Apartment Hunting
We booked a triple room in a cheap hotel in Copacabana and got to work scrolling listings on rental apps, saving the ones that looked promising, and requesting viewings.
Agents always used more or less the same code: If the ad said spacious, it meant the opposite; updated or fully renovated meant that the property was on the verge of collapse; mountain views really meant facing the favela.
It was incredible how many old, decrepit, and smelly, practically toxic, properties people were putting up for rent.
In four days, we visited some unimaginable dumps.
And a few decent places with unimaginable prices.
While noisy revelers filled the streets for Carnival, we languished in our hotel.
We were coming to the conclusion that finding a place in Rio near the beach was completely outside of our realm of possibility.
Shortly before we left the city, we visited the next to last apartment on our list. The real estate agent arrived at the building fifteen minutes late—I hadn’t yet discovered that fifteen minutes isn’t late for people from Rio but entirely reasonable.
His name was Heitor and he was a chubby, bald man who looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy: stiff shoulders and a straight spine, his head turning robotically from left to right.
He flashed a fake smile, apologizing for the delay, and took a dirty handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his forehead.
After the usual small talk, we took the elevator up to the seventh floor.
It was one of those old buildings with a single apartment per floor, each with four bedrooms. When we stepped inside, I had to contain my surprise.
The apartment was huge—it had plenty of space and then some, with an imposing smoked-glass-topped dining table and ten chairs.
Beautiful contemporary paintings hung on the walls, and a nice, comfortable couch and flat-screen TV sat in the living room.
Heitor mechanically opened doors, praising the built-in cabinetry and prime location.
He went on: wood floors, updated electrical system, east-facing living room, and west-facing bedrooms.
“There’s a favela near lifeguard station 1 and another near station 6, controlled by enemy gangs,” he said. “We’re at lifeguard station 3, a gray area. It’s good because neither gang operates in this area, so they don’t step on each other’s toes.”
Basically, what he was saying was that the apartment was in a neutral zone between warring parties, and that this was a bonus.
Ignoring this absurd logic, I went to check out one of the bedrooms. It was big, with columns holding up its high ceilings.
Even with the bed and nightstands, there was plenty of room to dance around.
“What do you think?” I whispered to Miguel, while my mother chatted with the agent in another room.
“I’m sure it costs a fortune,” he said, stunned.
When you’re nineteen, it’s normal to want to try to save the world, feel a little adrift, and have to count your spare coins to buy a beer—all at the same time.
This place, with its huge living room and magnificent bedrooms, wasn’t for us.
As painful as it was knowing that the real estate agent would soon trample my little sandcastle, I kept on dreaming for a bit longer.
I opened one of the living room windows looking out on the treetops, and took a deep breath.
Down below, little human ants roamed the streets, minibuses spewed carbon dioxide, and street vendors filled the sidewalks.
Soon the ventriloquist’s dummy came in acting like he didn’t want a thing, but in fact he wanted a lot.
“Where are you all from?”
“Pingo d’água,” I replied. “It’s a small town in Paraná.”
“So it would be the three of you living here?”
“Oh, no, I’m just here to lend a hand,” my mother interjected. “There are four of them, childhood friends, they’re all going to college here.”
“Four students?” Heitor asked, craning his neck. His beady little eyes glanced at me briefly before he went back to wiping his sweat-soaked forehead with his handkerchief.
“They’re really a fine bunch of young men, you can trust them. I’m this one’s mother.”
She pointed at me like someone picking out a shoe from a shop window. I hated being part of the whole kid-leaves-the-countryside-to-make-it-big-in-the-city cliché. The ventriloquist feigned kindness:
“What are you studying?”
“Business.”
“Oh, nice,” he said, his face expressionless. “And what about you?”
“Medicine,” Miguel replied, looking down at his feet.
“He came in fifth place on the entrance exam,” I made sure to add.
Miguel’s parents had always worked for my parents.
We grew up in the same house, raised as brothers.
I was used to his shyness. Miguel preferred to stay under the radar rather than brag about his merits.
In elementary school, he joined me and Piglet as one of the playground outcasts.
Now psychology has a name for what eight-year-olds do to each other: bullying.
But back then, in Pingo, he was just numbnuts, I was the queer, and our friend Leit?o got the nickname Piglet, which is the only one that stuck.
Leit?o, his last name, actually means piglet in Brazil, so he likes it. Everyone still calls him that.
“Where are the other two?” asked Heitor.
“They’re staying behind in Pingo until we get everything taken care of.”
The agent coughed. Sweating and spitting into his handkerchief, he talked about the building fees, the twenty-four-hour doorman, and the parking space.
“Do you have a car?”
“Just the one.”
Our ride was a 2006 burgundy Ford Focus, affectionately nicknamed Bukowski.
The four of us split gas money, registration fees, and maintenance expenses.
Bukowski was our pride and joy, an old gas-guzzler for sure, but he could still take us on adventures.
We all planned to drive him from Pingo to Rio next month, this time for good.
It was definitely going to be a fun trip.
After a full tour, we returned to the living room. I sat on the couch, looking around each corner of that perfect apartment. With my hands pressed nervously against my knees, I looked at the others in awkward silence. The time had come.
I casually asked, “How much is the rent?”
The agent created some suspense: He looked up the exact amount on his phone and …
Okay, I know I shouldn’t brag about luck, about wins I didn’t earn, but the price miraculously was within our budget.
He explained that the owners were in a hurry to find a tenant.
They’d been transferred for work and needed to have everything signed and sealed before they left the country.
I was on cloud nine, but I tried not to show my excitement.
I held back a smile and said: “Excellent.”
“You’ll need to put down three months’ rent for the deposit or provide a guarantor.”
“I’ll put down the deposit,” my mother quickly chimed in.
I should have refused, I know that now. Her favors always came at a price. Starting a new life in Rio with a crutch like that was bad news. But I gave in. I really wanted that apartment. I texted Piglet and Hugo, letting them know we’d found the perfect place.
In that moment, I felt lucky. There was still a long road ahead, but I’d taken the first step toward a brighter future.
I would achieve everything there was to achieve, I would be rich, successful, and independent.
Goodbye, rural, homophobic hometown! Goodbye, Mother and your snark!
In that apartment, it felt like nothing could go wrong.
Boy, was I mistaken.