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Less than a month left. No time to waste. Stuck na hora do rush: Centro, 18:30. Bus crawling down Rio Branco so slowly you begin to suspect that the driver has just let his foot off the brake and is letting gravity pull us all the way to the sea, it’s the jeito carioca and saves gas to boot. Air conditioning blasting with a vengeful uselessness now that the rain’s cooled everything down. Watching the crowds surge opportunistically across the massive intersections. A multitude of cariocas crossing a street never ceases to marvel. Besuited high-heeled short-skirted jeans-clad havaiana-sporting cane-swinging bag-toting T-shirted all marching at a half-trot across the street, defying taxistas and motoristas alike, and is that a perky-tailed dog bouncing along in their midst? The light from the golden hour warming the façade of the Biblioteca Nacional and the tendinhas of the Cinelândia occupiers and the graffiti on Pereira Passos’ lovely landscape. Oversized red bows and fluffy carpets of fake snow outside the shopping malls. Palmeiras. The azulejos all grimy and loose and radiant. And then the aterro, the green of Flamengo, the toy boats and their reflections anchored off Botafogo, monumental azure clouds and the light behind Cristo parece mentira de tão linda, parece Photoshop, não é justo. Copacabana with its lojinhas já iluminadas, and hoje é dia de jogo you remember, spotting the curbside congregations taking their Skol communion. A bizarre feeling of possessiveness, vontade de stride Manifest Destiny style from lagoa to praia which is admittedly not nearly as grand as the span from Atlantic to Pacific, you don’t need a railroad to cross it, but you also have to admit it’s a whole lot prettier. Get home and throw your things in a corner and get yourself to the beach, because this is another sunset you sure as hell don’t want to miss.