Red-hot Rio

THE GREATEST BACCHANAL

ON EARTH

he date is Friday, February 17, and you're at your office, wrapping up the week's work. "What are you doing this week­end?" asks the guy from IT. "Nothing much," you lie. "See you later." Then you grab your bag and head for the airport.

When you arrive in Rio de Janeiro on Saturday morning—an easy overnight flight with little time difference, so no jet lag—Carnival has begun. The world's greatest bacchanal, Carnival has taken place 46 days before Easter every year dating back centuries. It was first held by slaves who arrived from Africa with their sensual dance traditions and huge drums. Carnival marks the end of summer (in the southern hemisphere), and it also has religious origins, a celebration of plea­sure on the eve of Lent, when Brazilians abstain from just about everything. (The name comes from carne vale, "farewell to flesh.") Locals embrace tourists, of whom half a million attend each year. Although Carnival takes over the entire nation, Rio is ground zero.

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You spend Saturday with your toes in the surf. In summer the city revolves around its perfect white-sand beaches, with a beautiful skyline of mountains and rain forests in the distance. Ice-cold beer all day long. Beautiful near-naked bodies. Music everywhere. You cannot be alone. Groups of young people pull you in. When late afternoon comes, you hit the town—legendary seaside neighborhoods like Ipanema and Copacabana. Impromptu samba bands pop up everywhere, the drums booming. Samba is all in the hips. Imag­ine a shapely woman with a small but powerful V6 engine in her panties and you'll get a feel for the dancing that goes down in these streets. There are nearly a dozen Brazilian Portuguese words for ass. Now you know why.

One of the goals of Carnival is to kiss as many people as you can. If you make eye contact with a woman, she expects you to kiss her. Don't ask for her name or phone number—she won't give them to you. But her mouth is yours for a moment's respite. If you talk to a woman for 10 minutes, she'll wonder why you didn't kiss her five minutes ago. "Beija," she will say ("Kiss"). Statistically, Brazil is home to more women than men. At Carnival, they are on the hunt.

The party picks up speed all weekend. You might have a bite here or there— salty pork served in broth, collard greens, moqueca capixaba (traditional fish and tomato stew). But mostly the caipirinha—Brazil's national cocktail, a sweet mix of cachaqa (sugarcane rum), sugar and lime—keeps your tank full. You spend hours dancing lip-locked, splashing off your morning hangover in the ocean. (It's best to book a hotel in advance, if only to drop off your bag; see rio-carnival.net.)

Sambodromo is Carnival's climax. A parade of dancers and samba bands travels

through the city like a writhing snake. (You need a ticket; book ahead at rio-carnival .net.) Women dancers are garbed like wild angels erupting in flames, their faces and bodies painted, glittered, feathered. The drums beat on. The parade is an orgasmic expression of Brazilian culture—sensuality and hedonism at their absolute apotheosis, onward into the night.

When you wake on Ash Wednesday morning after a couple of minutes of sleep, you find yourself in the arms of a woman whose language you can't understand but with whom communication seems crystal clear. You go for a walk on the beach. It is entirely deserted. All you hear is the crash­ing of waves. Then you grab your bag and taxi back to the airport.

Twenty-four hours later you're back at the office, having had the five-day weekend of your life. You're exhausted, but you feel like a god. You can still hear the pounding of drums. The guy from IT swings by.

"How was your weekend?" he asks.

"Not bad," you say. "Not bad at all."