I have always wanted to go to Brazil.
The whole idea of them having summer while we had winter was of endless fascination.

The irresistible, exotic rhythms and happy music permeated my soul since childhood. My parents were samba-philes, and I cut my teeth on latin music along with everything else. Making out to Sergio Mendes as a teenager was a tradition.

The vastness of the Amazon and the endless river with its stories of giant anacondas (my first introduction was through Swiss Family Robinson, when the brothers wrestled with one. It scared the hell out of me) has held me in thrall since I can remember. The campfire stories of the candiru catfish, that swims up your urinary tract if you pee in the Amazon River, also helped put this mysterious country in its own category.

And then there was Carnaval. Half naked girls wearing feathers and shaking their fine Brazilian bodies! Endless music and dancing. Bright, blinding colors and synchronized movement. Unbridled jubilation. Good touch. Bad touch! The bacchanalia to end them all. What was not to love?

The word “carnaval” and the Brazilian spelling with all “a”s is derived from its meaning: “goodbye meat”, referring to its being the last bash before Lent. And I gotta tell you, they’re not kidding when they say “meat”.

Jean’s cousin, Carol Cerqueira, and her husband Nelson have lived in Salvador for 22 years, and have two children, Patricia, 20, and Daniel, 17.
Every time they would come to the States, I would swear to them that we were coming to Salvador for Carnaval. Last year, we cemented the plans for a trip that we figured we’d better take now, before we’re too old. Good thing.

Carol Cerqueira