Sao Paolo

We joked that this was the Last Rain, the Covenant over, a Deluge to ironise our British arrival.

Lenghty enclosure, sleep-walking through terminals, interminable navigation of the night-fall city and windows blacked out; the unreadable look of a back-seat child, surely impossible through the dark glass. The sweet-dirty smell of the biggest cities. Whole streets graf-painted consonant in their staging of imagination over the grey walls surrounding. Then a hostal under the rain.

And wake early to snores and rain. Did some computer-work, a deadline materially impossible to fulfil, with the gods of art-tenders now, and me and Leon, into the grey jungle, chasing a legendary street of photographic retailers, our gold a pan-and-tilt Manfrotto tripod head. I thought I was getting trenchfoot by the time we got back, triumphant in our conquest of streets unknown and at least a little relieved not to have got in any scrapes.

Impressions of the city: I imagined a scale lke the Amazon, what it feels like to fly into the city airport they say. But now here, you’re in a place you can imagine continues onwards to the edge of the jungle, but the ring of the horizon is the limit of vision, and ours is a little bohemian quarter, Vila Madalena. Galleries, bars, graf and boutiques. It seemed like a long ride to the next stop on the metro, and out there… it’s big, grey, extensive….

In Vila Madalena no one sleeping on the street, too listless to beg, barefoot limbs protruding from low huddles of mottled blanket, unfocussed eyes and slow chewing of air, but out there, uncountable…

And us lot, busy, excited, tekky, waiting to move out, now the rain’s stopped…

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