Reveillon! on Copacabana Beach

It’s Réveillon! The world’s largest and wildest New Year’s celebration on Rio’s Copacabana Beach. Over 2 million congregates amass the 2 ½ mile stretch every year, wearing stark-white attire, paying homage to Yemanjá the Afro-Brazilian goddess of the sea, motherhood, and fertility. But be cautioned: never wear black, an evil omen in Brazilian lore.

The heavily accessorized landscape’s reds (symbolizing romance), greens (for good health), yellow, and gold (for prosperity), dazzle and flare inside the sparkling backdrop of neutral lights in varying degrees of kelvin brightness.

Powdery sand between my toes, soft and squishy. A forceful vacuum of pushing and shoving—the revelers sucked me unwittingly into the crowd—although, admittedly, I gave little resistance.

Surrounded by tanned, fit hardbodies, gyrating strippers without a pole, dancing the Samba, and singing along in Portuguese. In a sort of, lurking in still water, stealthy crocodile stare, the girl of my dream’s deep piercing eyes bore into mine like lasers. Straight away under her spell and, at her mercy, I could only hope the intoxicating beauty didn’t have fangs and needed a life source for her blood fix.

Mind searching for the right words and determined to think quickly, I eased over, held out my arm, and smiled. Surprisingly, she smiled back and took my hand. The music blared. Trying to talk was useless—so, I took cues from those around me—cutting loose with my first-time Samba.

My newfound fantasy centerfold laughed hysterically. The louder she guffawed, the harder I whooped it up, acting silly and pretending to have fun, my clumsy Samba routine resembling a cross between a Victorian-era Polka and a 1960s Watusi. Any chance of my polished charm rendering her entranced or spellbound had plopped like pigeon poop. 

The song ended. Leaving me dependent on my not-so-articulate words of expressiveness. Desperate to atone for my awkward and embarrassing dance performance, I pulled her against me to steal the only kiss I might ever get. Oh, so full, moist, and receptive: the taste of lips so sweet. Delightfully gratified—when, more passionately than a nymphet on fire—she kissed back. And it wasn’t even midnight. I anticipated flying away, the bevy of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Goosebumps on my goosebumps. And for me, “Lust at first sight.”

New Year’s, and the first day of the rest of my life with my new, unnamed queen. Bumfuzzled at what to do next—I kissed her again, and again—like a comedian telling his only joke. But when he gets a laugh—he repeatedly spouts the same line—until they boo him off the stage. I waited for the bliss to end.

The longer we made out, the more responsive she had become. I wasn’t sure about her, but the sparks within me had burst into a blistering bonfire. Her rhythmic and accentuated convolutions gave me hope. Every wiggle and thrust of her body conjured erotic illusions inside my brain—graphic and intense—ritualistic aspects of voodoo magic.

Slow and sexy—the music’s mood changed—nearly naked bodies huddled together. String-bikini-clad dancers grooved and swayed. Onlookers’ white garments flittered in the tropical breezes. The delicious aroma of roasting pigs ignited a voracious hunger, my luscious dessert held steadfast against me. Everyone smiled. High fives and hugs were exchanged between friends and even strangers. And I had to wonder, why our world can’t live in peace, accept the things we can’t change, and agree to disagree more than once a year.

The short-lived, soulful, and soothing love songs ramped up to heavy Latin/African beats, volume cranked, driving the party-hungry crowd back into a near frenzied Samba.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked. Her broken English was barely understandable.

“I’m Boonie . . . Boonie Brooks.” I lied, borrowing the name from an old friend who had passed away. I’d learned the hard-way lessons, twice, getting robbed. Never give a real name, tell where you’re staying, give times of coming and goings, and never wear expensive clothes or jewelry, not even a watch. “What’s your name?”

“Gabby.” She speaks her two-syllable name more clearly. “Well . . . it’s Gabriella." The four syllables sounded garbled. "But I’d never heard my real name growing up.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. Her Duchenne smile could have tamed a ferocious beast faster and more effectively than the Pavlov theory.

She had me swooning, longing for any chance to stay near. Disgusting as it might sound—I’d have licked her sweaty palm—for starters. Everything worth doing has to begin somewhere. And anything worth having in life requires extra effort.   

The sporadic drizzle intensified; before long, I’d become inundated by the cloudburst. Celebrants running like gazelles. Well, a few did, anyway. Some waddled like crippled ducks. And others more resembled sturdy-legged, web-footed turtles swimming in the mud.

The deluge cascaded in angled sheets. People slipped, slid, and fell in all directions. Then, when the downpour eased, I coughed to clear my lungs, caught a breath, and turned to look for Gabby.

She was nowhere to be seen. For seconds, I froze in panic. Then, I hollered many times, louder than a shepherd calling his sheep. “Gabby . . .” I swallowed, inhaled ample oxygen, and shrieked, “Gabby!” Throat sore, voice hoarse and weak, I bellowed for the umpteenth time, “Gabby!”

Four hours later. Midnight had come and gone. I had sat in the, no longer soft, sand until my back and bottom ached. But there was no sign of Gabby . . .. So, I remained in that spot for three full days and nights, wishing upon the sun and stars for her return. But she didn’t.

I extended my two-week hotel stay and walked the pavements around the clock. I asked every street worker, store owner, tourist, and shopper for miles if anyone knew Gabby. Soon, without a last name, phone number, address, or even a hint of where else to look, I gave up and flew home to the States.

Trudging through what would make a sluggish and tormenting eternity, another season elapsed. A year ago, to this day. I hadn’t seen Gabby since we met, except in my dreams and circadian thoughts. And tomorrow begins another New Year.

But here I am once more—on Rio’s, Copacabana Beach, crowded with 2 million merrymakers—yearning for faith and fate to reunite us.