“Bob Dylan, in a hat, on the streets of Copa
Looking for Bob Dylan in the afternoon in Rio is equivalent to looking for Eldorado in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon. How to find this kind of rock Greta Garbo among cyclists and broken runners, Sargentellian mulattos, French and German tourists with faces so red that they look like the brazier of the Porcão steakhouse? Dylan never wanted to be found, why would he make it easy now? Still, due to professional contingency, there was nothing else to do but to search for him quixotically for the wonderful Sunday afternoon. The strategy was the most obvious: a tour of Rio’s most starry hotels.
At Fasano, at 1 pm, there was nothing left but to enter and pretend to be natural in the restaurant, and ask for what the money got there: a scallop carpaccio and a glass of Chilean cabernet sauvignon. A tip: rejecting the cover charge is never a good pass to camouflage your cap, frayed jeans and brand new sneakers. Everyone will be surprised.
But all this only served to wrap up a little over an hour and a half, and there were no signs of the Dylan entourage there, just an expensive smell of refinement and exclusivity.
From Fasano de Ipanema to the Copacabana Palace it was a leap. But the pool and buffet packed with Jorginho Guinle look-alikes didn’t seem like a good refuge for Minnesota’s elusive bard. A few more minutes wrapping around the statue of Ibrahim Sued, with his famous phrase: “Ademã, that I go ahead!”, And the futility of the undertaking began to become more painful.
Okay, Ibrahim, you won! The stomach growls, time to give a hat to the obligations and go to the Italian canteen that has been a classic since 1976, trying to forget the frustration of yet another useless little hunt for rock myths – famous balls by Mick Jagger and Bono are in the account of this pilgrimage. As we left, a message came on the phone from a birthday friend: “Good Dylan to you!”
Cap face. Just before 4 pm, departure on the left, already stocked with a meal that cost half the cost of Fasano, heading towards Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana, for the final taxi before the show. At least in the show he will show his face, and the fans are so that tonight he promotes again a meeting with his mutant music that inaugurated a new perspective for contemporary art. “That guy in the hat and jacket over there looks like Dylan,” she says, dismayedly. Just what I lacked, a double at this hour, I thought. But then the guy turned to the avenue and the blood ran cold.
“The machine! The machine! The machine! It’s him! It’s him!” The seconds seemed like hours, the avenue seemed wider, and Dylan looked this way and that without deciding, standing in front of the newsstand on Rua Inhangá. “No direction home”, as always. If you go the other way, it will be bad to run after him, I thought. But then he came to our side, calmly, as if he were part of the landscape, without causing any curiosity for the old people and Copacabana’s pet dogs. Walking resolutely, with his hands in his pockets. He grimaced when he saw the camera, but he didn’t stop, he kept walking towards the lens, and he passed us quickly.
“Hey, Dylan!” He was already disappearing on the street when he turned and replied with a grunt: “You are a f … paparazzi!” No, no, no, I swore, wanting to believe my own words. “What’s the photo for?” He asked. “For Facebook, for ourselves,” I lied. I found myself lying to Bob Dylan, my soul was getting tormented, he was the first idol and will be the last. “Why?”, He still asked. “Because you are one of the important artists of the 20th century,” I replied.
And he smiled. Only then did he relax. He asked the girl to come over so I could take a picture of him with her. The hands were shaking, the focus disappeared, the street disappeared. He smiled when she asked if she was having fun in Rio. “I love it!” I didn’t know how to keep him there anymore. “Are you hungry?” Dylan stroked his belly with his hands, making the classic gesture of full stomach. “Not even.” I pointed out: “It is that there in the back street there is an Italian canteen of those classics, you know those that seem frequented by the mafia? Really good.” He was interested: “Over there?” Yes, I did. “Okay,” he said, smiling again, and changed direction to the back street. We decided to leave him alone (but I bet he saw us jumping and hugging in the middle of the street like crazy).
Thirty-four degrees in the shade, and Dylan in a coat, wool hat and cowboy boots. We think he would disguise himself better if he left his white trunks and iPod headphones in his ears. In the taxi, my hands were still sweating, my heart was broken, and I looked at Rio and smiled like a child. I didn’t believe in my own senses. Would publishing all of that betray old Dylan’s trust? I think it was only for profit, and it is not the case.
Upon leaving us at the hotel, the taxi driver, who just listened to the euphoria, asked: “Who did you focus on?” Upon hearing the answer
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