Royal Tour

(Note to self, must buy a pocket-sized notebook and stop writing incoherent notes on unused napkins)

Knowing that I will soon be leaving Rio, I decide to take a day trip to Petropolis, to see the former summer home of the last Emperor of Brazil. Awaking later than I had planned, after a night of no air-con and a profoundly loud snorer (even his friends got up several times to punch him), I head to the bus station in town to journey for an hour or so north.

Being the only connection to the outside-Rio world for most – South America is yet to embrace the speed of the train, and planes are very expensive – Rodoviaria Novo Rio busport is understandably a maze of ticket offices going everywhere in Brazil and beyond.

A little apprehensive at the impending state of the buses, I buy my ticket and head to buy some snacks to keep my stomach at bay. Always a confusing enterprise, Brazil seems to enjoy having multiple people do what one person could easily manage, so a simple transaction is usually turned into a protracted experience. This time though, it was the tourist tax that delayed my purchase, as the boss was quick to correct his unknowing employee who had mistakenly tried to charge me the right price. Unfortunate for him, I know how to spell Ruffles in every language, and when I had deliberately opted for the cheaper local version, I knew I was being stitched.

Heading to the bus and I am surprised to be greeted by a luxury coach that allows me to recline my seat and stretch my legs into comfy velour. I really don’t know why travellers complain about long trips here, because for me, it has always been a luxury to have someone else drive me anywhere, and the Brazilians do seem very proud claiming “executivo” travelling status.

We soon travel across the bridge to Niteroi and head north into the mountains. Beside us, rubbish-laden fetid waters lap back and forward as ibises try their best to stay as much out of the water as possible, looking particularly lithe in their brown surrounds. We zoom through the industrial area and start climbing up winding roads that make me feel a little uneasy to be passing by in such a blur. Masses of greenery soon surround us, and, as we near our destination, random German chalets peer out of their prim brown and white facades.

As we enter the town, I am blown away by the speed humps – this is definitely not Rio! - but the tourist office is closed, so I am forced to amble down to the obvious landmark in front of me, the town’s Cathedral. Inside though, it appears that I have arrived at the best time to catch changing rays of colourful light spread themselves across the empty congregation.

Reading the tourist signs ahead, I make my way up to the monument to Fatima, silly to pass on the taxi, as the paved hill seems never to end. Eventually it becomes a little therapeutic to my weary feet, massaging them with every step, until I reach my destination. Much like Christ the Redeemer, it seems Mary too is watching over Petropolis with outstretched arms. In the round chapel below, I struggle to connect the significance of the monument to its location, but am intrigued by the various posters and clippings of the children at Fatima, and the
patriotic green, yellow and blue lights that decorate the edges of the ceiling.

I make my way down the hill past Brazilian aeronautical great Santos Dumas’ quaint abode that reminds me of my sister’s doll one, and makes me wonder how locals can allow such historically significant artefacts to gradually disintegrate in the heat and humidity.

Finally it seems the tourist office is open and I pick up a map just in time to get the last hour of visiting at the Imperial (Summer) residence. The crowd there is made up of mostly local tourists, who slide alongside me on the glossy floorboards in our mandatory slippers. Almost completely maintained true to life, the house is a remarkable collection of furniture, clothing, jewellery and even the crown of Dom Pedro II – complete with 639 diamonds, 77 pearls and the balance of its 4.3lbs in solid gold – from the royal family.

A final quick stroll along the canal to the Crystal Palace, which now houses weekly music recitals, and I finally loop back past horse-drawn carts, that look as tired and out of place as I do, and head home.