I knew coming here was a stupid idea. It’s what my gut has been telling me the whole time. I feel the gaping hole besideme where Sonia would be, solving our map problem in the jab of a finger, more now than I have in months. But it’s not our problem. It’s mine, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out.
‘Oi, tudo bem?’
I jump a little at the sound of a distinct voice. Portuguese, of which I know about two words. I ignore it at first, until I hear it behind me again.
‘Um, are you good?’
This time, it’s English, a distinct American accent permeating each word. I turn to its source: some guy who looks rather amused by my map.
‘Do you speak—’
‘English,’ I finish. ‘And I’m fine.’
‘Hmm.’ He shoves his hands in the pockets of his black football shorts. ‘Your fake map says otherwise.’
‘My what?’ I glance down at my map. ‘This is perfectly real.’
‘No, look,yourIpanema is, like, on a big-ass hill. Ipanema’s that way.’ He points in the general direction of the beach. ‘It’sflat.’
His cocoa eyes crinkle as I take in this information. This man is holding back laughter right now.
‘Are you sure?’ I reply, sceptically.
He looks slightly surprised at this. He tilts his head, making just a few strands of the blond-tinged curls from the top of his undercut of dark hair fall out of place. ‘You really …’
‘I really … what?’
‘Nothing.’ It’s like he’s trying not to burst out laughing as he peers at my map. ‘But actually. Find a new map.’
My eyebrows slowly climb up my forehead. ‘I’m sorry, why should I trust that advice?’
‘Dude. I’m a Rio native,’ he says, miffed. ‘Pretty sure I know what I’m talking about.’
You sound American, I’d love to mention, but I keep my mouth shut and instead focus my energy on finding another map. Unfortunately, the search engine stalls and gives me that same error.No Connection.
‘Listen,’ I sigh. The guy has got on my last nerve, but I admit it, I need help. ‘Could you just point me to, um Vila Atlântica?’
‘Oh … for real?’ He grins, this time with no sarcasm or snark. ‘You’re a ten-minute walk from here.’
My mouth nearly falls open. Seriously? A ten-minute walk? That’sit?
‘Every “ten-minute walk” I’ve tried so far hasn’t turned out that way,’ I say in a fairly horrible attempt to justify my lack of direction.
‘Okay. I’m being a dick. Rio is a hard city to navigate, I don’t blame you,’ he admits rather sheepishly, scratching the side of his neck. I catch a glimpse of angel wings tattooed there. It looks like that’s not the only one; I catch sight of more ink on his forearms, lines forming detailed drawings across his dark tan skin. ‘Do you want me to walk you?’
I’m not sure what my expression betrays, but he adds, ‘It’s not far. I could just show you how to get there, if you want.’
So I either get hopelessly lost in the streets of Rio de Janeiro (again), trying to follow this guy’s instructions, or I go on a walk with said guy and hope I make it to my lodgings alive.
Thisis why I was never the travel-savvy sister.
I sigh. Here we go. ‘Could you possibly walk me, Mister …’
From the crowd of dancers and drinkers behind us, someone suddenly yelps. My eyes travel back to where a quickly growing clump of people have begun to gesture towards my new guide, murmuring in rapid Portuguese. One or two bring out their phones.
‘Uh. André,’ he manages after a beat, gaze flickering to the makeshift paparazzi for just a moment. The lights around uscast shadows on his face, highlighting his strong nose, well-defined jaw and muscular neck. His eyebrows knit together and create a small furrow in his forehead.
‘Are you on the national football team or something?’ I joke. At least, it’s intended to be a joke. André, who’s already starting to walk off, doesn’t seem amused. He waves an arm with urgency.
