Globo

Brazil’s biggest television network is TV Globo. I used to think that the name came from some serious reference to it covering the planet, like the newspapers Le Monde or El Mundo in Europe. Now, having watched it intently for days, I think I can safely pronounce it to be more concerned with the spherical attractions exhibited by the scantily clad women models and dancers who strut in front of the camera in ways pretty effective in driving ratings up. In its own way, I guess it is a universal claim on attention.

Those sorts of globes are very much on display here off-set, too. A foray into one of the trendy bars around town left my eyes watering as exotic creatures who looked like they stepped out of Canderel ads wandered around. Following the Portuguese conversation at my table became increasingly difficult and I was reduced to sucking desperately on my caipirinha in sage assent as woman after woman glided by, their globes stuck before them as proud examples of plastic surgery or impossibly gifted genes.

A walk in the park the next day did little to return my brain to its usual mode of ice-clear thought. It seemed the entire city was out jogging along a path in a pretty good rendition of a samba line whose rhythm was dictated by the unheard tunes of hundreds of MP3 players wired up to ears that were also serving as pegs for designer shades. The jogging globes resisted gravity and jiggling and pushed firmly up against the Nike tops being worn only as to mock modesty. Thousands of pairs of them rushing at me. I felt like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, when the mysterious white beach balloon of his island prison come to get him. I felt like Austin Powers let loose in Brazil. I felt like I’m going to be taking up jogging pretty soon.