Last Saturday I organized and hosted a party in my new jungle home. Beforehand I asked permission from the landlord (“I’ll join you there”—her exact words), knocked on all the neighbors’ doors to assure them the inevitable noise would not be an every-weekend thing, convinced my DJ friend to bring the beats, strung cheap Christmas lights along the walls and picture frames, placed candled-filled jars on all the tables, netted leaves from the pool, swept the white tiles indoors and out, popped the Doritos bag, bowled the peanuts, bought enough caipirinha materials to bury a horse, then opened my doors….
By 10:oopm over 100 people were smoozing poolside.
The music was good, the drinks plentiful, and the people interesting. Though majority Brazilian, at one point I found myself speaking Spanish with a South Korean and Portuguese with a group of Germans, followed by a string of Colombians, Finnish, Israelis, Austrians, Italians, Chileans, Canadians, and even an American neighbor (who knew?) who wandered in to see why so many had mistakenly knocked on his door. This Baskin-Robbins of international flavors did not shock me in the least. Floripa, my new home, is part of the trodden backpacking circuit thanks to the nearby beaches and abundance of outdoor activities.
It was, in short, a post-worthy night in which I met many new people—these invites have a way of going viral, with friends of friends inviting their cousins’ cousins. Despite my neighbors’ unhappiness about turning their residential neighborhood into Ibiza and my landlord’s exaggeration of the whole event into the Anti-Christ’s hellish arrival, it was worth it….
To see photos of my home and the party click here.