the back of Him. For the first time my eyes are here, with Him. It’s Sunday morning and although there is a bustling around me, it immediately becomes white noise as I see what I expected to see yet it becomes so much more in an instant.
Finding Kevin 