Beco do Batman.

One day I woke up in scorching hot weather in Villa Madalena, São Paulo. There was a loud knocking sound on my door. I rubbed my eyes with my palms and tilted my head sideways and glanced at my phone, given the notifications it had had a restless sleep throughout the humid night on the brown nightstand. The sweat from my forehead was pouring down my face to the edge of my nose. I lifted my shirt up and mopped at it before I made any effort to get out of bed. The knocking hadn't stopped."Hang on, Woody the Woodpecker!" I yelled and made my way to the door. I turned the doorknob and pulled the white wooden porta open. It was Joan, my colleague from the hostel, whom I had met in the south of France a few years back. His bony fist kept rocking backward and forwards in the thick dank air. "Amigo, you got work today! You late!" I stared at him vacantly. "Nah!.. Man!" I paused and rubbed the side of my face," No trabalho today... Day off! Sarah from England trabalho today." Joan was dazed and confused. He turned his body away from me and made his way across the corridor that led to the female staff room. I closed the door very gently with the tips of my four fingers as if the world were in slow motion.

The Villa Madalena neighborhood is often called "Beco do Batman"; a laid-back area with indie fashion stores and trendy bistros that fill the atmosphere with funk and samba music. The vibrant street art is plastered on every wall, nook, and crannies in this open-air art gallery. A place for an artist to express their deep creative mind without running afoul of the law. On my days off from long hours at the hostel desk, I would amble through the neighborhood at a slow, leisurely pace and discover a new form of craft that had been painted on the walls. I would admire the colors and the abstract shapes as I strolled past to get my Cafe da Manha and feed myself with a highly addictive cheese bread - Pao de Queijo. I waved my hand at the familiar faces and I'd hear them call out"Olá gringo". I was in love with this place. I was in love with São Paulo. I was in love with my Latin American life. Everything was just so simple, despise the hot muggy weather.

O de Casa Bar was almost empty when I walked in; it usually was at eleven o'clock. The bare chairs stared at each other across the tables and you could hear the rhythm of the fans circling from the ceiling. Clara was slightly bent over with her elbows behind the bar when I walked in with half a smile as I lifted my sunglasses from the hinge and placed them on top of my head. She was tuning her nails and slid the file rapidly in a syncing pattern."Olá maravilhoso!" I said with enthusiasm. From the first day Clara served me Cafe da Manha, we agreed to help each other learn our native tongues. "Hello, Aussie! " She stopped filing and fixed her eyes on me, "Would like a Cafe?" she asked, hoping she had pronounced every word correctly. "Sim, por favor. Eu me sentarei la" I said with confidence as I pointed to a nearby table. Clara was a beautiful twenty-seven-year-old with dark hair and a tanned body who took great care of her manicure and would spend most of her time working day and night. She left school at the age of sixteen to help her family after her father had passed away from a motorbike accident. She once told me that Brazilian culture believes that the closer they are to people, the better it is. I fantasized that I would marry her one day, but her husband had beaten me to it. The coffee was not the greatest. I solely went there just to see her and exchange languages for an hour to two, especially at that time of day when hardly anybody needed to be waited on.

The were many avenues to walk back to the hostel and for some odd reason, I decided to take the long route back and pass through the Praça Maria Noeli Carly Lacerda park which I had never done after my visits from Clara's. I strolled along the man-made path as the hangover weakened. There were two young boys leaning their backs against a tall tree. I did not like the looks of them or their body language. They were speaking to each other, but not in the way the Brazilians project their words openly. As soon as I passed them, one of them called out behind me. It was obvious that they were trying to get my attention. I sped up my pace with a horrible feeling that turned my stomach upside down. They caught up and blocked my passage. One of them raised his hands and pushed me back. I tried to go around them but it was no use. The two of them aggressively demanded money, "De-me tudo!" I shouted back at them and said I had nothing to give. Their eyes widened after I said "No grana". I knew the slang term for cash and pushed one of the kids aside and he tripped and fell to the ground. He got back up onto his feet and pulled the back of my shirt hard, which made me slip. When I hit the ground, they started to reach into my pockets. I had never kept my money in one place: in my shoes, in my socks, in my boxers, and loose change in my pockets.

I fought them off but nothing had worked. They were strong and wouldn't give up. They had me pinned to the ground. The smallest kid dug into my pants and in every pocket, as the taller one kicked the side of my face and my ribs. I started to fear for my life and covered my face until I heard a group of men calling down the hill. I heard a mixture of different voices and they pushed the two boys off me. When I opened my heavy swollen eyes, I saw a face I knew, it was Clara's husband with two other people who had helped me up onto my feet. Blood was dripping from my nose and my mouth was full of it. My head was throbbing and everything had become a blur. The two groups screamed at each other for several minutes and the kids turned away from us and did not even bother to run. These crimes are common in the Terra da Garoa...