letters from barabbas

Tour day while in Rio was interesting for me.
I felt better about being such a grouch all day once I remembered how much I hated touring. I don't know why, exactly, but there's something that always depresses me about focusing on the places that are set aside specifically to focus on. The view from Christ Redeemer was breathtaking all the same, so the nausea of the train ride up the mountain backwards was quickly dispelled by the brisk smoggy breeze. I took some shots of the city from above, trying to see it the way Jesus must. He Himself looked very intimidating, 28 meters tall and more glowering peevishly at the tourists at his feet than gazing lovingly upon the city. I don't suppose it's easy to make a detailed face in a giant soapstone sculpture, but I'd expected more. This looked an awful lot like the cheap plastic idols they were selling for a hundred reais in the gift shop underneath his giant sandals.

All week long as we had seen it from across the bay and debated whether we would have time to go up the mountain, I was filled with excitement at the prospect: it would be such a spiritual experience! But I felt more emotion at Mt. Rushmore, for God's sake. Why? I blame myself. I could have sought the Light a bit more earnestly. I could have put away the camera and prayed.
But.
I just hated moving with the group all day. The white, monoglot group flanked by two patient Brazilian brothers, Celio and Tony. I wanted to melt away into the streets, talk to the girl selling the earrings instead of the girl trying them on, experience the city from the inside out. Tour stops are like living room furniture, which exists solely to satisfy the curiosity of those who wish to--but never will--be welcome in the kitchen.

This is why I feel compelled to live abroad. Not to "travel" but to emigrate. To implant myself into another society. To understand not just its monuments but its symbols, to learn not just its language but its mythology. To not just perform a service, but to serve. To not just show love but to love.
This can't be done in one month, or even in one year. It'll take time, and probably a couple of miracles. But it's my heart's desire.
For this year, anyhow.