The Museums - Take Two

The next day arrives and again I devote my morning to the Art Museum. This time though, it is my Lonely Planet guide that stumps me, telling me that it is open earlier than it actually is. Having only a few hours to spare before a tour of the favelas (slums), I end up tossing the gallery in for a look at the Historical Museum uptown. And what a strange collection it is.

In the first room, I wander through the indigenous story of Brazil, awed at the beautiful headdresses and jewellery on display. Then it is through what I could only assume was the tale of city progress, (each room has a mix of translations, ranging from extremely eloquent, to barely legible, to totally non-existent) seen through the technological changes in transport – namely the horse-drawn carriages that graced the streets in the mid-1800s.

The next room holds a pretty decent display of the weapons of war that have shaped Brazil’s history, with everything from guns to uniforms, and swords to coins. History painters fill up the spaces with portraits of the various leaders, while concerto music is played in the background. A little incongruous, or perhaps an attempt to dissuade would-be thiefs from stealing the bounty and taking them to the streets?

The final two exhibitions are temporary ones: the first, a strange tribute to Oriental art and culture, featuring ornate carved furniture, jewellery, delicate fans and the painful shoes of some (hopefully) small children. The next is an interesting walk through the “Casas de Brasilero” (Houses of Brazil) seen through Julio de Mato’s black and white tinted lens. Each canvas print is a little eerie and makes each of the residences look even more like the skeletons of the past than they already are. I don’t really know what to make of it all – culturally – but am left hardly any time to contemplate this, before I have to be back at the hostel.

The Museums - Take One

Realising that the beach would still be packed today, I decided to do a museum/gallery tour around the city to kill some time. Not wanting to brave the bus again, I take the underground train into Cinelandia and walk across to the Contemporary Art Museum. As with most of Rio that was not built in the earlier years of Spanish rule, it is housed in a rough concrete shell, surrounded by the Parco do Flamengo, and overlooking the murky water.

Aiming for the entrance, I spy a lovely pair of dirty underpants on the floor, probably one that has flown away from the homeless people in the park, who are busy washing their clothes in the pond outside. Their appearance seem to sum up my experience, when I quickly realise that my day’s plan have been blown away by the Carnaval party-bus. Apparently Cariocas need an extra half-day to get them over the last four they have had off, and none of my planned stops will be open.

So instead, I walk up the main drag, along Rua Rio Branco, and stumble across an exhibition at the Municipal Chambers. Inside is an awesome street poster-art display that has taken over two rooms, sticking its bright colours and crude pastings to every wall. Trying to make the most of another fruitless situation, I also remember a café my local friend said I should visit, so make my way past the numerous buildings under repair. I assume that most of this is taking place in preparation for Rio’s upcoming Olympic bid, a crazy idea I think, for a place where lawlessness is very much the vogue, and where I am starting to think that the word “standards” has no translation.

Thankfully Confeiteria Colombo is open, so I struggle past the many Brazilian and international tourists to look at the goods on offer. Somewhat of an institution in Rio, it is a quirky Art Noveau-style café that has been running since 1894. A wide selection of sweet and savoury treats are displayed downstairs behind two glass serveries, with a more formal restaurant hovering above. And although not one to eat much cake and the like, I decide that I really can’t go past the Viradinho de Amerixa. A crude cross between a cannoli and croissant, it arrives with a dainty set of cutlery that does not go unused. I eagerly slice through its cream and jam, watching as waiters in checked black and white hover over the circular marble-topped tables, quick to clear and keep the constant flow in motion. It is a welcomed relief to just sit for a while and watch the crowd surrounding me pick up speed, while my body slows down to digest the cream.