It's a long way home

On Thursday morning I pack up my room and check out of the hotel.

Enéias collects me, and his mother cooks lunch for us.  Airport food is not very good, she says, and she's right.   We eat a substantial meal - chicken, steak, vegetables, and of course, cake.

Junior arrives - he's coming to the airport with us.  Enéias drives us to Navegantes, the airport town nearest to Jaraguá.  It's about an hour's drive.  The boys come into the airport with me.  I had expected to farewell them at the check-in desk, but they are such gentlemen, they wait with me until it's time for me to pass through the gates into the departure area.  They each embrace me for the last time.  For me it's a hard farewell to make - who knows when I'll see them again?

My flight from Navegantes to São Paolo is delayed for an hour, but fortunately there is plenty of time before my international flight to Adelaide via Dubai, and I'm able to make my connection.

I get onto the plane in São Paolo and settle into my seat.

It's a long way home to Australia.  The interminable flight gives me a lot of time to think.

A little over three years ago I set myself the somewhat audacious goal of performing my favourite Brazilian music in its birthplace of Rio de Janeiro.  I was just a hobby singer, having taken up singing in middle age.  I had never been to Brazil, didn't know anyone there, and didn't speak the language.  I had no idea how I would do it, or what form the show might take.

I achieved my dream.  In Rio I sang at a historic venue, on the same stage where my music idols had performed, and was accompanied by wonderful Brazilian musicians.

In addition, I gained so much else along the way.

Step 1 was "Learn to sing better", and I did.

I learned and performed lots of new songs, including some brand new, original compositions.

I learned to speak Portuguese, and discovered the Brazilian community in my city.

I performed with excellent musicians in Australia and in Brazil.

I visited other parts of Brazil as well as Rio.

I met the famous Brazilian composer, Marcos Valle.

I have made some very dear friends in Brazil.

All of this has lasting value, and has enriched my life immensely.

This is the end of my blog, but it's not The End.  I am sure that Enéias and I will continue our musical collaboration.  He has written some new songs for me to translate, and our plan is to record a CD.

So.  That was our Concert in Rio.

I wonder where our next one will be?

The end is nigh

Wednesday.  It's raining in Jaraguá do Sul, Brazil.

My voice is wrecked.

Enéias' internet is broken.

It all seems to be a portent of things coming to an end.

Things are coming to an end.  Tomorrow I'm flying home to Australia.

In Enéias' apartment, we record our new song in English, "I Dreamed".  Then we do a bit of jamming, playing some Bossa Nova classics.

We have our last lunch at the local restaurant.

Then we drive to Samuca's big house on the hill, where we collect the video of our show in Jaraguá.  Enéias also wants him to record a video of our new song.  Samuca undertakes an elaborate set-up, with lights, umbrellas and expensive professional  equipment.  Then he films us with a hand-held camera, moving it around to give the effect of an amateur movie made with a cheap mobile phone.

I guess this effect will appeal to some people - probably people younger than me.

We are happy with our first "take", so we decide to leave it there.  I really don't have much voice left at all.

On the way back, we stop off at a bakery, and have coffee and cake.  Later I find a street market where I buy some gifts to take home.

That evening, there is a small farewell gathering for me in a local pub.  It's very enjoyable to catch up with these friends.

But I'm exhausted and thinking of home, and that's the way it should be, on this final night in Brazil.

Yes! We have bananas!

Despite the vocal problems I'm having, I am enjoying this restful time in Brazil.  It's nice to sleep in, have a leisurely breakfast and then relax with friends and make music.

On Tuesday, we move on to another song that Enéias has written.  Again, he wants English lyrics.  I'm starting from scratch with this song.  A literal translation won't be any good - the equivalent English words have very different sounds, and the ideas need to be expressed in a different way.

The song in Portuguese is called "Amei" (pronounced "Armay" - "I Loved"), and that word creates a motif that is repeated throughout the song.  Straight away, I can see that we need a different one in English.  We need a sound that can be sung on a long note.  We decide to substitute "I Dreamed".  OK, we're onto something.  I begin to ask myself - what things might you dream about if you were keen on someone?  A couple of phrases come into my head and I jot them down.

By lunchtime we still haven't got very far.  Enéias suggests I go and rest at the hotel while he is busy doing a few things.  I lie down in my room for about twenty minutes.  The song is floating around in my head.  Suddenly, lyrics start to form.  I sit up and grab my notebook.  Quick - write down the ideas, before they evaporate!

Two hours later I return to the apartment.  "We have a song!" I declare, triumphantly.

It's true - we have a song.  Funny how creativity works better when your mind is relaxed and you're not rushing around like a crazy person.

Enéias' Mum has been bringing us cakes as a late afternoon snack.  Her cakes are sweet and sticky - and very delicious.  Each day, she brings us two different ones.

I'm slightly concerned about consuming all these calories.  But I can't not try the cakes, and I guess there will be plenty of time to diet later.  When I get home.  After Christmas.  Or New Year.  Maybe.

That night, I travel to the nearby town of Corupá.  I've agreed to visit an English language school there, to give the students some conversation practice.  Enéias' mother drives me there.  We're a bit late, but it doesn't seem to matter - they are pleased that I've arrived, and lead me into a classroom where about a dozen students are seated.

The students are aged from about eighteen to thirty.  The teachers encourage them to ask me questions.  They want to know a lot of different things:

"How many people live in Australia?"
"What is the climate like there?"
"Is there corruption in Australia?"
"Are things in Australia cheaper or more expensive than in Brazil?"

The teachers themselves speak excellent English, and from time to time they correct the students' expression and pronunciation.  Sometimes I am able to explain a concept in Portuguese.

I would have liked to be a language teacher - if it didn't mean teaching in high schools - which it did, so therefore I am not one.  But I enjoy working with language, and to witness these students grappling with my own language is fascinating.  We share our opinions about what makes each language challenging.

At the end of the class, I give each student a tiny toy koala.  They also present me with a gift - a basket of banana products.  There are banana chips (salted, not sweet like we have in Australia), whole dried bananas and chocolate-coated bananas.

Well, I guess there will be plenty of time to diet.  Later.

Words and music

All our shows are now done.  I've got four more days in Brazil.

We have planned to record a CD of Enéias' original songs.  There are just two minor problems:
1. I haven't got much voice left, and
2. The songs aren't finished yet.

But I guess we can try a few things.

Enéias has some recording equipment in his apartment, so we are not paying for studio time.  We record a song that we performed.  After a few "takes" we listen back to the recording.  I am not happy at all with the sound of it.  My voice doesn't stand up to the scrutiny of a studio microphone.  It sounds very rough around the edges.  The bronchitis is taking its toll.

I guess I would have sounded OK yesterday in the cafe, amongst the sounds of conversation and grinding of coffee beans.  But now my voice is more velcro than velvet.

What are we going to do?

We move onto one of Enéias' songs.  I've already translated it into English and sent him a copy, but he's not sure it will fit with the music.  I think it will, because I've spent a lot of time trying to get it right.  He plays his guitar and I sing my English lyrics.  We reach the end of the song.  "Yes!" he exclaims, putting down his guitar.  He comes over to where I'm sitting, takes my hand in both of his and kisses it.  "Yes!"  He's happy with my translation.

I'm happy that he's happy.

Enéias has to do some teaching, and Mara invites me to a theatre production which is playing at lunchtime.  It is a tragi-comedy called "Maria the Washer-woman" and is played entirely by a man.  It's a commentary about domestic violence.  The piece is based on original research and was written by Mara's husband.  There's a good audience, and they respond appreciatively.  It's both entertaining and sad - I can follow it to some extent, though I need Mara to explain the ending to me.

In the afternoon we try recording the song with English lyrics.  Enéias says my vocal will be a "guide" recording only, and I can record over it again in Australia.

That's just as well, because right now my voice doesn't sound good at all.

Speaking in tongues

I've never eaten as many cakes as on this trip to Brazil.  Here, it seems, it is quite normal to eat cakes for breakfast.  And they are very sweet and sticky cakes - chocolate cake with chocolate icing is a staple breakfast food.

After my Sunday breakfast of fruit and cakes, I go for a little stroll, and then it's time for lunch.  

We have lunch at the shopping mall where we will be performing in the afternoon.  

Then we make our way to Bliss cafe, and Enéias sets up his equipment.  

Again we have a two-hour session.  The coffee shop is open to the surrounding mall, so we play to the cafe patrons and to the passers-by.  

My voice is holding up reasonably well.  Our friend Rubens arrives and takes a turn at singing, and I take a break.

Some members of Enéias' family are in the cafe.  A little niece has her birthday today, and we sing Happy Birthday to her.

At another table there is a group which includes an elderly lady in a wheelchair.  A couple of people from that table come over and tell us that she has enjoyed our show.  She only speaks, German, they say.

I have been aware that our town is near an area where a large number of German people settled.  I've heard that some of them refused to learn Portuguese, and steadfastly continue to speak German.  Now I am going to meet one of them.

I do actually speak German.  That is, I can speak German when I'm in a German speaking country, have attuned my ear to the language and the local dialect, brought my German vocabulary to the front of my mind, and trained my mouth and facial muscles in the German way of speaking.  Now, here in the middle of southern Brazil, I try to make the switch from Portuguese to German.  I wrack my brain to think of things to say to this lady.  It doesn't come out as well as I would like, but she's happy and surprised that I've made the effort.

That night, in my hotel room, I search the TV channels to find the Brazilian program I've been watching all this week.  Yes, there it is - Vai Que Cola - on the "Multi-show" channel.  

I'm not sure why I like this show.  I'm not sure what the title means.  I can understand some of the dialogue, although I can't actually follow the plot.  But this show has numerous other elements, and maybe that's why it's got me hooked.  It's a melodramatic comedy, very over-acted, with brightly coloured sets and costumes.  It almost has the look of a children's program, but it's for grown-ups.  It is played to a live audience, and the actors play overtly to the audience.  The audience is part of the show.  When a character comes out on stage they cheer and applaud enthusiastically.  The camera pans across to show the delight on their faces.  And there is also music, which adds energy to the mix.  Sometimes there is a scene change, where the stage rotates to reveal a different set.

I think it's the physical and visual comedy that makes it so addictive.  It's not hard to recognise flirting or sexual rivalry.  It keeps me watching, and while I'm watching I'm also listening to the language.

I watch until I'm nearly falling asleep.  Now, where's the remote?

Open rehearsal

This year, we've reversed the order of our shows.

Last year, we did some "practice" shows before our main concert.

This year, we've done our two big shows first, and now we only have the two small ones left.

On Saturday morning, we head for the Angeloni shopping centre, where we will once again perform in the food court.  It's a two-hour event - one that Enéias describes as an "open rehearsal".

The pressure is off.  I feel happy, tranquil, relaxed.  People are having coffee and early lunch.

Despite my ongoing battle with bronchitis, singing feels easy this morning.  We improvise and play around with the music.  I feel confident to lead, and to enter assertively.  My voice is working pretty well today.

When we've finished, we have lunch in the food court with some members of Enéias' family.

In the afternoon I have free time.  I walk from my hotel to the other shopping mall, where I  know there is an excellent chocolate shop.  I buy some blocks of chocolate to take home, then I have a coffee at Bliss cafe, where we will be performing tomorrow.  I want to get the feel of the place before I sing there.

For dinner, we go to a restaurant called Leon Gourmet.  Marlí and I have hamburgers while Enéias and our friend Rubens entertain the diners.  They get me up to sing a couple of songs, and then I happily return to my seat to enjoy the amusing show.

The Deadly Caipirinha

Our show on Friday night is in the nearby town of Itajaí.

In the morning, Enéias and I rehearse in his apartment. Not too much, as I need to save my voice for tonight.

Mara drives us to Itajaí, a journey of about an hour and a half.  I let her and Enéias chat in the front, while I take in the vistas of lush green rice fields and banana plantations.  The landscape is dotted with charming little churches.

After a bit of searching, by car and on foot, we find the concert venue.  It's at an Arts Academy, in a beautiful, historic building near the harbour.  The organisers welcome us, and then they show us around the performance space.

We will be performing tonight with a guest guitarist from this town.  Josias arrives and we rehearse a little with him.  He is an amiable young man and his guitar has a different sound to Enéias', so they complement each other very well.

This is our last formal performance, and I resolve to give it everything I've got.

The place has the feel of a large lounge room.  So I pretend I'm in my lounge room - the "sing as if no one is listening" principle.  It's a bit difficult as the audience is in full view, but I try not to let that put me off.

When we come to our final song, "The Girl From Ipanema", the audience joins in and sings along.  Which is good, because I haven't got very much voice left.

Afterwards, some of the audience members stay and chat, and a group of them invites us to join them for a late dinner at a a popular place which used to be an old market.

We set off in separate cars.  I go with Mara and her husband Leone.  We drive around looking for a park - it's obviously a popular spot on this Friday night.  Eventually we arrive at the historic market.  The place is packed, and it's noisy.  There is not a spare table to be seen.  It's picturesque, and I'm sure it would be fun if you were eating and drinking there, but to us, looking in, it looks like bedlam.  The others are nowhere to be found.

Eventually we drive off and find a row of waterside restaurants.  We sit down and order meals.  Mara and I share a caipirinha cocktail.  I take a sip - it's delicious but very strong.  I cast around for things to talk about, but I'm really, really tired.  I wish I could make better conversation, but I'm wilting, fast.

On the journey back to Jaraguá, Mara and Leone share the driving while I sleep in the back seat.

The deadly caipirinha has finished me off.

The Trombonist From Floreanopolis

Tomorrow is the first of our four shows.  Four shows in four days.  We'll need some stamina.

In the morning I relax, getting ready for the afternoon's rehearsal.  A trombonist is coming from Floreanópolis to rehearse with us today, and to play in our show tomorrow.

Floreanópolis is three hours from Jaraguá - a significant journey for him to make.

Aurélio arrives, I'm introduced to him, and we practice our songs.  He's a nice guy, but this is yet another accent to decode.  My brain is nearly exploding.

An afternoon is not long to rehearse and arrange all our songs with the new group member.  But he is a professional musician, and he is able to meld with the three of us.

In the evening, we travel to the nearby town of Corupá for dinner - the Cheers bar specialises in  gourmet hamburgers, and they are really good.  At dinner I meet Nádia, an English teacher, who invites me to come and make conversation with her class next week.

Next morning, I wake to find that there is a piece about our show in the local paper.  They've used last year's photo.

I'm loving my little nest at Hotel Káyros.  I'm enjoying the leisurely pace of life, and I require less maintenance than last year,  because I know the town and can speak the language.

Enéias and Aurelio collect me, and we have lunch.  Then we make our way to the SESC theatre.  There is a long set-up time.  Samuca arrives to organise the video recording - the same guy who made our video last year.  I've brought my electric jug to the theatre, and inhale lots of steam to keep my voice in good condition.

I'm happy to contribute to the process, but I'm not in charge, and I'm very happy to let others take responsibility.  It's a welcome change from the shows I do in Australia, where I have to take responsibility for everything.

I reflect that Enéias and I have spent a total of about one month together.  Three visits, one in Australia and two in Brazil.  We are quite well in tune musically, all things considered.

The show goes pretty well.  The four of us communicate pretty well together.   Our friend Rubens joins us on stage for the final song, "The Girl From Ipanema".  At the end of the show, the lights come on, revealing a substantial audience.  Some people hang around or come on stage to speak with us.  I see Bogdan, who was my first-ever Brazilian Facebook friend, and call out to him to come and say hello.  He's the guy who originally introduced me to Enéias online.  I tell him that without him, there would have been no show in Rio.  We embrace warmly and have a lovely chat.

Afterwards we celebrate at a pub, and some people from the audience join us.

One down, three shows to go.

Taking it easy

Now I'm in Jaraguá, I'm happy to take things at a slower pace.  I am really tired after our show in Rio.

There's a break of a few days before our first performance here on Thursday night.

On Monday, I don't do any singing.  It's a "take it easy" day.  Enéias warns me that we will have lots of work to do during the week.

While I'm at his apartment, a student arrives for a guitar lesson.  Enéias suggests I lie down on the couch while he teaches.  The couch is very comfortable and I drift off to sleep.  When he wakes me, I startle, and he laughs.

I visit a pharmacy to get some medication for my cough.  I'm resigned to the idea that it will take a while to get better.  But I'm concerned about the risk of coughing on stage.  So I tell the pharmacist what the problem is, and explain that I would like a cough suppressant to take on the day of the show.  I know it's not good to take cough suppressants regularly, but seriously, I need something to help me.  She asks me how many days until the show.  I tell her four.  She produces something that she says will be better for me.  Tablets - two a day.  The packet tells me nothing, so back at the hotel I open it up and read the instructions.  It is some sort of anti-inflammatory steroid.  That sounds like the sort of thing that will help, so I start taking them.  Gradually the urge to cough calms down, so that's a relief.

On Tuesday we start getting back into the music.  While Enéias plays a new song that he's learning, I sprawl in his armchair.  A fresh breeze flows in through the window.

Junior arrives, and we all set off on foot to a radio station, where we are going to be interviewed about our show.  The three of us settle down in the studio, and before starting the recording, the interviewer engages us in some general discussion.  I can't understand his accent, and respond to every question with a blank stare.  Recording commences, I concentrate furiously, and manage to pump out a few desperate sentences.  Then we perform a song for about forty seconds, then he stops recording.  I would have liked to have sung a bit better, but we are not invited to re-record the song.  The interviewer hasn't spoken to or mentioned Junior at all, and he has called Enéias by his brother's name, in a way which would be impossible to edit.  But still, it's his interview, and the guy seems happy with it.

Then, ironically, we have a ten-minute conversation with the interviewer, most of which I understand and can contribute to.

Back at the apartment, we do some more rehearsal.  How I love singing these songs, with these musicians! What a pity Brazil is so far away!

A journey to the south

On Sunday morning I throw open the curtains to reveal the beaches of Rio for the last time.

Today I'm on my own.  This afternoon I'll be flying south, to join my musician friends in their town of Jaraguá.

My week in Rio is almost at an end, and I want to make the most of my last day.

After packing up my stuff, I take the Metro to Ipanema.  I manage to find Tom Jobim's house, and take a last look at it, then I head down to the beach.  Unfortunately, I can't take it with me, so I walk back along the Vinicius de Moraes avenue.

The Girl from Ipanema cafe is closed until midday, and there's nowhere else to have a coffee yet.  So I keep walking until I reach the Toca de Vinicius music shop.  I haven't been there on this visit, and the shop is open, so I go in.

The owner, Carlos, is there behind the counter.  I remember him from last year.  I browse around the shop and notice a series of CDs I haven't seen before.  I buy a couple of them and chat with Carlos.  I tell him about our show in Rio, and meeting Marcos Valle.  He is impressed.  Last year we talked in English, but today he seems happy to speak Portuguese, and I'm relieved to find that I can understand what he's saying.

I have to leave Ipanema.  I need to get back to the hotel and check out.  I don't want to be late to the airport.  At the Metro station I help Dolores, a tourist from Argentina, to find her train.  Emerging from the station at Copacabana, I consult a public map and become aware of some Australian voices.  Mike and Elaine are visiting Rio on a guided tour and they want to know how to find the beach.  "Come with me" I say, and lead them towards the sea.

I've been here a week, and now I am a tour guide.

The mini-bus arrives, and I join some other travellers heading to the airport.

My flight is to Curitiba, south of Rio.  From there we will travel further south to Jaraguá.  Junior greets me at the airport, with a driver who has also brought his girlfriend.

I'm still having trouble understanding Junior's accent, and it's a two-hour drive.  He says he wants help to improve his English.  I ask him what he would like to say in English.  He says there are a million sentences floating around in his head, and he can't choose just one.

So I invent a game.  I look for words along the roadside, and ask him to translate them into English.  Often he knows the English word.  Sometimes his pronunciation is excellent; sometimes I coach him.

The game keeps us occupied all the way to Jaraguá.  Along the way, we pass an overturned car with police attending the scene - it looks like a bad accident.

I show him a picture of my daughter, and he asks me for the English translation of the word sogra.  It means mother-in-law.

He says I could be his sogra,  and laughs delightedly at this idea.

Arriving in Jaraguá, the hotel feels like home.  I'll be here for ten days.  They've given me the same room as last year.

While I'm having dinner, Enéias arrives, and we discuss our plans for the coming week.

Into the Favela

On Saturday, Enéias and Junior are flying home.

Before they depart, there is one more thing I want us to do together.

I want my own version of Diana Krall's "rooftop sessions" - an informal video taken on the rooftop of a hotel in Rio, jamming with some friends.  So we all go up there, take in the spectacular view one last time, and record our own video.

Then the two musicians go off to pack up their rooms.

My husband wants to go on a Favela Tour.

Really?  Why?

I've heard so much about the dangers of going into these neighbourhoods, I'm a bit worried.  My other reservation is that it seems a little distasteful to go and gawk at poor people.  Is that really tourism?

But he is keen.  And I guess they would only take us into a favela that has been pacified by the police.

In the brochure it is unappealingly named "Slum tour - by jeep".   I suppose we will drive through the favela in a vehicle protected by bullet-proof glass.

So we sign up for the tour.  I dress very plainly and leave my handbag in our hotel room.

Tour guide Marcia collects us from the hotel.  We climb into the open tray of the jeep and strap ourselves in.  No bullet-proof glass, or any glass for that matter.

We pick up some other tourists, and then we are on our way to Favela Rocinha.  The jeep winds its way around the hillside, and it stops where the favela begins.  Directly opposite the favela is an up-market residential district - it's a very strange juxtaposition.

We all get out of the jeep.  I suppose it's just to stretch our legs and to look at that little market?

"Follow me!" calls Marcia, and she leads us into the favela.

It's like stepping into a wonderland.  It's a jumble of run-down houses piled high on top of each other.  Garlands of electrical wiring and rows of satellite dishes adorn the streetscape.  We follow Marcia up and down some steep flights of steps and along narrow alleys.

This is a city within a city.  It's got everything you would expect to find, but smaller and more basic.  Little fruit shops, little lunch bars, little hairdressing salons, little furniture stores.

The people who live here have the best-ever views of Rio.  The houses are brightly coloured, and inside you can sometimes glimpse people watching TV.  Hip-hop music is blaring out through some of the streets.  I know I'm not qualified to judge, but the people here seem happy, healthy and proud of what little they have.  That's my impression, anyway.

We gather in a little courtyard where a capoeira group is practising.  It's like martial arts mixed with dance, and it's very acrobatic.  Boys and girls demonstrate their skills, then Gustavo, the group leader, invites us to learn some dance moves.  It is exhilaratingly fun and we all have a good laugh, then we pay for our lesson by donating money to their school.  Learning capoeira is good for the self-esteem of the favela kids, and it gives them a healthy focus in life.

The tour has transformed my view about the favelas of Rio.  I know that there are still dangerous areas, but most people in Rio live in neighbourhoods like this one, and this is their daily reality.

It's my husband's birthday, and he's flying home to Australia in the early hours of the morning. We go to a good restaurant for dinner.  This feels a bit weird after visiting the favela in the afternoon.  I decide to feel grateful that we can afford it.

He suggests that we start with some champagne.  Perusing the wine list, he says to the waiter, "I'll have the Spanish sparkling, and my wife will have the Brazilian."

I refrain from making the obvious joke.

Marcos Valle

Enéias and Junior are excited.  In the music shop they have run into a friend from their town, who now lives in Rio.  Jefferson is a bass player, and he's playing tonight in Marcos Valle's band.

That evening we make our final trek around the corner to Beco das Garrafas.  The show starts at 9 pm, so we plan to arrive at 8.30.  But when we get there, we are almost too late.  The place is nearly full already.  It's very hard to find seats, and there's hardly any room to move.  My husband and I get separated from Enéias and Junior.

The people we are sitting with say that they are friends of Marcos Valle.

Nine o'clock comes and goes, and still the show hasn't started.

But eventually he appears on the little stage.  This is Marcos Valle, the man who wrote one of my favourite songs, "Summer Samba".  Here he is, live and right in front of me in the tiny club.  I can hardly believe it.

He is introduced by Amanda Brava, the owner of Beco das Garrafas, wearing black sparkly shorts, jacket and top hat.

The band rips into the first song, and they maintain the momentum throughout the show.  A beautiful woman comes on stage and Marcos Valle introduces her as his wife.  She sings beautifully and plays precise percussion with a cylindrical shaker.

The audience goes wild, cheering and singing along, especially when they play "Summer Samba".

I sitt there happily, drinking in the atmosphere.

I've brought a Marcos Valle CD with me, with a vague hope of maybe getting an autograph.  But when the show ends, there is no announcement about autographs, and there's no desk where he could sit to sign them.  It's chaos - he is surrounded by fans.

I have zero chance of an autograph, and console myself with thinking what a great show it was.

Then I see Enéias and Junior waving to me from near the stage.  They beckon me over.  I battle through the crowd, then they grab me and introduce me to Marcos Valle.

Just like that.

I shake his hand and start to think quickly.  I have to say something.

Me: "I enjoyed the show.  It was wonderful"

MV: "Thank you."

Me: "We performed here last night.  It was a Bossa Nova show, and we performed your song "Summer Samba."

MV: "Oh, do you live in Brazil?" [He thinks I live in Brazil!]

Me: "No, I live in Australia, and I'm a singer.  Enéias and I are an international duo".

MV: "Great!"

Me: "Would you sign my CD please?"

[He signs - and I wish I'd brought a better pen].

Enéias: "Photo please!"

[Takes photo of me looking extraordinarily pleased to be holding a conversation in Portuguese with Marcos Valle]

Me: "Thank you for the music, Marcos".

MV: "It's a pleasure".

[Marcos Valle plants kisses on both my cheeks].

Seriously, it is hard to see how this trip can get any better.

Enéias and Junior take their turns at having photos with Marcos, then we move on and have a chat with Jefferson the bass player.

Finally it's time to leave.  As we depart, the girl on the door farewells me by name.

As we return to the hotel we're floating.  The ice cream shop attached to the Copacabana Palace Hotel is still open, and we go in and order ice cream for dinner.

We continue to marvel at the week's program at Beco das Garrafas:

"Thursday night - us.  Friday night - Marcos Valle."

Our pilgrimage is complete

On the morning after our show, we farewell Mara and Marlí, who have to fly home to Jaraguá.

My team presents me with a gift - it's a T-shirt with the music of The Girl From Ipanema on the front.  Mara sneakily bought it for me while we were exploring the streets of Ipanema.  It's a lovely surprise.

Enéias and Junior are staying on in Rio for one more day, and my husband will be flying home to Australia in two days.

We decide to visit the Botanic Gardens.  I've never been there, because last year we ran out of time.

But I've seen the lush tropical gardens in the DVD of Diana Krall's concert in Rio de Janeiro.

We ask the taxi driver to drop us at the Tom Jobim museum, on the edge of the gardens.

Arriving there, the museum is easy to find.  Inside, the walls are covered with photos, letters, telegrams and hand-written sheet music and lyrics.  There are also some display cases containing further memorabilia, including Jobim's collection of bird-sound pipes.  We spend quite a while looking at and photographing everything.

Now our Tom Jobim pilgrimage is complete.

Enéias wants to play his guitar in the gardens, but the attendant at the gate says he can't bring his guitar in.  Apparently the vibrations would be upsetting to nature.  So my husband and I go in for a quick look, and then the other two join us, having parked the guitar with the attendant.  When the mist disperses, we catch glimpses of the statue of Christ the Redeemer through the trees.

Junior approaches some young women and offers to take a photo of their group.  They are delighted, pose for pictures, then chat with him animatedly.  We joke that he is taking down all of their phone numbers.

We will have to come back to Rio to spend more time in the gardens.

I've been receiving messages from my friend Tony from São Paolo.  He's coming to Rio for business and wonders if we can meet up.  Arriving back at the hotel, I find him in the Reception area.

We all have lunch at a nearby beachside restaurant.  The serves are huge and I eat way too much.

And now I need an afternoon rest, because we have a big night planned.

A Concert. In Rio.

I put on my performance dress.  My heart-surgery scar shows above the neckline, but it is now so faint that you would not see it if you didn't know it was there.

We are ready to present "Australia and Brazil with Bossa".

We all set off together on foot for Beco das Garrafas.  Arriving at the venue, Mara takes me in through the back way, and we wait together in the upstairs Green Room until it's time for the show.

Mara helps me in every way.  She engages me in quiet conversation; keeps me settled.  She fastens my shoes, carries my belongings and helps me down the steep steps so I don't fall.  She leads me through the small room where another show is in progress, and into Bottles Bar.

Our job here is to provide two hours of musical entertainment, from 10 pm until midnight, with a short break in the middle.

Enéias and Junior are on stage and they open the show with an original song by Enéias which speaks of the Bossa Nova music we are about to play.

Junior is elegant in suit and tie.  Enéias is wearing the Bossa Nova T-shirt he bought at the music shop next door, together with his trademark fedora hat.

Enéias introduces me, and suddenly I'm on!

I greet the audience, then I ask in English if anyone speaks English.  There is no answer - then someone calls out "Spanish!".   Right.  So there is no point speaking in English.  I will have to leave it up to Enéias to talk to them in Portuguese.

It's a small audience but they are attentive and appreciative.

This feels like a dream.  I'm singing all my favourite songs in their birthplace of Rio de Janeiro.  We are standing on the same stage where the Bossa Nova greats performed in the 1960's.

The first set passes quickly, and it's time for our break.  Enéias is a bit concerned.  He says we'll need to slow down a bit, or we'll run out of songs.

During the break, I say hello to some people in the audience.  I chat with a group from Argentina.  They express their enthusiasm for our music, and they say they can understand what I'm saying to them in Portuguese.

Suddenly it hits me.  What we need in the second half is "patter"!  I can speak Portuguese.  Even the Spanish speakers can understand my Portuguese.  And I've been to cabaret school.

Quick, think of some things to say!

Here I go, fuelled by adrenaline and the half-glass of wine I've drunk during the break.  I take to the microphone and say whatever comes into my head:
"In Australia, Enéias sang this song to my dog"
"I was sure the Kangaroo song was about me, but Enéias says it's about a kangaroo!"
"Here in Rio we have made a pilgrimage to all the historic Bossa Nova places"
"This is my husband's favourite song" (it's not; he doesn't like this song- it's a running joke between us, and I look meaningfully in his direction).
"Over here is Marlí - our Girl from Ipanema!"

I manage to make them laugh.

Near the end of the show, we perform a song called "Só danço samba" ("I only dance Samba") and I call for the audience to join in.  Then I remember that Junior does dance the Samba.  I invite him to come forward and give a demonstration.   He performs wonderfully, still playng his pandeiro, and the audience loves it.  I ask him to teach me, and we dance together briefly.

Soon the show is over.  My voice worked, and I have not coughed all night - not once.

We all embrace - we did it!  Conseguimos!

And we have one more day together in Rio, to relax and enjoy the Marvellous City.

Ready, set, sound-check!

On the morning of the show I wake feeling philosophical.

I take stock of my situation.

Whatever damage I've done to my voice is done.  In the past my voice has been resilient; hopefully it will recover again this time.

I've got bronchitis, and it could take weeks to get better.  I need to sing tonight, and during the next two weeks in Brazil.

I need to sing, somehow.  I will give it my all.

I cannot cough on stage at Beco das Garrafas.  But once I start coughing I can't stop.  I practise ignoring the spasms in the hope that they will go away.  I must exert mind over matter.

I book my husband onto an afternoon walking tour, then I see an advertisement for in-room massage. Massage!  That can help to move things around when you have a chesty cough.  I book a one-hour massage for 3 pm.

We have a late breakfast, then we rehearse on the roof top for a while.  We only run the newest songs, trusting that we already know the familiar ones and they'll be fine.  I need to save my voice for tonight.

My husband and I have lunch in the hotel restaurant, then I leave him to be collected for his tour.

In my hotel room, a knock on the door announces the arrival of the masseuse.  "I am Concessão", she declares, then commands me to undress and lie on the bed, while she puts on some relaxing music.  I explain my problem.  Then she performs magic on my body.  She is very skilled.  Her kneading and pounding loosens the congestion in my chest.  She stretches and straightens me.  There is lots of percussion on the back ribs, and a lot of shoulder and back work.  At times it is a bit harrowing, to be honest.  I breathe deeply and try to ignore the pain she is inflicting.  Perhaps this discipline will help me ignore the urge to cough.

By the time she leaves, my airway is clear and I'm breathing more easily.  But I'm also physically tired - she has knocked the wind out of me.  I could happily watch TV in bed tonight instead of going out to perform.

I don't dare to lie down again - that could set off another coughing fit.  Instead, I go for a walk on the beach, splashing in the waves.

I've been applying what I've learned in singing lessons - humming, and doing exercises to focus the sound in the correct position, away from the throat.  Keep it forward - don't let it fall back. I practise taking slow, quiet breaths that bypass my ravaged throat.

Back in the room, it's time to start my serious preparations for the show.  I have a shower and wash my hair.  While I'm drying it, the phone rings.  It's Mara - she says they want to bring sound check forward, and could I be at the venue in fifteen minutes?  It's very lucky that our hotel is nearby.

Mara accompanies me there, and we laugh to see our poster sharing a doorway with the one for Marcos Valle's show tomorrow night.  Inside the bar, Enéias and Junior have already started the sound check.

I join them on stage - the same stage where our music idols have performed.  I whisper to Enéias "Tom Jobim was here."  It's exciting.  Neither of us can quite believe it.

Once the sound check is finished, I go back to the hotel to finish getting ready for the show.

Tell me I'm dreaming

While I wait for my husband to arrive from his conference in São Paolo, I rest in my hotel room.

I boil water and inhale the hot steam.  I want to clear my airway so I can sing tomorrow night.

I've been playing down my ailments, telling my friends that I'm fine.

But I'm not fine - I'm far from fine.

I've been telling myself it's just a cold.  But wow, this seems to be the mother of all colds.  

When I got sick a month ago, I thought the timing was good.  How long can a cold last?  Two weeks?  Three weeks at most?  Plenty of time for it to get better.

But it's not getting any better.  It's getting worse.  My nose is streaming and I'm coughing uncontrollably.

My neighbours in the adjoining room must already hate me, as I've been coughing noisily every night.

How can I sing if I can't control my breathing?

My airway is congested - sometimes wheezing, sometimes gurgling.  I can't clear it.  Each time I think it's clear, it tightens up again.

All the violent coughing has thrashed my throat.  What if I can't produce a note tomorrow night?

Now, on the night before my concert in Rio, I lie on the bed convulsing, retching and gagging.  My throat is dry, burning, raging, raw.  This can't be good for singing.

I crouch face-down on the pillow, sobbing, railing at the unfairness of it.

Please, someone tell me I'm dreaming?

I have survived open-heart surgery.  I've planned for this show for three years.  I've travelled half-way around the world and assembled a team here in Rio.  We are booked to perform tomorrow night at a famous venue.

In any other circumstances, if you found yourself in this condition you would cancel the show. But what are my chances of ever setting it up again?

I can't cancel.  I must somehow overcome this affliction.  

I boil the kettle again, drink the hot water, and try to quieten my breathing..

By the time my husband arrives at 10 pm, I've calmed down a bit.  We take the group to the luxurious Copacabana Palace Hotel for cocktails.  Having been there last year, we know how to reach the cocktail lounge.  In we go, as if we own the place.  Through the big foyer, left down the long corridor,  open the door to the courtyard and saunter past the massive swimming pool.  Open the glass door of the piano bar and find a group of comfortable chairs and sofas.

We relax with some caipirinhas and bar snacks and enjoy the delightful ambience and soothing music.  Then we take the lift up to the next level to see the photo gallery showing the movie stars, royalty and other famous people (including Tom Jobim) who have stayed there.  

Hearing my hacking cough, my husband says "You've got bronchitis.  That can take weeks to get better."  This is not very reassuring.  But failure is not an option.

Bottles Alley

Back at the hotel, I jump into the shower.  I'm sweaty from our sightseeing, plus the steam will help my voice; it always does.  I've been coughing all afternoon.

We pay a visit to the venue where we will perform tomorrow night - Beco das Garrafas ("Bottles Alley"').  The place is just five minutes' walk from our hotel.

When we arrive they are setting up for that night's show.  Mara (our Producer) talks with the people there, while the rest of us take a look around the room.  We gaze at all the historic photos and memorabilia, and the gigantic blackboard listing the names of all the famous musicians and singers who have performed there.  Tomorrow night it will be us on stage.

Mara tells us about the arrangements.  She confirms that our show will be at 10 pm, and says we will need to arrive at 8.30 for our sound check.

I remind her about the Marcos Valle show.  Marcos Valle is a famous Brazilian composer who is performing at this same venue the night after our show.  Mara has a conversation with the barman, then beckons me over.  The barman hand-writes the tickets for us and I hand over some cash.

We have Marcos Valle tickets!  What an unexpected bonus!

In fact, says the barman, Marcos was here just a few minutes before you arrived.  A pity you missed him.

A pity indeed.

As we depart, we peer through the window of the music shop next door.  The sign on the door says "Closed", but they see us and open up again.  We spend a pleasurable twenty minutes raiding their shelves.

Then it's time for us to rehearse again.  Back on the hotel rooftop, we run through the songs we didn't have time for this morning.  At last, we've rehearsed our whole repertoire.

I need a rest, and suggest that the others grab a snack.  My husband is arriving tonight, and when he does, we will all go out and have some cocktails together.

The Tom Jobim Pilgrimage

After our rooftop rehearsal, it's time for lunch.

We wander the nearby streets, looking for a good place to eat.

One block back from the beach, my friends find what they are looking for - a "por kilo" restaurant.  It's a buffet lunch where you weigh your plate and pay by the kilo.

The food is good and inexpensive, and we all eat a substantial meal.

Now we can do some tourism.  We've planned to make a "pilgrimage" to all the places honouring the famous Brazilian composer Antonio Carlos (Tom) Jobim, who wrote so many of the songs we will perform tomorrow night.

We all take the Metro to Arpoador and walk along the beach towards Ipanema.  We're looking for the statue of Jobim, but perhaps we've walked in the wrong direction.  We turn right along Avenida Vinicius de Moraes (named after Jobim's musical partner and lyricist).  Soon we come to the café Garota de Ipanema, where Jobim and de Moraes wrote their famous song "The Girl From Ipanema", inspired by a girl who passed by the café each day on her way to the beach.  The place is dominated by enlarged prints of the original handwritten score, and lots of other memorabilia is also on display.

It's a warm day, and we sit down in this café and have some beers.

Further up the avenue, we come to the excellent music shop Toca Vinicius, but we continue on our way, because we're looking for Tom Jobim's house.  Walking up this street last year, I didn't realise how close I was, and I was really annoyed to have missed it.

The address can be found in a 1974 song by Vinicius de Moraes, "Letter to Tom":

Rua Nascimento Silva, cento e sete
Você ensinando pra Elizete
As canções de canção de amore demais 

107 Nascimento Silva Street,
You (were) teaching Elizete
Some soppy love songs...

So that's the street we're looking for.

The song expresses a nostalgic view of the "old days" of Rio:

Lembra que tempo feliz, ai que saudade,
Ipanema era só felicidade...

Remember such a happy time, how I miss it,
Ipanema was pure happiness...

As we come to each cross-street, our sense of anticipation builds - is this it?

Finally we take a right turn and arrive at number 107.

It's a 3-storey apartment building.  Current residents and their visitors are coming and going through the gate.  We stand outside and gawk at and photograph the facade, with its commemorative plaques "Home of Antonio Carlos Jobim"; "Here he lived from 1954-1960".

For a moment I feel a bit sorry for the residents, then Enéias points out that if you chose to live in this particular building you would actually be signing up for this kind of interest from tourists.

I imagine that Tom lived on the top floor - he wrote some extra words for the song, which suggest that the view had been built out since he'd left ("you could see a bit of sky and the Redeemer")

As we walk back along the Ipanema beach towards Arpoador, the sea is turquoise and the sunshine through the salt spray creates a silver mist.  Finally, we spot the statue of Jobim, guitar balanced on his shoulder, strolling along the beachfront.

We take lots of photos of the team.

As we prepare for our show tomorrow night, Tom Jobim is with us in spirit - and in bronze.

How my heart is singing!

On Wednesday after breakfast, it's time to start our rehearsal for the show.

The hotel allows us to rehearse on the rooftop.

I'm very glad we are allowed to use this excellent facility - it's so much better than squeezing into a hotel room.  There's an open-air swimming pool and deck with a wonderful view of the beach, a bar, and an under-cover function room in case it's too windy or sunny outside.  They turn off the recorded music while we are there.

Mara and Marlí swim and sunbathe while we rehearse.

I should not have expected this final part of our journey to be easy.

Because it's hard, very hard.

I'm tired and jet lagged.  The show is tomorrow night, so we only have a day and a half to prepare.  We need to run through all the songs today.  I have a bad cold and I'm coughing, though I'm trying not to make an issue of it.  I need to preserve my voice for tomorrow night, so I can only sing quietly today.

Plus, I need to bond with our new percussionist.  Junior seems like a nice young man but I'm having a lot of trouble understanding his accent.  And perhaps he doesn't think much of my rhythmic ability, because he doesn't like the way I sing One Note Samba.  He says I'm attacking the phrases too aggressively, "in an American way".  It should have a "dance" quality, he says.  At home, Junior plays in a samba group.  He takes my hand and draws me to my feet, then makes me step, moving my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the rhythm.  In my heart I know this will help, but it's a worry to think that on the day before the show I have got it so wrong.

We work through several more songs, and come to the Aeroplane Song - "Samba do Avaião", written by Tom Jobim as his plane came in to land in Rio:

How my heart is singing,
I see Rio de Janeiro

Suddenly there is a flood of tears.  Because from where I'm sitting I can see Rio de Janeiro - a lot of it.

My longing, lonely days are ending,
Rio my love, there by the sea,
Rio my love, waiting for me.

My long wait is over.  Finally we are all here in Rio and are about to do our show.

See the cable cars 
that sway above the bay of Guanabara.
Tiny sailboats down below
Dance the samba as they go,
Shining Rio, there you lie,
City of sand and sea and sky,
Mountains of green rising so high

I'm crying while I sing, and the musicians play on.

Four minutes more,
We'll be there at the airport of Galeão,
Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro,
Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro.

Junior gives me a sympathetic look.

Statue of the saviour,
With open arms above the yellow seashore,

If I turn around I can see the statue of Christ the Redeemer, and I point to it.

Now I'm sobbing and laughing at the same time.  The musicians play on.

Sugarloaf in majesty,
Rising from the silver sea

And to our left can be seen the Sugarloaf mountain.

Dark-eyed girls (boys) who smile at me

Yes, there is one.

City of love and mysteries,
Fasten seatbelts, no smoking please.
Now we're descending and everything's rushing,
And now the wheels 
Touch the ground!

When the song ends, there is a moment of silence.  Junior rubs my shoulder compassionately.

"Better to cry now than tomorrow night", I say.

By lunchtime we have rehearsed three-quarters of the songs.

That was a good morning's work.

The team arrives

It's Tuesday in Rio.  I start the day with a one-hour walk along the beach.

Tonight my team will arrive.  Four people are coming, and they will have a lot of luggage with them - suitcases, guitar, amplifier and drums.  I arrange for a hotel car to collect them.  A driver holding a placard will be waiting for them at the airport.

Then I book myself on a bus tour to Corcovado, the imposing mountain from which the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer surveys the city.

The bus collects me from the hotel, and we pick up several more people from other hotels.  It's a bus load of Spanish-speaking people, and I'm the only English speaker.  So when the tour guide translates, she is doing so especially for me.  I can't ignore her commentary or just stare out of the window - I must pay attention and smile and nod to her appreciatively.

We pass some sports stadiums and stop at one of them.  My fellow travellers are enraptured and I am mystified.  It's a concrete building; not very attractive at all.

When they've finished taking selfies, we all get bak on the bus and the journey continues.  The guide points out several favelas - these are the famous "slums" of Rio which I've been warned not to enter.  The up-market residential hilltop suburb of Santa Teresa looks right out over one of these favelas.  It's a pretty view of pastel-patchwork and makes a nice photo, if you ignore the reality of poverty, drugs and violence for which these neighbourhoods are renowned.

We arrive at Corcovado, get out of the bus and climb into vans for the short trip to the information centre and access to the site of Christ the Redeemer.

After climbing several flights of steps, I arrive at the base of the statue.  I look up and see...nothing.  The whole statue is engulfed in mist.  I can discern that there is something up there, but its shape is a mystery.

There is no view from the mountain, and there's on point walking around in the fog and the light rain.  I go to the cafe and order a late lunch, and a coffee which turns out to be surprisingly good.

The bus drops me back at the hotel.

I'm still coughing, but inhaling hot steam infused with with Vicks menthol helps to clear my chest.  Most of the time I can breathe freely, but sometimes it "catches" me and I splutter unattractively.  Sometimes it feels as if I have swallowed a prickle.   But there are still two days to go before the show, so I'm sure I'll be fine.

Late in afternoon I go down to the beach front.  I have to right a wrong.  Last night I took a photo of an elaborate sandcastle.  I didn't know that you are supposed to pay the artist.  As I walked away I heard voices, but didn't realise they were probably swearing at me.  So now I return to the sandcastle.  I motion to its custodian to remove his earplugs.  Then in my best Portuguese I confess my sin, and place some money in the jar.  My guilt is now absolved.

In the evening my team arrives.  I'm waiting for them in the foyer when the big black car draws up at the hotel entrance.  They're here!  First I see Mara step out of the car, then the others appear.  Various items of luggage are hefted inside, and we all greet each other warmly.

My team comprises Enéias (guitarist), Marlí (his girlfriend), Mara (our Producer) and Junior (percussionist), who is the only one I'm meeting for the first time.

I suggest they all settle into their rooms and we can then have dinner in the hotel, as it's very windy outside.  Over dinner we start singing.  Enéias brings out his guitar, and Junior magically produces a pandeiro (it's like a tambourine, but with a hide surface), apparently from his pocket.  Now the hotel staff know who we are, and they are interested to know about our show.

The plan is coming together.

I'm so relieved that my team is finally here.