On the program

I will spend two days on my own in Rio, so I can recover from jet lag before the musicians arrive.

On Monday afternoon I go on a walking tour of the city's Historic Centre.  Tour guide Lisa collects me from my hotel.  She walks me to the Metro and shows me how to buy a ticket and take the train.  I ask her if it's safe for tourists to travel alone on the Metro.  Lisa says it's the safest and fastest way to travel around the city.

This knowledge is extremely empowering.  Until now I've only seen the beachside areas of Rio, and, whilst it's probably the best area to stay, there's a lot more to see.  Now I know how to get around.

Lisa is originally from Germany and also speaks excellent English.  She launches into a lively commentary, starting with the settlement of Brazil by the Portuguese and its history leading up to independence.  The story provides a fascinating extension of the European history I studied at school.

We visit ornate churches, grand squares and charming laneways, and finally we end up at the beautiful and historic Cafe Colombo.  I order their special coffee which is flavoured with cinnamon and cocoa and topped with whipped cream, plus a Pastel de Caipirinha.  It's a Portuguese custard tart with a caipirinha flavouring.

It turns out to be a five-hour walking tour.  When Lisa drops me back at the hotel I'm tired, but still go for another walk, along Copacabana beach in the late afternoon sunshine.  I wade in the water, allowing the waves to splash my clothes.  It is glorious, and I can hardly believe I'm here.

I've developed quite a heavy cold, but luckily I have brought some cold pills that I can take on the day of the show, to stop my nose from running.  And for the cough, the best remedy is to inhale hot steam.  By way of risk management, I've brought a travel kettle (hotels here don't provide tea and coffee making facilities).  So I can also have hot water to drink, which is soothing for the throat.

And the show is still three days away.  By then I'll be fine.

I have dinner in the hotel restaurant, and check my emails.

So far, so good.  As far as I know, nothing has caused our show to be cancelled.

There is an email from my musician friend Fred back in Adelaide.  He has searched the venue's web site and has found this week's program, which lists our show "Australia & Brasil com Bossa".  He has taken a screen shot, highlighting our show and noting with some curiosity the show by the music legend Marcos Valle on the following night.  Fred's annotations make me laugh out loud.

Hooray!  We are now officially on the program.

"Be careful in Rio"

On the way from the airport to the hotel, I chat with the taxi driver.  The extra year of language training has made a big difference.  I feel confident in conversing with him and can understand a lot of what he says to me.

The taxi ride is uneventful.  There are no disturbances.  No one tries to attack us.  Along the way, people are going about their business; I notice a number of women jogging in the late afternoon sunshine, unaccompanied.

We have chosen the Windsor Excelsior Hotel in Copacabana.  It's right on the beach-front, and is very close to the venue where we'll be performing.  I check in to the hotel and settle into my room overlooking the sea.  

By 7.30 pm I can't keep my eyes open, and fall soundly asleep.  But at midnight I'm awake again.  No point fighting it - where I've come from it's early afternoon.  I get up, read some newspapers and a book, and listen to some music.

I seem to be breathing a bit more easily - my cough has a few more days to settle down, so I should be fine.

When I awake, it's morning; the first of seven that I will be spending here in Rio.  I open up the curtains to reveal a perfect Rio day.  It's a stunning view of endless beaches - sand, sea and sunshiny sky.

I go down to the restaurant for breakfast and announce my room number, feeling pretty confident with the language.  Then I help myself to the array of delicious tropical fruits and other treats, and relax at a table near the big windows.

Mid-morning I head out onto the street.  I wander along the beach-front and down a side-street.  It's Monday, and our venue is closed, but the excellent music shop next door is open.  I go in and browse, chat with the staff, buy some CDs and DVDs and a book.  Then I continue on my way, mingling with the crowds, observing people, buying souvenirs.

No one tries to mug or rob me.  I begin to relax and enjoy being out and about.

Back at the hotel, I read my emails.  There is one from our agent, Mara.  She writes "Be careful in Rio."  Oh, here we go again!  Danger, danger!

Mara continues, "Be careful in the sun.  It's going to be very hot today."

Back to Brazil

October 2016


On Thursday night I drive my husband to the airport and farewell him as he departs for his journey to São Paolo, where he will attend a conference before joining me in Rio.

I work all day on Friday, then on Saturday morning I attend my Portuguese class.  I might as well get that last little bit of language training before heading to Brazil.

Then I set about the job of packing.  I've bought a new dress for my performance.  It's long and floaty, with lots of sparkles on the front.  I roll it carefully to minimise creasing in my suitcase.

My friend Amanda arrives, to help me leave the house and to alleviate my anxiety about locking up.  Together we start at one end of the house, checking doors are locked and that power points are switched off.

The taxi arrives and she gives me a big hug.  I get into the cab, and now I'm off on my big adventure.  As we drive down the street I'm almost holding my breath, mind racing - have I forgotten anything?  I force myself to breathe deeply, in and out.  The taxi driver provides soothing conversation, and when we arrive at the airport he wishes me a successful trip.

I'm travelling to Brazil "the long way" - Adelaide to Dubai, then Dubai to Rio.  Although it's two very long flights (12-14 hours each), it's just the one stop, instead of the two or three that you get if you fly in the other direction.  I prefer to stay on the plane instead of sitting in airports.

After a good sleep on the first leg, I board the plane in Dubai feeling quite fresh.  We set off for the long flight across Africa and the Atlantic Ocean.

Mid-flight, boredom and fatigue set in, and new anxieties surface.  I haven't been able to shake off the cold I got on the way back from the US, and I've started coughing.  Will it settle down in the next few days?  I can't sing if I'm spluttering.

There is also another niggling concern, too.  I'm travelling on a tourist visa.  Hopefully I don't need a work visa in order to perform in Brazil?  I sought advice from Brazilian lawyer friends.  They told me that as long as I am not going to be paid, a tourist visa will be fine.  But what if this isn't right?  The advice was in the context of a show to benefit a charity, an idea that didn't progress.  Are the rules different if it's a public performance in a bar?  I've brought a copy of the email, just in case.

Will the venue ask to see my visa?  The show is now being publicised - will someone start to ask questions?  Will the police be alerted?  Will they haul me off the stage?

Or, will I be refused entry to Brazil?  What if they've got my poster, and I'm on a watch-list?  They will ask me questions at Immigration, and I will be seized and taken away for interrogation.  Then I will be ignominiously deported.  They will send me back to Australia on the next available flight - at my own expense.

The truth is, by the time our show was confirmed, there really was no time to investigate a work visa.  No doubt the processing time is longer than for a tourist visa, and more questions would be asked.  What if they refused my request, or it could not be provided in time?  Plus, when I went onto the Brazil Visas web site, there was no option to apply for an Entertainment Visa such as we have in Australia.

I'm hoping that Brazil has bigger fish to fry than me.

The captain announces our descent, and soon the plane touches down.

"Welcome to Rio de Janeiro, where the current temperature is 27 degrees".

Exhausted from the long flight, I wheel my cabin bag into the airport.  I half expect to see my poster with a "Wanted" sign across it.

I stagger towards Passport Control.  Really, there is no similarity at all between the glamorous creature portrayed on my poster and this bedraggled wretch stumbling along in baggy sweatpants, dark circles under bleary eyes that peek out through strong spectacles.  But if I am really "wanted", I guess digital technology will "out" me.

Wearily, I hand over my passport, and breathe, unsmiling.

"Tourist?" asks the officer.

"Yes", I say, in Portuguese.  It's true - I intend to have a very good look around Rio.

He stamps my passport and hands it back to me.

I shuffle through the gate and follow the signs towards the baggage area.

I'm back in Brazil.

Nearly everything is ready

September 2016

Still we have not heard which night (next month) we will be performing at Beco das Garrafas, Rio de Janeiro.

I'm due to fly to Washington for a big legal conference.  I am expecting to meet some Brazilian lawyers there, and I want to promote our show to them.

I never imagined that we would be left wondering for as long as this.

I email our agent, Mara, and ask her to follow up with the venue.  She replies that she has done this, and still has no answer from them.

While I'm in Washington, I receive an email from Mara.  She says our show has been confirmed for Thursday 27 October.

Thursday?  I wanted Friday or Saturday.  But, it has taken so much effort to get this far, I will accept Thursday without complaint.  It's just a bit of a shame, because people from Sao Paolo are unlikely to come to a show in Rio in the middle of the week.  But when I tell my Brazilian friends of the date, some of them they say that they will try to attend.

When I message Enéias, he confirms that it will be on the Thursday.  Because apparently, he says, on the Friday night Marcos Valle will be playing at the same venue.

Marcos Valle!  The famous Brazilian composer of Summer Samba (Samba de Verão) - prolific in the 1960's - 1970's, and still active in the music scene.

I've been "bumped" by Marcos Valle.  I guess I can live with that.

Maybe we can get tickets for his show?  How great would that be?

Arriving home from Washington, I need to arrange the musicians' flights to and from Rio.  I email Mara to find out their requirements, and also invite her to come to Rio with us, as the Producer of our show.  She sends me details of the flights they require.  I translate her email for the travel agent.  I double-check the bookings, and ask Mara to do the same.  She declares that the arrangements are all perfect.

Enéias announces the Rio show on Facebook, and also begins to promote the fact of my visit, posting videos of some of our songs.  He is composing new songs and wants us to record a CD.  He posts snippets of these new songs on Facebook.  These songs are entirely new to me - I will have to learn them while I'm in Brazil.

Nearly everything is ready.  I'll soon be going back to Brazil.

Nothing must go wrong

It's about a month before I go to Brazil for my show in Rio.

To my mild surprise, nothing has happened to cause the show to be cancelled.

In the lead-up to this trip, nothing must go wrong.  Everything has to line up - there really is no margin for error.

I must not slip or fall over.  I walk more carefully than usual.

One day, walking home from the shops, I encounter a patch of pavement sprinkled with slippery seeds.  I slide crazily, my shopping bag threatening to unbalance me.  I must not fall!  After performing a little dance, I manage to right myself.

One day, nearing my office, I skid on a slice of tomato that has fallen out of someone's sandwich onto the footpath.  I lose my balance but eventually manage to stay upright.

I watch a disturbing news report - passing a city building site, two women have been knocked over and pinned to the ground by a heavy gate that has fallen on them.  One has a broken leg and hip; the other has cuts and bruises.  I have walked past that building site - it could have been me.

I must not have an accident.  I drive more carefully than usual.

I must not get sick.  I'm still battling to rid myself of the cold I collected on the plane returning from the US.

I must not miss my flights.  Every night I am having airport nightmares.

I always feel anxious leaving the house, and I will be the last one in my family to depart, so it's a responsibility.  Perhaps I could ask a friend who lives nearby to come and supervise my departure?  This might save me from melting down.

Nothing must happen to my husband or my children.

Parents must not die or suffer injurious falls.  I visit my mother and my mother-in-law, and thankfully they both seem fine at the moment.

Nothing must happen to any my musicians or support team.  I ask our agent, Mara, to organise some travel insurance for them.

I must not lose my credit card - it can take more than a week to get a new one.

Nothing must go wrong with my heart.  I have postponed my annual check-up until I get home.

Nothing at all must happen to prevent me from travelling.

Everything must be in alignment.  It must all go according to plan.

Nothing must happen to destabilise things in Rio.  I watch a news report of an incident in which parts of Copacabana and Ipanema are locked down because of a police raid on a drug dealer's home in a nearby favela.

The logistics of this trip are complex.  Lots of bookings and documentation are required.  How on earth would we have done this in the days before Internet bookings, email and Facebook?

None of my plans must come unstuck.

The idea that the plan might actually work is incredibly intoxicating.

I am so excited, I can hardly sleep.

Doubts aplenty

It's August 2016, two months before I'm due to arrive in Rio.

I plug away at my work, taking advantage of these few months when I'm home and not travelling.  I want to have spending money so we can enjoy our time in Brazil.  I've paid for my flight and accommodation for all of us in Rio, but there will still be plenty to pay for.

The Olympics come to an end.  There have been numerous reports of crime.  Some US swimmers claim to have been held up and mugged by a carload of thugs posing as police officers.  Leaving a club in a taxi, they were pulled over and made to lie on the ground while their wallets were taken.  This news is chilling.  It sounds like a terrifying experience.  But a few days later, reports emerge that their story might have been concocted to cover up some property damage they caused while drunk after a party.

Still, I worry about the violent crime that we hear about in Rio.  What if something happens to the musicians?  What if something happens to my husband?  He will be making a solo visit to São Paolo, a city where crime is rife.

My singing teacher puts on a small show for a dozen students, so we can have some performance practice.  I decide to sing two songs by Michel Legrand.  On the day of the show, I imagine "smashing it".  It will be the perfect performance.  I get up and sing.  It's an unfamiliar setting - broad daylight, big room, people sitting there in full view, all staring at me.  At no time during my performance is my breathing under control.  Some notes stick in my throat instead of floating through the air.  I cringe, then console myself with some stern self-talk.  This performance was the equivalent of a sound-check, I tell myself.  Normally I would sing a couple of songs just to test the microphone and get the feel of the room.  If I sang badly in a sound check it wouldn't bother me - it's just a warm-up, and that's what I've just done.

Yes, I sing so much better in my own shows.

I receive a video of one of my shows.  I plug the USB into my computer and have a look.  I am horrified by the film.  I'm the worst singer in the world, and I have no stage presence at all.

The movie Florence Foster Jones is playing in cinemas.  It's about an American society woman, who thinks she can sing, and sets up her own shows.  She doesn't realise she can't sing - she can't even hold a note.  A French film about her has also been released.  Am I a modern-day Australian Florence?  I can't bring myself to watch either film.

I've spent quite a lot of money on this venture.  I've given up my legal career.  Will it be worth it?  Am I even good enough?

I am keeping the concert plans very quiet at the moment.  I don't want to head off with a fanfare, in a blaze of glory, only to find that the show is cancelled or turns out to be a disaster.

At the same time, I can imagine how it will feel when we've done the show, and I triumphantly announce our achievement.

What a mixture of thoughts and emotions.  I'm trying to maintain perspective, but I can feel the stakes rising.

Danger is everywhere

July 2016

News breaks about the Bastille Day massacre in Nice, in the south of France.

Innocent people, including children, are blown to pieces while celebrating Bastille Day at their annual firework display.  Islamic State claims responsibility for the attack.

Our newspapers are filled with photos of blood-soaked revellers - well-dressed middle-class people, injured and seeking medical help, baby strollers upturned and broken, toys strewn on the ground, people grieving.  A journalist describes the scene in graphic detail.  His account is almost unbearable to read.

I attend a memorial event at which we observe a minute's silence for those lost in the violent tragedy.

The whole thing makes me feel terribly sad.  What is the world coming to, when France is a dangerous place to visit?  I've been to Nice, and I know the area where this atrocity was committed.  I've been in France on Bastille day - twice - once in Paris, and once in Lyon, where we enjoyed the fireworks display from a crowded bridge, standing shoulder to shoulder with the local residents.  I can easily imagine the scene before, and after, the event.

I console myself with the thought that these terrorists have (so far) not shown any interest in South America.

I set about making plans for our visit to Brazil.  I book my husband's flight to São Paolo, where he will attend a conference before joining me in Rio.  Once his arrangements are in place, I turn my attention to my own flights and accommodation.  I will be flying straight to Rio, checking into a hotel to recover from jet lag, and relaxing for a couple of days, until Enéias arrives, and we can begin rehearsing for our show.

One wintry Saturday morning I go along to my Portuguese class to find we have a new student.  Abby has recently returned from a six-month University exchange in Rio.  I ask her how she found the security situation.  She tells us how one day her taxi from the airport was held up at gunpoint.  Her driver unlocked the doors and climbed out of the car - it's the opposite of the instinctive reaction to lock the doors.  That will just make the bandits shoot you.  "If they come for you, don't look at them; they are crazy and don't care.  They just want to take your stuff; they are not really aiming to harm you".

Another student, Andrew, chimes in.  He's seen an online video of gunfire on the highway in Brazil.  People get out and lie on the ground while bullets whiz around them.  They know what to do - it's like a drill.

Abby also recalls sitting in class while hearing the sound of gunfire from the favela adjoining her University.  And another day, when she and her boyfriend visited a beautiful lake, they saw some people there being robbed.  On another occasion, they witnessed some drug lords threatening a debtor.

Now I am really scared.  I will have several people coming to Rio separately, and I need them all to arrive alive and in one piece.  I'll be flying straight to Rio, my husband is coming via São Paolo, Enéias flying in from Jaraguá, and also our percussionist who will arrive a couple of days later.

Andrew adds, helpfully, that Rio is not on the list of the world's thirty most dangerous cities.

Andrew and Abby suggest that the domestic airport is safer than the international one.  But do I really want to make an extra stop and change flights?

Next month, thousands of tourists will flood into Rio for the Olympic games.  Inevitably, there will be robberies and muggings.  Criminals will smell opportunity.  Already there has been a report of an television crew being attached on Copacabana Beach (that beach is the worst, says Abby).

Our show is in Copacabana, so that's where we will be staying.

I suppose most people will be all right.  But that's not much comfort if it's you or your friends or loved ones who are caught in the crossfire.  For a moment I permit myself to think about the potential horror, as if the worrying will confer some sort of protection.

I'm hoping that by October, things will have calmed down, and Rio will again be the Marvellous City that I visited last year.

And these days, it seems, anything can happen wherever you are.

On the news we see reports of a wedding in Turkey that is ruined when a twelve year old boy turns suicide-bomber.  

Our newspaper lists little-known laws in Dubai that visitors commonly breach, which can lead to imprisonment.

One night, coming home from a show at La Boheme and entering a roundabout, we narrowly avoid a smash with an oncoming car.  I take a deep breath and try not to imagine the screech, the scrunch, the mess of shredded, twisted metal, the smoke and flames, our mangled selves and my Brazilian dream broken forever.

Progress and determination

We've been told that we can perform at Beco das Garrafas in Rio, in October.  It will be either Friday or Saturday night.

Time goes by, and still we don't know which date we will perform.  I've told our agent, Mara, that we are available to do either, or both nights, if they want us to.  Mara contacts the venue again, and tells us she thinks that at least one night is guaranteed.

On the basis of this indication, I feel we can start booking our flights.

But when will we know which night(s)?  We need to book accommodation, and flights for the musicians, plus we need to let people know when we will be performing, so they can come and see us.

I settle down to work for a few months.  It's July, and I have the opportunity to earn some money to pay for our adventures.

But time is ticking, and we need visas.  To get a visa we need an itinerary.

In September I will be going to the USA for a conference.  To get my Brazil visa, I need to send my passport away.  The web site says visa applications will be processed within 90 days.  What if my passport doesn't come back in time for my conference trip?  You can get a replacement passport, but that would cancel the one with the visa in it.
'
I decide to get my own visa application started.  My husband has more time, as he is not coming with me to Washington DC.

The online application calls for a large amount of information.  I'm sure it's more onerous than last year.  I have to scan and upload various documents, all of which must adhere to strict sizing requirements.  And I have to upload my signature in jpg format.  I have no idea how to do this, and there is no explanation provided.  In the end, the travel agent recommends paying a fee to the visa company to deal with the outstanding issues.  I pay.

A courier arrives to take my passport away.

Two weeks later, I arrive at the office to find a parcel waiting for me.

It's my passport, with the visa to enter Brazil.  I whoop and sigh with relief.

Now I embark on the application for my husband's visa.  Second time through the process, I'm a bit better prepared, though I get to the end of the online application and cannot upload his passport photo because the file size is too large.  Next morning, I ask a friend to see if he can resize the file, and he manages to do this.  Overnight the system has timed out, and I've lost all my work, so I have to start the application all over again.

I persevere with it, as I am determined that this project will succeed.  The visa application process would drive my husband crazy, but I stick with it, and after about an hour I print out the receipt that he will need to sign, and I glue his photo onto it.

Mara has now booked the hotel in Jaraguá for me.  I'm gradually ticking items off my checklist.

Still, I feel on edge, unable to relax, not daring to assume that this show will proceed as planned.

How disappointing it would be for my plans to fall through, after all this effort.

An iconic location

The Copacabana Palace Hotel responds to my inquiry and Enéias' follow-up call.   They indicate the availability of their function rooms, and the cost.

They have a room available that is about twice the size of the La Boheme nightclub in Adelaide.

And the hire costs is ten times as much as La Boheme.

But maybe we should go for it, because at least these people are communicating with us.

Unfortunately, they don't have any availability at the weekend.  They can offer us a Thursday night for a private function.  We would need to invite the guests, and would not be allowed to advertise the show publicly.

The Thursday night isn't much good.  It wouldn't give us enough rehearsal time.  And how will we draw an audience?  I know some people in São Paolo who might come to a show, but not, I imagine, on a Thursday night.

Enėias suggests we enlist the help of his friend Mara to help us find a suitable venue.

Mara is a theatre producer.  I met her in Jaraguá, and she seems intelligent and organised.

I email Mara, and she responds promptly.  I tell her that she now has a client from Australia.  Mara explores various options with the hotel, but they can't offer us anything suitable.

I suggest to her that we follow up the other venues that I have approached, to see if she can coax a response from them.  These are:
1. The Botanic Gardens (Tom Jobim) performance space,
2. Bar Vinicius, and
2. Beco das Garrafas (Bottles Alley) bar.

I've also put together a list of international hotels on the beachfront.  Surely they would all have a bar where we could perform?  Not one of them responds to me.

The Botanic Gardens venue turns out to be enormous - and it's a bit out of the way.

Bar Vinicius doesn't reply.

To my surprise, Mara manages to get a response from Beco das Garrafas.  As I had hoped, they respond to an approach by a Brazilian "artist agent", even though my own communications vanished into the ether.

They have availability on the Friday and Saturday nights, the week we are in Rio.  We can either rent the space privately or make it a public performance - being presented by the club and taking advantage of their publicity.  We opt for the public performance.  It will be so much easier than trying to put on our own event.

They are booking us for their program.

Beco das Garrafas is an iconic, historic venue.  It's where the Bossa Nova greats played in the early 1960's.  It's called Bottles Alley because the neighbours got tired of the noise from the club, and would throw empty bottles from their upstairs windows to express their frustration.  My husband and I visited this club one afternoon during last year's stay in Rio.  It's got a blackboard listing the names of all the greats who have played there, and photos and other memorabilia.  I have no doubt it will be a memorable experience to perform there.

I send Enéias some photos of the place, and also select a YouTube video that shows the bar in a good light.  I choose the one of Marcus Valle (who wrote "Summer Samba") performing there, just a couple of years ago.  I'm pretty sure he'll be impressed by this.

My message to him says "Same stage as Tom Jobim!".  I want to keep him motivated.  I suggest we could go to the Copacabana Palace Hotel for cocktails after the show.

At last, we have a venue for our show in Rio.

The Copacabana Palace

Mid=2016

All my inquiries about performing in Rio have come to nothing.

I can't get anyone to respond to my messages.  Even my best contact, who has been emailing our showreel video to places on my behalf, is not having any luck.

It's not very good for my self-esteem.

Then my husband announces that there is a conference he could attend to in São Paolo, in late October.  We look at the dates.  The conference is in the early part of the week, meaning we could be in Rio on the Thursday and Friday, and possibly Saturday.  Entertainment nights!  We could do a show.  And having specific dates and a reason to go to Brazil creates a catalyst for action.

I contact Enéias to tell him this.  I send through a few suggestions of places where we might perform.

Because he seems to be pretty busy with teaching and performing, and I don't want to overload him with administrative work, I suggest that we operate as a team.  I will send the emails and he will follow up by phone.  The time difference makes it difficult for me to phone, not to mention the challenge of speaking Portuguese to busy people who don't know me.  He knows how things work in Brazil - he should do the calling.

I urge him to join with me in brainstorming a whole range of possibilities.

He comes back with a suggestion of his  own.

We could rent a space at the Copacabana Palace Hotel.

Right.  The best hotel in the whole of Brazil.  Last year I looked at room prices, and they were astronomical.  Instead of staying there, my husband and I went there for cocktails.  The caipirinhas were excellent, and the manager allowed us to go up to the second floor and look at the photo gallery showing all the famous people - movie stars and royalty - who have stayed at the hotel.  The hall itself was sumptuously decorated, and it felt like a great privilege to be allowed to roam around there unsupervised.

OK.  If this is something that enthuses Enéias, let's give it a go.

And the idea of renting a space opens up some other possibilities.  If this one is beyond my budget, or not available, we could try some other places.

He sends me an email address where I can write to the hotel; urges me to send an email.

Late on a Friday afternoon I sit down with my dictionary.  It's Friday morning in Brazil, so hopefully Bruna will look at my email, then she will receive Enéias' call, either today or early next week.

I'm reasonably confident now with writing in Portuguese, but I spend about an hour on this missive, double-checking words and conjugations; making sure I get the tone right and have the appropriate greeting and sign-off.  Courteous but friendly.  I also mention that my husband and I visited the hotel for cocktails last year when we were in Rio.

Then I click "send" and off it goes.  I reflect that only two and a half years ago, when I wanted to send a letter to Enéias, I had to engage a translator.  Now I can write my own - hah!

Enéias calls me on FaceTime to further explain his idea.  The call takes me by surprise.  Suddenly my iPad is ringing, and there he is on screen, in the front room of his apartment.  This is the first time we've done any sort of voice call.  I'm very glad we haven't attempted this until now.  It's easier now that we know each other, but definitely not easy.  If we'd done it before his visit to Australia, it would have exposed the chasm that was our communication gap.  We might have dismissed the whole idea as way too hard.  I'm glad that our first meeting was in person, when he entered the Arrivals area of Adelaide Airport.

He elaborates on his plan.  We will invite people to the show - reporters and so on.  We will rent a space and it will be a private show.  We will video the show; it will be "filmed at Copacabana Hotel, Rio" - and use that to get bookings elsewhere, perhaps in Tokyo.  I can see how such an event could benefit him, too, by building his profile as a musician in Brazil.

He has big dreams, Enéias.  Suddenly I "get" his idea, and we both laugh out loud at its audacity.

Start at the top?  Why not?  Let's find out how much it would cost.

Over the weekend I send him the photos I took when we visited the hotel last year.  I also send some  YouTube videos - an animated version of "Copacabana" by Barry Manilo, and various clips from the 1960's Italian movie "Copacabana Palace".  One scene features a young Tom Jobim, Luiz Bonfa and Joao Gilberto all together on the beach, serenading three pretty girls in bikinis.  And speaking in (dubbed) Italian.

My Facebook message to him says "We will make a new film called 'Copacabana Palace' ".

He sends me the "thumbs-up".