About a month ago, a 19yearold girl was raped on her way home. The crime happened on the street where I live, in Copacabana. In front of the fire station, a homeless man pulled them into a construction site and committed the crime. I pass by this place regularly. It’s gone.
This week when I turned the corner and realized where I was, I ran home in time to throw up.
Year after year, summer begins, summer ends, it’s always the same. Scenes like the one on the news where a man is beaten by a gang that has surrounded a woman. It was late afternoon, one of the busiest streets in the district, people were walking by. Given the prevailing lack of security, it was up to the only soul who had the courage to risk their own neck and stand up for the victim before becoming a victim themselves.
Hours earlier, security footage showed a gang terrorizing passersby about a kilometer away. Maybe it wasn’t even the same, making the situation worse. Not a week goes by when the country’s most famous beach isn’t in the news. Elderly woman dies after hitting her head on the ground following a robbery. Taylor Swift fan falls victim to sand robbery.
Residents panic. I hear the same words from the seamstress, the manicurist, the baker: Be careful. The criterion for choosing a beach spot is whether there is a trawler or not. When I moved here a year ago, I was advised to avoid some streets for the same reason. Apparently everyone knows where the error occurs except the police.
A friend who lives in Portugal and misses Rio wanted to know how things were going. I didn’t lie about the problems being the same as usual, but I overlooked the seriousness, praised what was good about the city and fell in love with Copacabana, my tropical New York. I know, pretty crazy.
Completely intoxicated by the beauty, stunned by the absurdities of chaos. I can now get my Carioca card.
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