Rio, a place of all extremes; hot sizzling summers days, cold afternoon thunderstorms;

Carnival bliss in glamorous, shiny costumes, amongst the homeless faces of the miserable, unsightly poverty;

crowded downtown streets, while empty and half-erected public schools remained designed to educate the less fortunate, which were many;

mansions sitting in luxury at the beachfront, Favelas made of tin and cardboard reigning over the hills;

half-naked bodies on Saturday display lying on white sandy beaches, and Sunday afternoons devoted to prayer and proper Catholic etiquette fashioned to ease the pain of its dedicated followers.

This was my childhood; amidst a family of countless uncles, aunts, cousins and a younger brother.

Whole days spent playing in the street, doing cartwheels, climbing trees to pick fresh mangoes and enjoying the delightful sweetness of sugar cane that grew wild in my backyard.

In those days, I never knew life could be anything other than watching melancholic novellas with Grandma,

spending Christmas on the beach searching relief from the 105-degree weather,

taking over-crowded buses to school, dancing samba to the beat of the batucada,

celebrating World-Cup games with my fanatic uncles and eating churrasco on sunny weekends by the side of our make-shift pool and water slides.

That was Rio, the city of my youth...