struck me at the museum was the movie clips of
Carmen Miranda singing and dancing the samba.
Samba is the music of Rio’s Carnival, the most famous
party in the world.
Samba School
It wasn’t time for Carnival, but I visited a samba
school, a neighborhood dance club where teams
rehearse for Carnival. Unlike the tango schools of
Buenos Aires, Rio’s samba schools don’t offer samba
lessons and they’re called samba schools because the
teams used to rehearse in school yards. Like the tango
halls of Buenos Aires, samba schools start late at night.
It was already 11:30 p.m. when I arrived at the dance
club. The place was the size of an airplane hangar but
it was almost empty. Had I picked the wrong night?
The few people milling around directed me to the
balcony where tourists watch.
After waiting a long time, I got up to leave when
suddenly I heard a pulsing, cadenced throbbing so
loud that the sound bounced off the walls and ceiling.
The team’s drum corps, dressed in white with red
sashes, entered the room. They marched up the
stairs to a small balcony not far from mine, and
pounded out a thunderous, continuous rhythm.
Suddenly all the dancers arrived in colorful costumes
and gyrated around the room as they did the samba,
moving ecstatically to the joyous never-ending
heartbeat of sound.
A grinning Brazilian man approached me and
said, “Come downstairs and dance!”
“I don’t know how to do the samba,” I said.
“You just move your hips,” he said, putting his
hands on my waist and moving my hips from side to
side. “You see?” he said. “It’s easy.” Before I could
protest, he took my hand and led me down to the
dance floor. I danced with him, I danced with the
bronzed hip-swaying men and flouncing-skirted
women. I moved from partner to partner and
sometimes I danced alone, eyes closed, soaked in
sweat and happier than I could ever remember.
I never went to bed that night. I left samba school
at dawn and went straight to Copacabana Beach to
watch the artists creating sand sculptures and the boys
practicing capoeira. Two of them recognized me and
waved. I waved back, no longer feeling like a tourist
— I was a local: a carioca.
Feature Story
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summer / fall 2016
21
Feature Story
FEA
