How to Be Single (14 page)

“Yes, it was fun. He's from Buenos Aires. So hot.”

“Buenos Aires, that's where all the good men are. We never date men from Rio,” said Red.

“No, never,” said Deep-voiced.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because they can't commit.”

“They are cheaters.”

“Wait a minute!” The black-haired lady started laughing.

“Anna is engaged to a boy from Rio. So she doesn't like to hear these things!”

“Not all Rio men are cheaters!” said the black-haired woman, whose name was apparently Anna.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I'm Julie, by the way, and this is my friend Georgia.”

“Ah, like the state!”

“Yes,” Georgia said, crisply. “Like the state.”

“I'm Flavia,” said the deep-throated one, “and this is Caroline,” gesturing to the redhead, “and Anna.”

Georgia went right in there. “Tell me, Anna. Are you afraid other women are going to try and steal your husband?”

“Georgia!” I shook my head. “Please excuse my friend; she has no manners.”

“I'm from New York,” she said. “We like to get to the point.”

Flavia joked, “No. Women don't steal husbands. Husbands like to stay married forever, and cheat.”

“Besides, it's not just the other women we have to worry about so much. It's the prostitutes,” said Caroline.

“Prostitutes?”

“Yes, these men love the prostitutes. They all go together. For fun,” Caroline said.

“It is a problem really,” Anna said. “I worry.”

“You worry that your husband is going to go to prostitutes?” Georgia asked.

“Yes. It's very common. Maybe not now, because we're in love. But later. I worry.”

Flavia spoke up. “Who cares if he fucks a prostitute? I mean, really. If he sticks his dick in some other woman, who cares? Especially one that he's paid. He's a man, she's a hole. He fucks her. That's what men are like. You're not going to change them.”

This is what I love about women. We have no problem just getting into it.

“I don't care. I don't like it,” Anna said.

Caroline now joined in. “Anna, please. He's marrying you. He's going to have children with you. He's going to take care of you when you're sick, you're going to take care of him. So what if he goes to a prostitute?”

“If he cheats, I won't leave him, of course. I just don't like it.”

Georgia and I looked at each other, surprised.

“If you found out he goes to a prostitute or sleeps with other women, you wouldn't leave him?” Georgia asked.

Anna shook her head. “I don't think so. He's my husband.” She began to frown. “But I wouldn't like it.”

Georgia and I gaped at each other.

Flavia smiled. “It's very American, this idea of fidelity. I think it's very naïve.”

I've heard this before. And I thought about my participation in Thomas's infidelity. A wave of guilt shimmered through my body, and then I just felt sad. I missed him and even though I wished I didn't want him to call, I wished he would call.

Caroline agreed. “Men weren't meant to be faithful. But that's okay; it means we can go out and cheat, too.”

Anna looked up at us, sadly. “I try to be realistic about things. I want to be married forever.”

Georgia looked at the three of them. I couldn't tell if she was about to start a beach brawl or invite them out for a piña colada. She decided on a new line of questioning.

“So tell me. Are there male prostitutes for women?”

The three women all nodded their heads.

“Yes, definitely,” Flavia said. “It's not as common but yes, they have them.”

“There are agencies for them,” said Caroline.

Georgia's eyes lit up. “Well, at least there's something for the women, too. At least there's an equality in that.”

Flavia said, “You two should come out with us tonight. To Lapa. We're going out dancing.”

“You'll get to meet Frederico, my fiancé,” Anna said. “It will be fun.”

“Samba dancing?” I asked, excited.

“Yes, of course, samba,” Flavia said.

“Will there be kissing at this place?” Georgia asked.

“Oh, definitely,” said Caroline.

“Then we're there!” said Georgia.

You know you're in Rio's Lapa district when you see the large concrete aqueduct towering above you. It was built in 1723 by slaves—a massive structure of archways that once brought water from the Rio Carioca. Now it's the giant doorway to the best party in town. Flavia and her two friends picked us up at our hotel in a minibus. Not very chic, but it seems the minibus is the preferred mode of transportation for rich American tourists when they come to Rio (usually accompanied by an armed bodyguard or two). But Flavia borrowed the car from her company, a well-known photography studio. The driver, who we later found out was Anna's brother, Alan, was a tanned, good-natured guy with an easy smile, and not a word to say to anyone. And tonight, this minibus was ready to party. Caroline, Anna, and Flavia were already drinking when we got into the car. They opened the cooler and showed us a big pile of Red Bulls and a bottle of rum. They mixed us drinks and we were on our way.

Twenty minutes later we passed through the aqueduct archway that leads directly onto the main street of Lapa, where all the clubs, bars, and restaurants are. Samba music filled the air, and there were people everywhere. It was a giant block party. We parked and walked up the cobblestone streets. I bought a chocolate bar from a young child selling candy from a box he was carrying, with a strap around his neck. There were a few transvestite prostitutes standing on the corner. Many of the clubs had large windows that allowed you to look inside, often to the sight of bodies bouncing to the rhythmic music. It all felt surreal and a little dangerous. We went into Carioca de Gema, a smallish club packed with people of all ages.

There was a Brazilian woman singing, with two drummers behind her, but no one was dancing yet. We headed to the back room, where we found a table, and Flavia ordered us some food. I began to get the impression that she knew everyone in the place. And why shouldn't she? As she walked into the club and kissed everyone hello, Flavia was the star of the show—she was wearing tight denim jeans that perfectly conformed around her round Brazilian butt, and a tan halter top that had tiny beads running all down the sides. Flavia was beautiful, tough, fun-loving, and always ready with the good, hearty laugh. The more I saw her in action, the more I liked her.

When the food came, it was a large plate of dried meat, onions, and what appeared to be sand. Don't ask me how dried meat, onions, and sand could taste so good, but it did. Flavia ordered us caipirinhas, but with vodka in them, not cachaça, the official drink of Brazil. We were under strict orders from Anna's brother, Alan, to stay away from the stuff.

I saw Flavia at a distance, talking to some women who looked at me curiously. I had no idea what she was saying, but I didn't mind. I was too busy shoveling the delicious sand in my mouth and listening to the music and reminding myself that I was, in fact, in Rio, at a nightclub. How cool was that?

Georgia was swaying to the rhythmic beats of the drums. She leaned over and said, “I better get kissed tonight!” A couple in their sixties was standing in front of us, listening to the music. They started doing that crazy thing with their feet, the fast, beautiful, and mysterious step that is samba dancing. It was fantastic. We couldn't take our eyes off them. Flavia came over to us.

“Julie, I have some single women for you who'd like to talk to you about what it's like to be single in Rio.”

“Really? Now?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, I'll bring them over.”

For the next hour, my new cultural attaché, Flavia, brought single woman after single woman over to me. I drank and ate sand and meat and listened to the music and heard their stories. I scribbled in my book as fast as I could.

Now, I know that I was just one woman talking to a tiny fraction of the population of women in Rio, but they all seemed to be in agreement about one thing: The men in Rio suck. They don't want to commit and they don't need to. There are beautiful women in bikinis (without any cellulite) everywhere they turn. Who needs to settle down? They are eternal bachelors. Or if they do settle down, they cheat. I'm not saying all men from Rio are like that; I'm just telling you what they told me.

So what is a single woman in Rio to do? They work out a lot. And they travel to São Paulo, where, everyone seemed to agree, the men are more sophisticated, more mature, less childish than the men of Rio.

But they all also agreed that the men of Rio are fantastic kissers and passionate, sexy, skillful lovers. They were all in such vocal agreement about this, that while I was too shy to ask them what made them so good at it, I couldn't help but get very curious. Particularly because all evening there was a tall, dark, and gorgeous man with large, muscular arms standing quietly in the corner staring at me. I was beginning to understand why fica was the first Portuguese word I had learned.

The women also spoke about “husbands,” and men they were “married to,” and it took me a while to realize that they might not actually be legally married, but were using it as a term to mean a long, serious relationship. I asked Flavia about this later.

“Oh yes, we use it to mean any long relationship, when you live with someone.”

It's all pretty confusing. Living with someone can be referred to as “married,” but “married to someone” can also mean “I sleep with prostitutes.”

Anna's Frederico arrived. Introductions were made and he sweetly apologized to Anna for being late. He was tied up at his popular hang-gliding business near Sugarloaf, a big rock in the middle of the city, well traveled by the tourists.

“Excuse us, we must dance now,” Frederico said as he took Anna's hand and led her onto the dance floor. Anna, who had before this been somewhat quiet and soft-spoken, suddenly began to beam. She started moving her feet and shaking her ass and she became instantly the most adorable creature I have ever laid eyes on. And Frederico kept up—working his crazy feet and twirling her around. How could any two people not have great sex if they could dance like that together? This city was awesome.

“I'm going to walk around,” Georgia said, and got up from our table. I think all the sweat and sexy dancing was getting to her.

I looked up and saw that Flavia was talking to someone; he was touching her on the arm and leaning in to talk to her. I turned to Caroline, who was sitting next to me.

“Hey, who's the cute guy that Flavia's talking to?”

“That's Marco, the fica from last night. He called today and she told him to meet her here.”

“Interesting. The fica calls…how often does that happen?”

“Not very often, I think. But sometimes.”

“In the States, some people think that if you want them to call again, you shouldn't have a fica first.”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “This is your puritan ethics. In Rio, a fica, not a fica, he might call you, he might not—it doesn't matter how you meet.”

Flavia and Marco came over to us, and she introduced us all. He had long black hair and lots of stubble. He had a big dopey smile, and a lot of energy.

“Ah, New York! I love New York! I love it!”

That's all he could say to me in English, and he said it to me all night long. To which I would reply “Rio! I love Rio!” It wasn't much, but it was still fun.

I spotted Georgia milling around the crowd. For a moment I didn't understand whom or what she was looking for. She was sort of shuffling around, fluffing her hair, looking a bit lost. I watched her for a little while longer, while she made a loop around the whole bar area, stopping by any cute guy or two. It was then that I realized what she was in search of—she was on a kiss hunt. I wasn't sure if kisses were something that you were supposed to look for, but I did admire her tenacity.

Anna came back to the table without Frederico and stood by the table, dancing in place.

“What the hell are your feet actually doing?” I asked, a little tipsy on my second caipirinha.

“Come, I'll show you.” I stood up and she started slowly, moving her feet around, back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel. I was copying her, getting the hang of it, until she started going a little faster and adding her wiggling ass to the mix. Then she lost me. But I just faked it, bouncing my feet and shaking my butt. I think I more resembled a fish flapping on a sidewalk than a samba dancer, but it got a smile out of the tall, dark drink of cachaça in the corner, so it was worth it. We all continued dancing by our table, the music throbbing, the singers singing in shouts over the drums, whipping the crowd into a sweating, bouncy-feet mass.

Georgia, meanwhile, bumped into Frederico, who was on his way to the men's room. He asked her what she was doing all the way over there, away from her friends.