#city+morumbi

[gritocontido]

[trastornadosrevista]

SHAKIRA ANUNCIA SU GRAN REGRESO A ARGENTINA CON “LAS MUJERES YA NO LLORAN WORLD TOUR"

SHAKIRA confirma su esperada gira con la que se presentará en México, Brasil, Argentina, Chile, Perú y Colombia. Con este tour debutará en nuevos escenarios y regresará a nuestro país después de 6 años.

La superestrella internacional Shakira anunció hoy una extensa gira por Latinoamérica que la traerá nuevamente a Argentina el próximo 7 de marzo en Campo Argentino de Polo con producción de Fenix Entertainment, marcando su tan esperado regreso al país y prometiendo una experiencia que trasciende a la música.  “Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran World Tour” visitará Argentina, Chile, Brasil, México y países como Perú que no fueron parte del tour anterior.  Con esta gira debutará en nuevos escenarios y regresa a ciudades por las que hacía tiempo no pasaba, incluyendo su Barranquilla natal donde se presentará después de 19 años.

La Preventa Santander Select Visa para su esperado concierto en Argentina estará disponible en entradauno.com a partir del miércoles 9 de octubre a las 10am por 48 horas o hasta agotar stock.  Una vez agotada la Preventa Santander Select Visa, comenzará la Preventa Santander Visa por 48 horas o hasta agotar stock. Finalizadas las preventas, comenzará la venta general con todos los medios de pago disponibles. 

“Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran World Tour” es un homenaje a la popular música de Shakira, con una mirada hacia el futuro. Inspirada en su álbum “Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran”, esta gira promueve un mensaje de empoderamiento y fortaleza, que Shakira busca transmitir a varias generaciones de fans, quienes nunca la han visto en vivo o a esos que llevan varios años esperando su regreso.  

Con una nueva producción diseñada con la más alta tecnología, sus mayores éxitos, canciones nuevas y varias sorpresas, el concierto aspira a ser una experiencia inolvidable, tanto visual como musicalmente. En este regreso a los escenarios de Latinoamérica, Shakira busca crear un espacio donde sus fans puedan compartir y celebrar con ella el poder del renacimiento personal tal como un diamante, que se forma bajo presión y emerge más fuerte y brillante tras las adversidades.

La semana pasada, Shakira lanzó su más reciente single “Soltera”,  un contagioso himno femenino de afrobeats.  Escúchala aquí.

La canción ya había generado expectativa en línea tras la filmación del video en LIV Miami, con la participación de Winnie Harlow, Anitta, Danna y Lele Pons. El videoclip será lanzado próximamente.

El nuevo single llega tras las 3 nominaciones de Shakira a los Latin GRAMMY: Álbum del Año por “Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran”, Canción del Año por “Entre Paréntesis” y Mejor Interpretación de Música Electrónica Latina por “Bzrp Music Sessions, Vol. 53 (Tiësto Remix).”

FECHAS DE LA GIRA

11-Feb BRAZIL Rio de Janeiro Estadio Nilton Santos

13-Feb BRAZIL São Paulo Estadio Morumbi

16-Feb PERÚ Lima Estadio Nacional

21-Feb COLOMBIA Barranquilla Estadio Metropolitano

23-Feb COLOMBIA Medellín Estadio Atanasio Girardot

26-Feb COLOMBIA Bogotá Estadio El Campín

2-Mar CHILE Santiago Estadio Nacional

7-Mar ARGENTINA Buenos Aires Campo Argentino de Polo

12-Mar MÉXICO Monterrey Estadio BBVA

16-Mar MÉXICO Guadalajara Estadio Akron

19-Mar MÉXICO Mexico City Estadio GNP Seguros

[mark-firestone]

Mark Thomas Firestone aka David Bond aka David Campbell aka Steven Mapel

This guy currently resides in Cebu, City. He is making money by creating videos on Only Fans involving local girls. It's worth to know that Only Fans is banned in this country. He is using geoblocking so people who try to access his accounts from the Philippines won't be able to see them.

Last year he got in trouble in Brazil. Here's a translated Brazil news article which explains in detail about his ''ways of doing things''.

Two foreign coaches and a Brazilian were charged after allegedly promoting a hook-up course in São Paulo, inviting women—some under the age of 18—to put their students to use the techniques in February 2023.

The decision by the Federal Court, accepting a request from the Public Prosecutor's Office after an indictment by the São Paulo Civil Police, was published last week.

The defendants, who deny wrongdoing, must answer for two crimes: enticement and sexual exploitation of minors and inducement to prostitution. The expected sentence is three to six years.

In the petition, the Prosecutor's Office, represented by Michel François Drizul Havrenne, stated that the suspects obtained "significant financial gains from the sexual exploitation of Brazilian women, in a practice known as sex tourism."

The only Brazilian involved in the incident, Fabrício Marcelo Silva de Castro Junior, also had his passport seized to prevent him from leaving the country during the trial.

The 4th Federal Criminal Court of São Paulo, where the warrant was issued, justified the action because Castro Junior is accused of working with foreigners who could help him leave the country and keep him as a fugitive.

The other two defendants are Chinese citizen Ziqiang Ke, known as Mike PickupAlpha, and American Mark Thomas Firestone, identified as David Bond.

They coordinated the Millionaire Social Circle group, which offered courses to men with supposed techniques for seducing women. The organization used to promote hookup tourism, targeting underdeveloped countries.

In February, the duo visited the capital of São Paulo and held a party so that students could put the content of the classes into practice. Women present at the event told the police that they were unaware of the existence of the course and were filmed and photographed without warning.

The event took place in a mansion in Morumbi, an upscale neighbourhood in the south of São Paulo. The rental of the property was brokered by Castro Junior, according to the investigation.

Before coming to Brazil, the group's tutors made some videos to explain the reasons that led them to choose the capital of São Paulo as their first destination in 2023. The word used by the Americans to describe the country was "exotic". According to them, there are "exotic women" and "an exotic juxtaposition between rich and poor" here.

The Civil Police opened an investigation into the party and, in July of last year, indicted the three people involved, referring the proceedings to the Public Prosecutor's Office.

The group changed its name and deleted videos

As the investigations progressed in Brazil, Millionaire Social Circle stopped producing videos and publishing them on its YouTube profile; the last one was aired 10 months ago.

The content recorded about and in São Paulo was also deleted.

The report, however, found a new page, called Self Investment Socialites, which began operating exactly 10 months ago on several platforms, mainly on TikTok. At first, it published content about flirting, but it did not show the creator of the videos.

Later, live recordings began to be made, and the faces of those responsible appeared: Mike PickupAlpha and David Bond.

Today, the only profile that the group has updated regularly is the TikTok profile. Bond, however, does not appear in the latest videos, only PickupAlpha. Self-Investment Socialites also has a website that promises to "network with successful men" and "experience with dating while travelling around the world".

The link also contains videos about the tours they have already done, including one in São Paulo. They show parties, explain how they operated and expose women being approached by them on the streets of the city.

THE OTHER SIDE

In a note sent this Saturday (28), the defense of Brazilian Fabrício Marcelo Silva de Castro Junior, through lawyer Nairo Pandolfi, says that they understand that the precautionary measure of seizing their client's passport "is totally disproportionate to the present moment, especially given the fact that the accused contributed at all times during the investigation".

Pandolfi also states that "all applicable legal measures are being taken to remove the restriction as quickly as possible, and Mr Fabrício Castro is at the disposal of the authorities for clarifications".

The foreigners responsible for the Millionaire Social Circle party at the time denied, in a single contact with Folha after the police investigation began, that the party had any connection with the course and stated that they were in São Paulo to hold a "dating conference".

"We want people to know what we do. Everything is public", they stated.

After the case became public on social media, PickupAlpha and Bond recorded a live broadcast in which they stated that they were victims of the cancel culture in Brazil and were falsely accused of sex tourism and human trafficking and of promoting prostitution.

“These feminists are so stupid,” Mike says, adding that the women who came forward are “not doing anything with their lives” and “are not busy people.” “None of them are in medical school.” At another point, he claims that one of the women who attended the party and recorded a video about the event is an “ugly, fat girl.” “The attractive women stood up for us. In the videos from the party, everyone is smiling.”

Source: https://www1.folha.uol.com.br/cotidiano/2024/09/coaches-viram-reus-por-curso-de-pegacao-em-sao-paulo.shtml/

[soikeoclubnet]

Soi kèo nhận định Sao Paulo vs Ceara, 05h00 ngày 29/05/

Soi kèo nhận định Sao Paulo vs Ceara, 05h00 ngày 29/05/

Trận cầu tại sân vận động Morumbi tới đây tại vòng 8 Serie A Brazil sẽ là cuộc đụng độ giữa Sao Paulo vs Ceara. Dù đang có phong độ cực cao trên sân nhà nhưng Sao Paulo lại thường không có được những kết quả quá tốt khi đối đầu với đối thủ Ceara.

Soi kèo Sao Paulo vs Ceara

Soi kèo nhận định Minnesota United vs New York City, 07h00 ngày 29/05/2022

Soi kèo, nhận định Inter Miami vs Portland Timbers, 07h00 ngày 29/05/2022

Soi kèo, nhận định New York RB vs DC United, 06h00 ngày 29/05/2022

Sao Paulo hiện đang đứng tại vị trí thứ 3 trên bảng xếp hạng giải quốc nội. Thành tích của đội bóng này là 3 trận thắng, 2 trận hòa và 1 trận thua. Số bàn thắng ghi được là 11 pha lập công còn số bàn thua mà họ phải nhận là 7 lần phải vào lưới nhặt bóng.

5 trận gần nhất trên sân nhà của mình, Sao Paulo thắng toàn bộ cả 5 trận. Lần ra sân mới nhất của họ tại sân nhà là trận thắng 3-0 trước Jorge Wilstermann. 

Ceara đứng tại vị trí thứ 18 trên bảng xếp hạng giải quốc nội. Thành tích của đội bóng này là 1 trận thắng, 1 trận hòa và 3 trận thua. Số bàn thắng ghi được là 6 lần làm rung lưới đối thủ còn số bàn thua là đang dừng lại ở con số 9 bàn.

5 trận gần nhất trên sân khách của mình, Ceara có được 4 trận thắng và 1 trận thua. Lần ra sân mới nhất của họ trên sân khách là trận thua 0-1 trước Atletico Paranaense.

Soi kèo Sao Paulo vs Ceara

Bên phía Sao Paulo cầu thủ đang có số pha lập công nhiều nhất là Jonathan Calleri với 6 bàn thắng. Trong khi đó bên phía Ceara cầu thủ đang có số pha lập công nhiều nhất là Stiven Mendoza với 2 bàn thắng. 

8 trận đã gặp nhau gần nhất, Sao Paulo đã chiến thắng 2 lần còn Ceara có 0 lần dành chiến thắng. Có tới 6 lần trận đấu giữa hai đội kết thúc với tỷ số hòa. Lần gần nhất cả hai đụng độ, cũng là một kết quả hòa với tỷ số 1-1.

Trong trận đấu tới cả Sao Paulo và Ceara đều sẽ ra sân với đội hình mạnh nhất của mình. Sao Paulo s��� dụng sơ đồ 4-1-4-1 trong khi đó Ceara sử dụng sơ đồ 4-2-3-1.

Mùa giải năm nay, Sao Paulo kiểm soát bóng trung bình là 56%, có 12.0 cú sút mỗi trận và có được 1.8 bàn thắng. Trong khi đó Ceara kiểm soát bóng trung bình là 52%, có 12.4 cú sút mỗi trận và có được 1.2 bàn thắng.

Nhận định kèo châu Á Sao Paulo vs Ceara: Ceara +1.25

Trên sân nhà của mình Sao Paulo đá 3 trận thắng cả 3. Trong khi đó Ceara trên sân khách đá 3 trận chỉ có được 1 trận hòa và 2 trận thua.

Tuy vậy thành tích đối đầu giữa hai đội trong cả 5 trận gần nhất đều mang lại kết quả hòa, nên với việc được chấp điểm, Ceara vẫn là một lựa chọn tốt hơn.

Lựa chọn Ceara trận này.

Soi kèo tài xỉu Sao Paulo vs Ceara: Chọn xỉu 2.75

Sao Paulo trong 3 trận gần nhất trên sân nhà chỉ có được 6 bàn thắng, trong khi đó Ceara trong 3 trận gần nhất đá trên sân khách có được cho mình 4 bàn thắng.

Nhưng cả 5 trận gặp nhau gần nhất giữa hai đội đều mang về kèo xỉu, nên đây là kèo được chúng tôi đánh giá cao hơn.

Lựa chọn xỉu bàn thắng trận này.

Dự đoán tỷ số: Sao Paulo 1 – 1 Ceara

Nhận định Sao Paulo vs Ceara

3/3 trận đã qua của Sao Paulo trong hiệp 1 có ít nhất một bàn thắng được ghi.

2/3 trận đã qua của Ceara trong hiệp 1 không có bàn thắng nào được ghi.

3/3 trận gần nhất của hai đội có ít nhất một bàn thắng được ghi.

Hai đội được hưởng trung bình 6-7 quả góc/trận.

Hai đội phải nhận trung bình 3-4 thẻ vàng/trận.

Đội hình xuất phát dự kiến hai đội:

Sao Paulo: Jandrei, Léo, Arboleda, Welington, Rafinha, Maia, Gomes, Patrick, Alisson, Calleri, Luciano.

Ceara: Joao Ricardo, Igor, Messias, Otávio, Pacheco, Fabinho, Sobral, Mendoza, Vina, Lima, Jael.

Nguồn: https://soikeoclub.net/soi-keo-nhan-dinh-sao-paulo-vs-ceara-05h00-ngay-29-05-2022/

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

The Brazilian startup connecting dense favelas to the vast world of e-commerce

Nestled in a 10-square-kilometer area in the southwest zone of São Paulo, the favela (slum) Paraisópolis is home to more than 100,000 Brazilians. 

Exemplifying the stark contrasts that permeate Brazil’s largest metropolis, the community is located within the Morumbi neighborhood, one of the wealthiest and most developed in the city. But while Morumbi residents have access to paved streets, lighting, sanitation and other government services, those living in Paraisópolis have lacked the most basic of infrastructure and its labyrinth of unplanned streets and corridors makes navigating the favela extremely difficult for anyone who doesn’t live there.

As a consequence, Paraisópolis residents have been largely left out of Brazil’s e-commerce boom over the past six years. Data from the Brazilian Association of Electronic Commerce (ABComm) reveal that the sector’s revenue between 2017 and 2022 grew 181% in the country, rising from R$60 billion (USD $11 billion) in 2017 to R$169 billion (USD $32 billion), in 2022.

According to the association, the segments that presented the best results were: food and beverages, driven by the World Cup games; perfumery, pet shops and electronics.

For 2023, the sector expects to continue growing with projections that indicate revenues of R$ 185.7 billion (USD $35 billion).

One young Paraisópolis inhabitant, Giva Pereira, recognized the problem, and did something about it. 

“I grew up seeing problems, helping to solve problems, encouraging other people to solve problems too. Here is my world, a world of opportunities where I help people, where people have helped me a lot too,” said Pereira, who moved to Paraisópolis 10 years ago from the countryside with his mother.

At just 22 years old, Pereira is the CEO of the logistics intelligence startup Favela Brasil Xpress, which today delivers online purchases to eight favelas in Brazil, including Paraisópolis. 

Continue reading.

[tapecariaincanto]

Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade

Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade

A decisão de trocar o tecido e espuma do sofá depende de vários fatores, como a condição atual do sofá, o custo da troca em comparação com a compra de um novo sofá, e a preferência pessoal. Nós oferecemos Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade.

Se o sofá estiver em boas condições estruturais e apenas o tecido e a espuma estiverem desgastados, trocá-los pode ser uma opção viável. Isso pode dar ao sofá uma nova aparência e prolongar sua vida útil, sem ter que investir em um sofá completamente novo.

No entanto, o custo da troca do tecido e espuma pode variar bastante, dependendo do tamanho do sofá, do tipo de tecido escolhido e do trabalho envolvido na troca. É importante considerar se o custo da troca é justificável em relação ao custo de um novo sofá.

Além disso, a preferência pessoal também deve ser levada em consideração. Se você está cansado da aparência do sofá antigo e está procurando por uma mudança significativa, a troca do tecido e espuma pode não ser suficiente. Nesse caso, a compra de um novo sofá pode ser a melhor opção.

Em resumo, a decisão de trocar o tecido e espuma do sofá depende da condição atual do sofá, do custo da troca em comparação com a compra de um novo sofá e da preferência pessoal. É importante avaliar todos esses fatores antes de tomar uma decisão.

Veja o resultado de uma Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade :

FOTO ENVIADO PELO CLIENTE “ANTES DA REFORMA”

  FOTO TIRADA NA TAPEÇARIA INCANTO “DEPOIS DA REFORMA”

  Veja um vídeo sobre Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade

Video: {Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade|Restauração de Sofá Vila Andrade} in {city}

Se você está se referindo a uma reforma em uma residência, o sofá é um dos móveis que pode ser afetado pelas mudanças. Durante uma reforma, é comum que sejam feitas alterações na disposição dos móveis, pintura das paredes, substituição de revestimentos e outros ajustes estruturais.

Nesse contexto, o sofá pode ser retirado do ambiente para permitir que as mudanças sejam realizadas com mais facilidade. Dependendo do tipo de reforma que está sendo feita, o sofá pode ser protegido com uma capa plástica ou removido para outro cômodo da casa até que as alterações sejam concluídas. Ou até mesmo ser enviado para uma Tapeçaria com o objetivo de fazer uma renovação ou troca de tecido, espuma, madeira e consertos gerais necessários.

Além disso, é possível que a reforma inclua a substituição do sofá por um novo, seja por questões estéticas ou de funcionalidade. Nesse caso, é importante avaliar as dimensões do espaço e a disposição dos outros móveis para escolher um sofá que se adeque às necessidades do ambiente.

Em resumo, durante uma reforma, o sofá pode ser removido, protegido, ou enviado para uma Tapeçaria para permitir as mudanças no ambiente, ou pode ser substituído por um novo, dependendo das necessidades do projeto de reforma.

Como contratar uma empresa de reforma de sofá na Vila Andrade / Morumbi?

Pesquise na internet por empresas de reforma de móveis ou de estofados na região de Vila Andrade. Você pode usar mecanismos de busca, como Google ou Bing, para encontrar empresas próximas.

Verifique as avaliações e comentários de clientes anteriores para avaliar a qualidade do serviço oferecido por essas empresas.

Entre em contato com as empresas selecionadas para obter mais informações sobre os serviços oferecidos, preços e prazos de entrega.

Visite as lojas físicas das empresas selecionadas para ver amostras de tecidos e outros materiais disponíveis.

Compare as opções disponíveis e escolha a empresa que oferece o melhor serviço e preço para você.

Lembre-se de sempre verificar a reputação e confiabilidade das empresas antes de fechar negócio. Boa sorte na sua busca pela reforma do seu sofá em Vila Andrade!

Veja nossa reputação em algumas redes sociais

Google Maps: https://goo.gl/maps/sUHwi44m9unUZno16

Reclame Aqui: Tapeçaria Incanto – Reclame Aqui

Saiba mais sobre o bairro Vila Andrade

A Vila Andrade é um bairro localizado na Zona Sul da cidade de São Paulo, no Brasil. Abaixo estão algumas informações relevantes sobre o bairro:

Demografia: De acordo com dados do Censo 2010, a população da Vila Andrade é de cerca de 71.000 habitantes.

Localização: A Vila Andrade está situada entre os bairros do Morumbi, do Jardim Sul e do Panamby.

Infraestrutura: O bairro possui uma boa infraestrutura, com várias opções de transporte público, incluindo a estação Giovanni Gronchi do metrô, que faz parte da linha 5-lilás. Além disso, há diversos comércios, como supermercados, padarias, farmácias, restaurantes e lojas.

Lazer: O bairro conta com diversas opções de lazer, como o Parque Burle Marx, que é um parque público com trilhas para caminhada, lagos e áreas de piquenique. Há também o Shopping Jardim Sul, que oferece diversas opções de compras, cinemas e restaurantes.

Educação: A Vila Andrade possui boas opções de escolas particulares, como o Colégio Porto Seguro e o Colégio Pentágono, além de escolas públicas.

Segurança: O bairro é considerado seguro, mas como em qualquer região urbana, é importante estar atento à segurança pessoal e tomar as precauções necessárias para evitar roubos e furtos.

Acesse nosso instagram https://www.instagram.com/tapecariaincanto

  O post Reforma de Sofá Vila Andrade apareceu primeiro em Tapeçaria Incanto .

[marcelomassao]

Dia a dia. * * Day by day. * * #nofilter #shotoniphone #amazing #bestpic #br #brasil #brazil #story #apple #sp #sampa #saopaulo #011 #marcelomassao #portrait #portraitmode #work #city #cidade #morumbi #selfie #photography #sunglasses #oakley #nike #tng #busstop #bus #taboaodaserra #cars (em São Paulo, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3x2UekAo_5/?igshid=13g5xwp0n4ze5

[natromanxoff]

Photos of Queen’s passage through São Paulo in 1981 - Private Collection / Part 1

IMPORTANT!! These pictures and explanations are from a Brasil fan club blog which I’ll write on source. There are so many photos so it will be in two long parts. I used some translators for the sentences below pictures and I hope there isn’t huge mistakes. Also although it says that private collection, we obviously know that some of them are by Alessio Rizzitelli so I tried to research for some pictures’ original photographers. But unfortunately and sadly I couldn’t find. I assume they are from fans and if you know any of it, plaease tell meI’d really love to give credit.

Freddie and Roger leaving Hilton Hotel.

Brian signing autographs at Hilton Hotel.

Stage

John arriving at Hilton Hotel.

Roger arriving at Morumbi for soundcheck

The crew’s sticker

Freddie arriving for interview on Radio Cidade (City) - 18.03.1981                         ~ The writer says that she/he was on the stairs next to the girl who took this photo and thanks Marta for the photo ~

Freddie arriving at Radio Cidade (City)

Photo of Freddie on Radio Cidade (City) - 19.03.1981                                           

Freddie’s soundcheck

Queen’s soundcheck

Bassist John Deacon honoured São Paulo with the team t-shirt that has the name of city.

Queen’s press conference at Maksoud Hotel in 1981.                                            Photo’s from Paula/SP                                                                                            

Queen at Morumbi - 18.03.1981

Freddie at Morumbi - 1981

Brian May - February 1981

Queen at Sheraton Hotel in Rio de Janeiro - 1981

PART - 2

[corporatehotels-blog]

Booking a luxurious hotel in Sao Paulo enhances your business experience

It is the business center of the Mercosur economy. Recognized as a business tourism city, it attracts the largest and most prestigious international events of today, be it in the field of economic, cultural, science, or sports. It stages over 200 activities a day, offering over 250,000 square meters of space in pavilions and areas of congresses and fairs.

With rankings among the top 20 destinations for events in the world, Sao Paulo has overtaken cities such as Madrid, Sydney, Athens, and Vancouver. Sao Paulo boasts about 430,000 square meters to accommodate any event, adding space for these numbers in nightclubs, cultural and commercial areas, bars, and other options.

Sao Paulo is the capital of Brazil, which can be counted among the major tourist destinations of the South American continent. Many people prefer this hotspot compared to Colombia or other destinations around the world due to the extra security and best place to stay in Sao Paulo.

Sao Paulo's public transport will easily take you to all the attractions of the city. The network is fully integrated, and you can use single tickets to pay for buses, minibuses, subways, and trains. For a single fare, four bus trips can be made in a three-hour cycle, or you can use the metro and train for two hours. Tickets can be purchased from newsstands or the ticket booths of Metro and SPTrans.

Ibirapuera Park is one of the best places in Sao Paulo and the city's largest recreational destination. The park hosts many activities, attracting thousands of tourists, such as exhibitions, fairs, and performances. There are playgrounds for kids, a skate park, a jogging track, and three interconnected lakes.

Avenida Paulista (Paulista Avenue) is the main avenue of Sao Paulo and can attract tourists for days. The streets have the best hotels in Sao Paulo, Brazil,  the best place to stay in Sao Paulo, 5-star, top hotels in Sao Paulo, cultural spaces, shopping centers, parks, and many bars and restaurants.

4-star hotel in Sao Paulo

Aparthotel Adagio Sao Paulo Moema hotel

With a stay in Aparthotel Adagio Sao Paulo Moema hotel, you will arrive within 5 minutes drive of Ibirapuera Park and shopping Ibirapuera. This aparthotel is located 3.7 km (2.3 mi) from City Hall and 4.3 km (2.7 mi) from Professor Aristoteles Orsini Planetarium.

Amenities: Enjoy leisure amenities, including an outdoor swimming pool and fitness center. Additional amenities at this aparthotel include free wireless internet access, a reception room, and a vending machine.

Business, Other Amenities: A 24-hour business center, dry cleaning/laundry facilities, and 24-hour front desk are provided. A roundtrip shuttle to the airport is free (on request).

Top hotels in Sao Paulo under budget

1.           Novotel Morumbi hotel

2.           Mercure Sao Paulo Pinheiros hotel

3.           Holiday Inn Parque Anhembi hotel

4.           Mercure Sao Paulo Vila Olimpia hotel

5.           Mercure Sao Paulo Bela Vista hotel

[cleitonalexandresposts-blog]

Kaká visita o CT da Barra Funda, reencontra Pato e acompanha jogo-treino do São Paulo Ídolo reencontrou Alexandre Pato, ex-companheiro de Milan e do Tricolor de 2014 O ex-jogador Kaká visitou o CT da Barra Funda nesta terça-feira e acompanhou o empate do São Paulo no jogo-treino contra o E.C. São Bernardo. O Tricolor se prepara para encarar o Palmeiras, no próximo sábado, às 19h, no Morumbi, pela décima rodada do Brasileirão. Kaká aproveitou para rever os funcionários do clube e reencontrar o ex-companheiro de São Paulo e Milan, o atacante Alexandre Pato. Eles atuaram juntos no time italiano de 2007 a 2009 e no clube do Morumbi em 2014. Kaká foi revelado pelo São Paulo em 2001 como uma das maiores promessas do clube. A expectativa se concretizou, e dois anos depois o meia foi transferido para o Milan. Em 2007, o jogador ganhou o prêmio de melhor do mundo pela Fifa. Após atuar no clube italiano, Kaká ainda teve passagens por Real Madrid, fez uma segunda passagem em 2014 no São Paulo e encerrou a carreira no Orlando City, dos EUA. Curiosamente, nos outros jogos-treino do Tricolor durante a parada para a Copa América, França e Maicon, ex-jogadores do São Paulo, visitaram o clube. O atacante esteve na vitória por 4 a 2 sobre o São Bento, em Cotia. Já o zagueiro viu a vitória por 3 a 1 contra o Cuiabá, no Morumbi. (em Ieq Sítio Conceição) https://www.instagram.com/p/BztsRfKnTlN/?igshid=xpf0kv3on739

[f1]

Lewis Hamilton is on a mission at Brazilian GP after memorable week

Lewis Hamilton is now an honorary citizen of Brazil and has a mural painted on a Sao Paulo school... now the Brit focuses on Sunday's race in hero Ayrton Senna's backyard after a memorable week in a country he loves Lewis Hamilton has had a memorable week in Brazil ahead of Sunday's race He was made an honorary citizen and a mural was painted on a Sao Paulo school  The Brit won his first title in Brazil and enjoyed one of his best wins last season Hamilton and Mercedes hope to pip Ferrari to second in the constructors' title  By Jonathan McEvoy for the Daily Mail Published: 17:30 EST, 11 November 2022 | Updated: 17:30 EST, 11 November 2022 Lewis Hamilton's image stares down at him from a mural painted on a Sao Paulo school wall. It is newly created and, in a sense, stands for all this sprawling city has meant to him down the years. It is here that his hero Ayrton Senna was born and is buried. It was in a suite at the Hilton hotel, in the same Morumbi district as Senna’s graveyard, that he excused himself as he chucked up in the bathroom after drowning his sorrows at missing out on a dream world title in the final race of his debut season. Lewis Hamilton is a popular figure in the country and held up their national flag after his superb drive to win last year's Brazilian Grand Prix after overtaking title rival Max Verstappen The seven-time champion earlier this week was made an honorary citizen of Brazil It was on the undulating Interlagos track a year later, in 2008, that he overtook Timo Glock in the rain to clinch his first of seven championships on the last lap. He was not the hometown hero then. Felipe Massa was, and hisses assailed Hamilton on the grid that afternoon. A mural painted of Lewis Hamilton on the side of a Sao Paulo school But only this week the Briton was made an honorary citizen of Brazil, bestowed in Brasilia’s Chamber of Deputies. He declared that he now felt part of the national family, dedicating the award to Senna, of course. ‘I saw Ayrton race for the first time when I was five years old and that was the moment I knew I wanted to be a world champion, just like him,’ said Hamilton. An eighth world title has long been beyond Hamilton this season. But he is setting his sights on Mercedes overhauling Ferrari for second place in the constructors’ standings.  Mercedes trail the Italians 487 points to 447 with Saturday's sprint, for which Hamilton starts eighth, in Sunday's grand prix and the closing round in Abu Dhabi next week remaining. Hamilton wants to swap places with Ferrari to help his colleagues tackle the cost of living crisis. Prize money is apportioned based on where teams finish in the table and the difference between second and third places is believed to be about £10million. Hamilton idolised Brazilian legend and three-time champion Ayrton Senna growing up Hamilton will start in eighth for Saturday's sprint which decides the order for Sunday's race Hamilton has set the goal of Mercedes beating Ferrari to second in the constructors' title ‘I know how important it is for everyone at the factory, especially at a time when energy prices have gone through the roof and living costs in the UK have sky-rocketed,’ said Hamilton. ‘It would be amazing to finish second after how deep we have dug to catch up.’ Kevin Magnussen took a surprise pole position for Haas for Saturday's sprint, his first in 140 attempts. The Dane benefited from George Russell, who starts third, skidding off with eight minutes of Q3 left. The action was suspended under a red flag and rain fell. When the session resumed, it was too wet for anyone to improve on their times. ‘I have never felt like this before in my life,’ said Magnussen, 30. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Sprint race Saturday 7.30pm. Grand prix Sunday 6pm. Both LIVE on Sky Sports. Advertisement Share or comment on this article: Lewis Hamilton is on a mission at Brazilian GP after memorable week via Formula One | Mail Online https://www.dailymail.co.uk?ns_mchannel=rss&ns_campaign=1490&ito=1490

[spdicaskids]

⚠️Últimos dias de Julho ⚠️ E com ele vai as férias, algumas atrações terminam este mês, então vamos ver aqui o que podemos curtir com os baixinhos : @oficialfamilianoparque 🎡Parque de Infláveis 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Parque Vila Lobos @oficialfamilianoparque 🎡Parque de Infláveis 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Parque Vila Lobos @museucatavento 🎡Oficinas de Férias 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Museu Catavento @centralplazashop 🎡Show Patati e Patatá (Evento Gratuito) 🗓Dia 30 de Julho 📍Central Plaza Shopping @zoosaopaulo @post2b 🎡 Zoo Noturno 🗓Até 30 de Julho 📍Zoológico de SP @plazasulshopping 🎡Circuito: DPA Mistério e Magia (Evento Gratuito) 🗓Até dia 31 de Julho 📍 Plaza Sul Shopping @morumbishopping @combocomunicacao 🎡Circuito: LEGO CITY (Evento Gratuito) 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍 Morumbi Shopping @grandplazashopping 🎡Oficinas de Férias (Evento Gratuito) 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Grand Plaza Shopping @analiafranco @combocomunicacao 🎡Circuito: Arte embaixo d’água 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Shopping Analia Franco @stock_car @autodromointerlagos 🎡Stock Car 🗓Dia 30 e 31 de Julho 📍Autódromo de Interlagos @arenatatuapeshows @3palavrinhas 🎡Espetáculo 3 Palavrinhas 🗓Dia 30 de Julho 📍Arena Tatuapé @parkshoppingsaocaetano @combocomunicacao 🎡Circuito: Os monstros vivem aqui 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Park Shopping São Caetano @shoppingpenha 🎡Circuito: Luccas Neto 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Shopping Penha @shoppingeldorado 🎡Circuito: Pac-Man 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Shopping Eldorado @sescbomretiro 🎡Oficinas (Evento Gratuita) 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍SESC Bom Retiro @sescavpaulista 🎡Oficinas e Espetáculos (Evento Gratuito) 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍 SESC Paulista @complexotatuape 🎡Circuito: Mundo dos Blocos 🗓Até 31 de Julho 📍Shopping Metro Tatuapé @shopping_d 🎡Circuito: LOL SURPRISE 🗓Até 30 de Julho 📍Shopping D ✅Todos os eventos estão em nosso FEED Acompanhe nossos Stories e Destaques para mais novidades !!! 📋Salve ♥️Curta 📲Compartilhe e 💬Comente https://www.instagram.com/p/CgeP53wOCAg/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xxii

welp, it’s almost done. the epilogue is probably gonna be tomorrow before the finale. in the meantime, yes, after what i did to you last chapter, here i am. back again.

part xxi/AO3

July 21, 2014

There is no one word in the English language that is really sufficient to describe the scale of São Paulo, Brazil. Huge has a decent stab, but still doesn’t get there. When the eggheads who study urban planning and population density and civil engineering use terms like “macrometropolis” and “megapolis” to describe it, you start to realize the shortcomings. It’s not actually the biggest city in the world; it’s something like eighth or ninth, including the metropolitan area, but right now, it might be. It is a sea of endless buildings between distant blue mountains, known for its notoriously changeable weather, a city to which “diverse” likewise does no justice, a melting pot and a global powerhouse. It’s winter in the Southern Hemisphere, so it’s not very hot. In fact, the temperature struggled to get above fourteen degrees Celsius today, and a fine Atlantic drizzle is dampening the pavement outside, bleared in the endless lights. It’s ten o’clock at night in a down-at-heel bar in Vila Andrade, not far from the poor Paraisópolis favela on one side and the wealthy district of Morumbi on the other, and Garcia Flynn intends to keep drinking as long as they’re going to serve him.

Ogroman, he thinks. Maybe ogroman does as a word for this place. It’s Croatian, means “vast, tremendous, oversized, immense.” It also sounds a bit like “ogre,” in English. Ogre-man, which he isn’t altogether sure he isn’t, become something monstrous and deformed and barely human that cannot venture into the sun without turning to stone. São Paulo’s sheer magnitude is his refuge: nobody can find him here, or at least he’s fairly sure they can’t. A needle in thirty million haystacks, a completely anonymous blip on nobody’s radar. His Portuguese is rudimentary, but he knows enough to order drinks, and for now, that has to do.

The bartender passes him a glass, Flynn grunts in thanks, and puts a crumpled five-real note on the counter, as this isn’t usually the sort of place where you run a tab. He’s not even sure what he ordered, but he also isn’t going to be terribly particular, as long as it does its job. He has been in São Paulo for three days, and his wife and daughter have been dead for two weeks. No, not dead. That sounds sedate, easy, like the “passed away” bullshit that people use to make it sound peaceful and palatable. No. Murdered. Murdered in the middle of the night by a full hit squad, the muffled thump of silencers and bullets flying in the dark. He barely got out of there alive himself. He honestly wishes he hadn’t.

Flynn lifts the glass to his lips and throws down a burning gulp of whatever local poison is within. It doesn’t taste good so much as it’s a promise that eventually, with enough repeated applications, he might be numb for a little while. He has his gun back at the room if it gets too much tonight. That’s the comfort. Make it through one more day if you can think of any reason to, and kill yourself if you can’t. When the only thing burned into his brain is the image of Iris in her little flowered pajamas with a bullet hole in her head, Lorena half-fallen over her where she was trying to shield her, that’s the place he goes.

Rittenhouse. Flynn takes another drink. When he took the fairly routine corporate finance job for his old buddies at the NSA, he didn’t see anything unusual about it. Broke the encryption and discovered something about a company named Rittenhouse funneling huge off-the-books sums of money to tech billionaire Connor Mason, through multiple offshore accounts in the Caymans. Intended, of all the things, to fund a time travel project. Flynn figured they were just crazy, but not his business. He flagged the transfers to his contact, who said they’d take care of it. Flynn thought nothing more of it. Went on with his life.

Four nights later, Lorena thought she heard Iris cough. Got up to check on her.

That was when, in under ten minutes, Garcia Flynn’s entire world was destroyed.

He has no solid proof. He has nothing. In fact, when he tried to call the police, call fucking someone, as if there’s any ordinary authority that has any jurisdiction over this, he discovered that he was the prime suspect in the murder. Everyone knows the husband probably snapped and gunned down his family one night, that’s how it usually goes. The killers – Flynn knows in his gut, he knows somehow that it was these Rittenhouse people – have framed him for the crime and they want him dead or alive, and his only choice was to go off the grid and on the run. He still has a few tricks up his sleeve, so he got out of Dubrovnik and went to South America because it seemed the farthest away. He wants revenge, it’s the only reason he hasn’t stuck his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but he has no idea how to start to go about getting it. They appeared from the shadows and destroyed everything and vanished again. How do you fight smoke? How do you even catch it?

(Nothing, the darkness chants at him. Nothing. You have nothing. You are nothing. You should just go back to the room and get it over with.)

Later, Flynn thinks. Later. It wouldn’t be the first dead body they’ve had to carry out of that place, he’s sure, though if he’s going to make a mess, he should truck up into the hills and keep it to himself. They might not find his corpse for weeks or months, and there is something morbidly alluring about the idea of dying under the stars, staring up at them until he sees Lorena smiling at him, and it’s just a bad dream, and all the world falls away and it is all gone, it is all gone. But he can’t do that just yet without at least trying to take the bastards down with him. He has to think of something.

Right now, however, Flynn has thought all day and still come up with a big fat blank, and he’s not drinking because he wants to keep doing it. He yearns and aches and pleads for oblivion, for a sweet soft coma, and he doesn’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world for it. He has a little money, and he can get more if he puts his mind to it, but unless he’s going to bounce from place to place like a billiard ball, he needs to get himself together and decide what he’s going to do. Or he could just find somewhere high and jump. Christ the Redeemer is in Rio de Janeiro, but Flynn could head up there and really make a splash. Rub it in Christ’s face for not being any sort of redeemer. Tourists gawking at his broken body, probably a few headlines. Rittenhouse would definitely know he was dead, then. Might frame it and put it on their wall. In that case, no. He can’t give them that satisfaction.

He finishes the first drink and pushes the glass back for a second one, which is duly supplied. The door opens and closes, letting in wafts of cool, damp night air, as patrons come and go. There is a group of young men with gel-slicked hair, leather jackets and flashy necklaces, who might well know where to get the stronger sort of anti-depressant, but Flynn doesn’t feel up to it right now. A few women with too much makeup, short vinyl skirts, and platform heels circulate through the drinkers; he suspects they’re hookers drumming up business. There’s a futebol match on the TV in the corner, which Flynn stares at for the simple need to look at something besides his own reflection in the dirty bar mirror. His wife and daughter are dead. He’s not the only man who this has ever happened to, but it feels like he is. His wife and daughter are dead. His future is gone. His entire world has been erased.

One of the hookers comes up next to him, trailing her fingers over his arm, and Flynn brusquely sends her packing. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want company or solace. He wants a miracle, and he knows he isn’t going to get one; the world is, as well proven, not that gracious and not that forgiving. Another drink, or call it curtains and go back to the room? He’s not sure he can resist the pistol tonight. If he’ll survive, he has to walk.

When the second drink is down to the dregs, Flynn cursorily pushes it back and asks for something else, just to change it up. The bartender looks askance at him; even in a place like this, it’s obvious when someone is intending to drink until they end up on the floor, and he probably doesn’t want to have to drag someone of Flynn’s size out by his heels. But Flynn puts another bill, of a larger denomination, on the counter, and the bartender hesitates, then pours him a third. Flynn isn’t drunk, since it takes a considerable amount, but he can feel the floating edges of not-total-sobriety. Good. That’s the point. He takes a sip, then another.

The liquid in the glass has dipped to about halfway when the door opens again. He doesn’t bother looking around, since it’s not going to be anyone he’s interested in. All he wonders is if it’s stopped raining, because if it has, he might think about leaving (how permanently is still up for debate). It might be stupid to care whether or not he gets wet, but he has to cling to whatever excuse he has by his fingernails, because otherwise he will –

“Hello, Garcia.”

Flynn almost has a heart attack. He jostles the glass of whiskey with his elbow, splashes it on the scarred wood, and whirls around. He doesn’t have his gun on him, if only because the temptation to use it might overtake him, but he doesn’t need it to kill someone. How – how – after all his precautions, his certainty that the megacity would hide him, after leaving no trace, has Rittenhouse found him? He’s had just enough to drink that the urgent command from his brain to snap into Terminator mode gets lost before being fully received by his body. Half-stumbles as he knocks the stool, prepares to fight whatever operative this is in the middle of some slovenly dive bar in –

And at that, he freezes.

The woman facing him could very well be Rittenhouse, and he’s certainly not ruling out the possibility that she is, but she has both hands up, clearly aware that she has startled him and that, given his current mental state, it might not have been the best idea. She holds his eyes as he stares at her in a confused, bleary, furious haze, waiting to be sure that he isn’t going to lunge at her. Then she says gently, “I’m sorry. How about you sit back down?”

Flynn tries to answer, but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth for more reasons than just the percentage of alcohol in his bloodstream. She’s about his age – forty, give or take a few years – and she’s beautiful. Petite and trim, with shiny dark hair that shows just an elegant touch of silver at the temples, and a few lines around her soft brown eyes. She’s stylishly dressed in skinny jeans, a long coat, silk blouse, and scarf, and she’s spoken to him in English, with an American accent, rather than in Portuguese or any of the numerous other languages spoken in São Paulo. Some faint, attractive floral scent lingers around her, as if inviting him to lean in and take a breath. He’s not going to, of course, but the desire has briefly passed through his brain. She can’t be a hooker too, can she? No. CIA, or something in that department. Intelligence agent of some stripe.

“How do you know my name?” It’s not the most scintillating question in the world, but it begs asking anyway. He sinks heavily back onto the barstool. “Look, if you’re here to kill me, Jesus Christ, just get it over with.”

“I’m not here to kill you.” She looks at him. . . tenderly? Almost like she knows him. “I’m sorry for surprising you. My name’s Lucy. Lucy Preston.”

She holds out her hand, and before Flynn has any idea what he’s doing, he shakes it. It’s small, like her, but her grip is strong, and since it’s the first time he has touched anyone in any capacity for two weeks, it’s a shock, a reminder that there is still a physical, concrete world beyond the tortured hellscape of his thoughts. He almost wants to hold on, but this total stranger (is she a stranger?) has not come here to be his emotional crutch. He withdraws and clenches his fist on his thigh, trying to stop it trembling. Finally he says roughly, “If you’re not here to kill me, what the fuck do you want?”

“It’s complicated.”  Lucy looks at the remnants of his drink. “You might want another.”

Flynn grunts. “I’ve had a few already.”

“I suppose you have.” She tilts her head, studying him with that strange, soft look that both unnerves and intrigues him. “Do you want to talk here?”

“Where else?”

“All right.” She signals the bartender and orders a drink of her own in serviceable Portuguese, though it sounds like she’s practiced the phrase. Flynn keeps watching her carefully, waiting for any hint what her game is. When she’s gotten her glass and taken a sip, she says, “This is going to sound insane, and hopefully you’ll hear me out before you make a decision. There really isn’t an easy way to start, so. . . well. I know who you are, I know what happened to your family, and I know that you’d do anything for revenge on Rittenhouse. I’m here to tell you that there’s a chance.”

That, despite himself, snaps Flynn’s spine straight like a whip. Some of the fuddled torpor burns off, almost that fast, and he stares at her narrowly. “How do you know about – ”

“Again.” Lucy raises a hand. “Let me finish?”

He bites his tongue, though his head has turned into such a cyclone that he has to force himself to pay attention. He looks at her expectantly, as she reaches into her jacket pocket and removes a slim black leather book, monogrammed with the initials LP in the lower right corner. “This is my journal. I want you to read it.”

“You. . . want me to read your journal?” Flynn blinks. Anger is starting to replace confusion. “You come here promising revenge on Rittenhouse – when I still don’t know how you even know that name – and instead you give me your fucking diary? What, am I supposed to read about your high school crushes and – ”

“This isn’t an ordinary diary.” Lucy’s tone remains level, though there’s a certain aggravation that suggests, heartbroken and spiraling as she knows he is, he’s still frustrating her with his inability to follow simple instructions. Viz., keeping his fucking mouth shut for thirty seconds and letting her talk. “As I said, this was going to sound insane. That journal is going to help you take down Rittenhouse. And – well, we’ll start with that.”

“And how the hell is it going to do that?”

“Because – ” Lucy takes a deep breath. “Because I came here from the future.”

That, as might be expected, hits Flynn between the eyes like a bowling ball. He stares at her, waiting for her to proffer some, any other explanation, half-wanting to shout at her for thinking it would be funny to come here and pick the heartbroken, suicidal widower and bereaved father for her fucking YouTube prank show. He looks around for her cameraman. If this is supposed to go viral, he’ll kill them first. Finally he says, “I beg your pardon?”

“I came here from the future.” Lucy’s lips press together. “That’s how I know your name and about your family and about Rittenhouse. We’ve already met. We’re – we know each other.”

There are implications in that pause that make it clear she could have said any number of other things. Flynn can’t quite get air into his lungs, so he reaches for his drink and polishes it off in a long, burning slug. Then he shoves it across the counter. “Outro agora.”

The barman pauses, glances at Lucy (Flynn’s almost relieved for the confirmation that he can still see her, since he briefly started to wonder if this might be a total nervous breakdown), then figures that since Flynn has paid him enough for several drinks, it’s his department if he wants to get shitfaced in front of the lovely senhora. Once the glass is returned in an acceptable state of replenishment, Flynn takes another gulp. The tipsiness is starting to be less pleasant, a grating buzz like a nail between his eyes, and is on the verge of proceeding to full-on drunk. There’s something to be said for just quaffing it all and passing out, but Lucy hands him a glass of water, and he finds himself taking it. Finally he says, “You know there’s no way I actually believe you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Lucy hasn’t broken character, if this is an act, or summoned some hipster with a man-bun to appear from behind a video camera. “Honestly, I don’t blame you.”

Flynn debates what to say. He could be much crueler, he could lash out, he could tell her to take her ill-conceived practical joke and shove it up her ass, but something – he has no idea what – is making him hesitate. Maybe it’s just a testament to his desperation, that any lead, no matter how ludicrous, might be the difference between life and death tonight. She knows about Rittenhouse. She knows his name. Even if not from goddamn time travel, she learned those somewhere. And the way she has been looking at him, with tenderness and sympathy and care. . . perhaps he’s just too small and weak and shattered to stand up, but he can’t quite bear to remove himself from it, not yet. Even if it’s all a lie or a trick. Maybe especially if it is. Reality is too much and he could do with a few comforting illusions.

After a moment, he pushes his drink aside and takes another sip of the water instead. “The future,” he says, with something between sarcasm and curiosity. “When?”

“I can’t tell you that exactly. We’ll say the relatively near future.”

“Convenient.” Flynn toasts her sardonically. “No firm dates.”

“Time travel is very confusing.” It seems as if this is probably the understatement of the millennium, but Lucy says it simply and almost apologetically, as if she really would tell him if she could. “I don’t know what I would risk changing if I told you too much, and things have happened in a certain way that. . .” She trails off. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Flynn considers that. He isn’t sure he wants to ask for what, or if she would tell him. “So you’re going to appear, tell me that time travel is real, hand me some magic diary, and think that this will take down Rittenhouse? You can’t know what they are, if you think that’s going to work. You can’t possibly – ”

“Can’t I?” Lucy’s eyes flash. For the first time, she looks downright formidable, a mature and beautiful and slightly terrible queen – no Snow White evil stepmother, but no gentle, naïve princess frolicking with the songbirds either. She stands half up, staring at him. “I can’t know what Rittenhouse is? Do you think, do you remotely think, that I would have done this, that I would have risked everything to come here and find you, if I didn’t know exactly who they are? They killed Lorena and Iris, and before that, they – never mind. But they’ve taken more from you than you even know. I’m here because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stop them. Is that you too, or not?”

Despite himself, Flynn is jolted. He recognizes the anger in her voice, because it’s the same rage that has been burning unceasingly through him, turning him to ash and soot and char, stripping away and tearing up everything he used to be, any soft place there ever was. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, even as Lucy takes a considerable slug of her own drink. He almost feels as if he should apologize, though she’s the one who turned up here spouting deluded fairytales. There’s a fraught silence, until he says, “All right.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer. She wipes her mouth and leans on the counter, still too beautiful and put-together and glamorous for a shithole like this, composed and mesmerizing even in her anger. She controls it well, has taken it out and then put it back in its box, but it’s clear that it rubs raw nonetheless. She takes another deep breath, then says, “I’m sorry. I realize the burden of proof rests with me here. I brought the journal this time, I wrote everything down – well, as much as I could. It was actually your idea. Sort of.”

“What?” Flynn is thrown by that. “How can it have been my idea?”

“It. . .” Lucy debates something with herself, then shakes her head. “There are. . . there are other ways things happened before,” she says at last, unhelpfully. “We’re working on retrieving some of those, but it – anyway, it’s complicated. The best way I can describe it is the garden of forking paths. You walk in, and you see all the choices that you could have made, all the realities you could have existed in, branching off to every side. You can only walk one course through the maze, and that becomes your life. But there are echoes of what used to be, what might have been, or what was taken away. They’re still there somehow, on some quantum level, with some leftover trace that can be found in the time stream. Glimpsed, perhaps, if not recaptured. You and I, in one of those, we were – ” For the first time, her voice cracks. “There’s a reason I’m here for you.”

Flynn is even more thrown, understandably, even as Lucy turns her face away as if she didn’t mean for him to see that. He finds himself fishing out his handkerchief and offering it, some idiotic gentlemanly reflex, as she takes it, dabs at her eyes, and hands it back. “Yes,” she says, her tone once more cool and businesslike. “Anyway. It’s not random. How do you think I could have found you tonight, in a city this size, if I wasn’t here for you? If I didn’t know, in fact, exactly where you were going to be?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn says uncertainly. “You could have been looking for me for a while.”

Lucy snorts. “Do you really think that would work? Going door-to-door in all the gin joints in the world? Across this city, across the entire world?”

Flynn has to admit, the odds seem low. He doesn’t know if that means he believes her or not, so he takes a few more sips of water. He wants to judge if this seems remotely sensible at even partial sobriety, or if the alcohol is the only reason he’s entertained it thus far. There is certainly a part of him that is touched at the idea that she’s traveled through time and space to see him, that they have some sort of deep connection she can’t or won’t explain, but the rest of him is horrified. His wife died two weeks ago. He is not in the market for any other options. He wants Lorena back. Lorena. Whoever Lucy Preston is, she can’t be what he’s really looking for, what he needs. But walking into this place looking like an angel, telling him this impossible story, and seeming to think he might actually believe it. . .

He doesn’t know. There is another part of him that is well aware he was just asking for a miracle, and this seems as close as it’s possible to get. He’s prayed to God for answers, he’s begged for anything – that was, when he wasn’t screaming his pain and rage into the empty, uncaring void, swearing and cursing and bleeding. Lorena was the believer more than him, though he went to church to humor her, but Lorena is the one who was murdered in cold blood in her own home, trying to save her five-year-old daughter from men with machine guns who did not turn a hair. How can God have let that happen, if He is any sort of God worth His salt? Flynn knows the technical term: theodicy, or the question of how the existence of evil is compatible with a loving and powerful divinity. None of the explanations he has heard have ever quite satisfied him. This, even less.

There’s another silence as he and Lucy stare at each other. God, she is beautiful. Disloyal as Flynn feels, he’s a man with eyes, and he can’t quite take them off her. He glances at her hands, as if in search of a ring. He still wears his own, he can’t imagine wanting to take it off, but her fingers are bare, keeping their secrets. He wants to ask more about how they’re supposed to be connected – is this some sort of past-life nonsense, does she think they’re the reincarnations of Antony and Cleopatra, or something else to add to her clearly quite eccentric beliefs about the nature of reality? What’s even stranger is that he keeps having momentary, elusive flashes of something just below the surface, like sunlight on goldfish in a pond, that he cannot grab or hold onto. Is this hypnosis? Power of suggestion? She said something outré, and now he’s adjusting his beliefs to accommodate it? He’s been a soldier and a special operative for a long time. He can usually see mind tricks coming a mile off.

“I’m not sure if you’re crazy,” Flynn says at last. “There’s still a good chance you are. But I think you believe you’re telling the truth. If nothing else.”

Lucy seems to accept that is a start, given what she’s just asked him to swallow. She pushes the journal toward him. “Please. Take it.”

Flynn looks at it. He wants to ask if there’s a piece of Voldemort’s soul contained in it, because it seems like it might be a pertinent question, but he takes it and puts it in his jacket pocket. Then he gets to his feet, and promptly staggers enough that Lucy notices. “Come on,” she says. “How about you let me walk you back to where you’re staying?”

This is almost adorable, given that Flynn is a six-foot-four ex-commando with extensive military training, and Lucy is a five-foot-five woman who doesn’t look likely to be Black Widow in disguise. But he oddly doesn’t want her to go just yet, and he reminds himself that it’s really him doing the favor for her, making sure a foreign woman on the streets alone in a huge city, late at night, doesn’t get into any unfortunate situations. The ground, however, does feel a little farther away than usual, and he weaves his way to the door, Lucy bobbing at his elbow. He pushes it open and strides out into the night. Drops of mist bead finely in the air, but it isn’t raining anymore. Cars drone by, splashing puddles. The coolness is bracing against his hot face. For once, it feels good to breathe.

Lucy walks quietly beside him, dark hair tugged by the breeze, face intent and inward-looking. She doesn’t seem in a hurry, and he is absurdly tempted to ask where she parked the time machine (that has to be how she got here, right?) and if she has to get back before the meter runs out. The endless city lights flicker across her face. She is fine and ethereal and even more lovely in the glow, like something or someone not quite mortal or human. He keeps looking at her. He can’t stop.

After another few minutes, they reach the door between an all-night Japanese restaurant and a used electronics store, which leads up into the kind of apartment that can be rented with cash, without much paperwork, and a generally flexible occupancy. Flynn takes his key out and unlocks the door, then steps through into the shabby front vestibule, mail for previous tenants stuffed in the slot. He doesn’t expect Lucy to follow him in, but she does, and then up the narrow stairs. When he glances at her in confusion, she says quietly, “I know you have your gun in your room. I’m worried. That’s all.”

For the first time, after everything else she’s said or hinted at, that’s what rocks him the most. There is not any way he can specifically think of for her to know that – everything else could be a combination of very good intel and accurate guesswork, the kind of trick that fairground fortune-tellers use to read people and come up with something that might be relevant to their lives. He hasn’t said anything about that, about the lure it has on him, the coin toss every night as to whether he’s going to buckle and give in. Shaken, he turns away and takes longer than necessary to unlock the door. Muffled samba music drifts up from the flat below. He might mind it more if he thought there was any chance he’d ever actually sleep.

He pushes open the door into the apartment. It’s a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a battered couch, with a bathroom squashed on the end. There are definitely cockroaches, the décor has not been updated since the eighties, and the power can be unreliable, but if he wanted to leave tomorrow, he could walk out with no strings attached. He almost feels compelled to apologize, again, for its sheer dreariness, but he stands awkwardly in the middle of the floor instead, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, half-wondering if he is supposed to be presenting for parade inspection. She is even more beautiful in the slitted light of the old venetian blinds. His throat is dry for other reasons than the alcohol, but he can’t quite get his feet to move.

Lucy looks up at him, as if trying to make up her mind about something. It’s well apparent that there is tension between them, whether or not there should be, and that if she made a move toward him, Flynn doesn’t know that he would turn her down. He’s still a little drunk and he probably shouldn’t, but he is so exhausted and so heartbroken and barely holding up, and she has appeared literally from nowhere and she’s here in front of him. He feels like he should say something about his gun, remind her why she came up, but his entire chest hurts and he is blind and raw and shaking with need. For what, he doesn’t even know. Not her, exactly. Maybe what she represents. Life. Hope. Light. Any remote, wild ghost of a chance. She hasn’t said what exactly she’s offering, what the journal is supposed to do, or how it’s related to taking down Rittenhouse. He could ask her that. He could ask her a lot of things.

Instead, slowly, Flynn raises both hands. Lucy’s throat moves as she swallows, but she shifts closer, rather than away. She looks up at him with simple, vulnerable, unselfconscious trust that shreds his already crumbling resolve. He puts his hands very, very lightly on her upper arms, not quite closing his fingers. Not grabbing her, not trapping her, not trying to give her any reason to regret coming into a terrible apartment with a mentally unstable strange man who is twice her size, but because he doesn’t know what else he can do. Because the desolate, impossible, harrowing pain inside him eases the smallest bit when he does, and he is utterly desperate for that relief. He has no pride left. He is flattened. He is wrung out.

Lucy’s eyelashes flutter, her lips parting, as she tilts her head up. Flynn runs his hand up her shoulder, cupping her face. He traces his thumb along her cheekbone, still mildly astonished that she is a flesh-and-blood woman, and not a detailed hallucination. Lowers his mouth closer, not sure if he wants to kiss her or just breathe her in, absorb her in some elemental way like symbionts, like atoms, like stardust. Her lashes make dark shadows on her cheek. Her breath is soft as a whisper on his.

Flynn closes his eyes just as their foreheads touch, as a shudder racks him from head to toe and he briefly thinks he might go to his knees. But that’s when Lucy grabs his face in her hands, guides his hungry, hollow mouth to hers, and kisses him so gently that his broken heart snaps again. The sound is almost soft, a light, dry click. Then the floodgates open.

He lifts her almost off her feet, arms wrapped around her waist as hers lock around his neck, as they turn their heads and mash their noses and open their mouths and gulp and gasp and kiss and kiss as if this is the only thing they have meant to do since she arrived. Flynn doesn’t know if it’s the case or not, and frankly does not want to think about it, or anything. If he keeps his eyes closed, it’s easy enough to pretend that she is Lorena, and either way, if he is not going to die tonight, he needs this. He can add it to his sins later. He already has enough.

There is not much attempt at seduction or foreplay. This is clumsy and staggering and primal as an avalanche, and there is just as much point (which is to say, none) of getting in the way of it. He breaks away from her mouth, pressing blind kisses into her cheek and neck and shoulder, as he shucks off her jacket and scarf, throwing them across the room. She unbuttons her blouse as they keep kissing, as he pulls his shirt off and she runs her hands over the heavy muscles of his chest and arms, catching a nipple between her fingers. He reaches around to unclasp her bra, and she shucks it off her arms. His hands come up to cup and caress her breasts, and she shudders like the wind.

They walk backwards into the bedroom in a muddle, and fall on the bed in a heap. It occurs to Flynn that he does not have any condoms, and while he does not have any diseases, thank you very much, she might not want to walk away from this night with the risk of an unexpected souvenir (of whatever sort). He manages to pull away long enough to pant, “I don’t have – are you sure you want – ”

“It’s all right.” Lucy looks touched by his concern, that he is able to snap out of his mad blind delirium long enough to make sure she is safe. “I have it handled.”

“You. . . mmm. . . sure?” Flynn kisses her again halfway through asking. “I don’t – you might – ”

“Yes.” Lucy crawls on top of him and leans forward, bracing her elbows on either side of his shoulders, lowering herself onto him at full length. “I said I was here for you.”

Flynn wonders if that encompasses the possibility of what is apparently about to happen, then decides to hell with it. He would have stopped if she said so, no matter how much it might have literally killed him, but if she’s sure – he’s shaking, he’s not able to touch her enough, as much as he needs. They untangle long enough to shuck trousers, and then underpants. The sight of her naked body in the low light – God. For a second he swears, he absolutely swears, that the sight is as familiar to him as his own, that there is nothing strange or unusual about it. He’s noticed, even in their hungry making out, that there isn’t any of the awkwardness or fumbling or uncertainty about what to do where and how that normally attends a one-night stand with a stranger. There is something uncanny about the fact that they already know exactly how to kiss each other. Almost lends a true touch of destiny to whatever she’s saying, and yet. It will just make it easier, for now, to pretend.

They stand on their knees, as Flynn grips Lucy’s hips and pull her gently toward him. He nudges at her just a bit, just a little, as she takes hold of him and helps guide him, as he slides carefully into her soft warm wetness and almost loses his mind. He doesn’t know why she is here, why she is giving herself to him like this. In the back of his head, he wonders if this is a calculated ploy, if she is making sure that he will read the journal no matter what, take to heart whatever insane thing it says, and want to see her again. Something cynical and intentional, the old honeytrap game. She could be. He wonders if he cares.

Lucy rolls her hips, easing the fit of him inside her, uttering a small whine in the back of her throat that makes him want to roll her over and take her as deep as deep goes and fuck her flat into the bed. But he goes down on his back beneath her when she pushes lightly, straddling him and bracing herself, still breathing in quick, shallow gulps. Sweat beads on her forehead, her eyes are glazed. She seems almost as shaken by it as him.

Their hands reach out and meet, clasping hard, as Lucy pushes his arms over his head and starts to ride him, with long, possessive swoops that drag him against every single bit of her and make him see stars. But then she gives the control back to him, lets him flip her onto her back and brace his weight on his elbows, cover her with his height and bulk, and thrust into her hard enough to make her hips jerk. She draws her knees up on either side of him, wrapping her arms around his back, as he buries his face between her breasts. “Lorena,” he mutters indistinctly, cursing and gasping and praying all at once. “Lorena.”

He has just enough consciousness left to know that he is calling another woman by his dead wife’s name and he should probably try to stop doing that, but it spills out of him anyway. He gulps, he tries to apologize, but this is already enough of a mess, and Lucy seems somehow to have expected that he would. The pace of his thrusts increases, raw and reckless, rasping and rutting. He needs her, whatever – whoever – she is. The realization is coming to him in punching bursts, breathless, blinding, hot as the heat of their coupling. He can’t walk away from whatever she is offering. He has to read the damn magic diary and learn what it is. He has to follow her. He has to – somehow – trust in the utterly impossible. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else is left.

All further thoughts, however, are driven out of Flynn’s head in the next instant, as he bucks and jerks and loses himself entirely, collapses on Lucy as if his back has been broken, and realizes belatedly that he is probably squashing her. Guilt percolates through him, slow and cold. That was probably the worst lay Lucy ever had in her life. If it was just to bind him to her, maybe she doesn’t care if it was good or not, but he feels the duty to own up to it. Slowly, badly, as if he has two broken arms and legs, he manages to disentangle his body from hers, roll off and collapse next to her. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He tastes the choking tears in his throat, struggles to spit them out. “M’ sorry. M’ sorry.”

Lucy rolls over and pulls his head down onto her chest, letting him rest there as she strokes his hair, as he grips hold of her side and presses his face into her. He jerks and shakes with sobs he won’t quite succumb to, his entire body torn between the sweet release of climax and the stabbing agony in his heart, his mind, his soul. He feels as if he must be hurting her, as if his hands are sinking into her like clay, molding her and marking her. She’s tiny, especially compared to him. It feels like far too much to ask for her to bear the weight of his pain.

And yet, Lucy doesn’t move, stays where she is, until he’s finally gone still, too exhausted and heartsick to stir at all. She rolls out from underneath him and goes to the bathroom, then pads back, pulling the covers out and crawling in. He manages to do the same, collapsing, as she slides up next to him and lets him rest his arm over her. He feels like a soldier that has been through far too many wars – which, perhaps, is exactly what he is. His chest heaves a few more times. His hand runs up and down her ribs, her hip, her slender thigh. “M’ sorry,” he mumbles again, eyes closed. “Isn’t what you deserved.”

Lucy doesn’t answer that, at least aloud, but he feels the light touch of her lips on his unshaven cheek. The backs of her fingers ghost along his jaw. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” He opens his eyes and stares at her. “It’s not, it’s – it’s not, it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Lucy agrees, admirably steady. He wants to cling onto her, he wants her to make it stop shaking. Perhaps it’s unfair of him to think that one small woman can make the whole world stand still, and yet, he almost thinks that if anyone, she could. “It’s not right now. But it will get better, Garcia. I promise. I promise.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she can possibly know that, until he remembers, right. From the future. He’s too tired not to play along, is starving for any drop of reassurance, however childish or impossible. “What is it?” He has to know. “What am I supposed to do? With this – with time travel. Do I save them? My wife and daughter?”

Lucy hesitates for a long moment. It’s clear she’s deciding what to say, what sort of oracle it is permissible to play. At last she says, “We’ll say you do.”

“How?” He pushes himself up on his elbow. He desperately wants to believe her and he thinks, somehow, that he already does, has made the decision and felt the key turn. “How do I do that?”

“Read the journal,” Lucy repeats. “I’ve written down everything I can tell you there. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be difficult, and what it’s going to cost us, and you – I can’t possibly tell you that it’s going to be easy, or that it’s something I’m asking of you lightly. But if nothing else – ” she laughs, dry as dust – “it’s been like this before. I made another visit back to you, and that set things in motion once. I have to trust it will again.”

“What?” Flynn is confused. “I’ve never met you before.”

Lucy hesitates, then shifts his head down to rest more comfortably on her stomach, fingers still playing with his hair, a soft little gesture that seems almost unconscious. “No,” she says at last. “I suppose we haven’t.”

Flynn has a feeling that that is another one of the things she’s said which wouldn’t make sense even if he was sober. He’s closer to it than he was earlier in the evening, but the combination of alcohol and sex and heartbreak is never brilliant for a man’s brainpower. All his strength has run out of him, but in a different way than when it first left him, along with a sizeable proportion of his will to live, when he saw Lorena and Iris’ bloodied bodies on the floor. He has had to bear the shattered pieces of his world in absolute solitude and silence, barely any time to even grieve, when he needed to get out of Dubrovnik and avoid being framed and deal with the logistics of staying ahead of Rittenhouse and choosing a hideout and renting this flat and resisting the ever-present urge to eat the business end of his gun. He has not let it out, not once properly wept, because he is afraid there is no way to recover from it if he does. He still doesn’t know, in fact. And yet.

He cries so hard that his entire body shakes, face pressed into Lucy’s stomach, his tears glistening on her skin like sweat. He tries to bite it back, but he still makes horrible, hoarse, gulping noises like a wounded animal, one long, choked howl that comes out of him over and over. Lucy doesn’t make any attempt to shush him or tell him not to. Finally, she nudges him up so he can put his head on her shoulder instead, wrapping her arm around his back and pulling him alongside her. She waits until he’s finally fallen silent, drained and done, can’t even open his eyes or think about ever standing up again. It seems, even more than everything else he has heard tonight, utterly impossible.

They drift and doze. They’re still both naked, there is nothing between them in the dark, and for the first few hours since the murders, Flynn sleeps without any nightmares at all. When he wakes up, the light in the room is grey, he has a splitting headache, and Lucy is asleep next to him, curled up on her side with the quilts tucked under her arms. He stares down at her, not knowing what to do or think. Is she going to stay? Can she stay? Whatever faces him, it seems as if it might be easier with her help.

Lucy stirs as a touch of fragile sun peers through the blinds, rolls over, and opens her eyes, as he’s drinking the glass of water from the bedside table, grimacing and grumbling. Hangovers always suck, but for some reason, Flynn almost welcomes this one. It feels real, it feels like waking up from the haze of grief and guilt and alcohol, the wastelands he’s been wandering on. He thinks of the gun, one final temptation, and then pushes it aside. It doesn’t have the same hold on him anymore. Its curse has been broken. Now, he has other plans.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, seeing that Lucy’s awake. “About – everything. Last night. I wasn’t very – I wasn’t.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Lucy sits up and glances at the clock, which – given where, or rather, when, she’s come from – strikes him as oddly and unbearably poignant. “I can’t stay much longer, Garcia. I was promised only twenty-four hours in which this would definitely work, and any more than that was playing with fire. And I have other places to go.”

Flynn bites back his instinctive response that she could. “Lucy – ” he starts. “Lucy, are we – we are going to see each other again?”

“We will.” Lucy swings her legs over the side of the bed, goes to peer in at his shower, and apparently thinks better of it. “It’ll be a few years, but yes.”

“And? Then what?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find out.” She looks at him gently. “We both will.”

Flynn can’t believe he’d be visited by a woman from the future who then is no help about the future at all, when all he craves is a flicker of certainty and stability in the sea of chaos, but he can already sense that it will get him nowhere to push. He watches as Lucy gets dressed, then gets up to do the same. “Can I walk you to your – car?”

Lucy grins wryly. “All right,” she says. “I suppose you can see it work. You might as well have your proof that it’s real.”

Flynn suddenly wonders if he’s prepared for this or not, but doesn’t demur. He pulls on his shoes and jacket, and they step out into the cool, misty morning – São Paulo is once more living up to its unofficial nickname of Terra da Garoa, Land of Drizzle. It’s early enough that the streets are as quiet as they ever really are. A few fruit sellers on bicycles speed past, cardboard crates strapped precariously over their back wheels, and Flynn and Lucy walk awkwardly side by side, not quite looking at each other, hands in their jacket pockets. It’s about twenty minutes to a certain back alley, where Lucy strides up to a shrouded object at the end, pulls the lashed-down tarp off, and reveals a large grey metal eyeball. As time machines go, it looks like the junior varsity squad, and Flynn eyes it skeptically. “You came here in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.”

Lucy laughs. “Like the Millennium Falcon, yes, I did. It’s called the Lifeboat. You’ll probably want to stand back. But, well. This is goodbye for now. Good luck.”

Flynn doesn’t want to ask why she sounds as if she thinks he’ll really need it. He isn’t ready to let her go. “Lucy – ”

“One other thing.” Lucy tilts her head back to look at him. “My younger self meeting you is going to be… well, it’ll be an experience for both of us, let’s put it that way. She will ask you eventually how you got the journal. Don’t tell her about this – this night, all right? It’s going to be – well, I don’t want her to know that way. Just tell her that I gave it to you at the bar that night, and leave out the rest.”

Flynn has to run over that sentence in his head a few times to be sure he’s understood it correctly. He coughs, then nods, and holds out his hand. “Well then… goodbye?”

Lucy looks at him, then nods in return, takes it, and shakes it. Then she lets go, hits a lever, and opens the Lifeboat door, crawling in with what seems less than total grace. Flynn is almost tempted to offer her a hand up, but doesn’t. As ordered, he stands back.

The door shuts, and the bands on the outside of the machine start to whirl, building up momentum. The whine of the engine grows, and then, with a sharp backwash that rattles the windows in the nearby tenement, it vanishes into thin air. There one moment, gone the next. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s actually real. Time travel. What the hell.

Flynn shakes his head, resists the urge to rub his eyes, and stands there another few moments, as if to be sure that Lucy didn’t forget her purse and might have to come back. But the morning is still again, and there’s a faint brightness on the underside of the mist. The sun will probably come out later, and burn it all away.

After a final minute, Flynn turns his back and starts to walk. Slowly at first, and then faster, weaving through the streets of São Paulo as they’re starting to come to life, and the commuter traffic is soon to be in full and crushing throng. For the first time, he knows for a fact that he’s going to make it to the end of the day today, and then to the end of the next one. He is possessed, consumed, afire with curiosity, brain spinning fast as the Lifeboat’s gyro, as the world does not seem – not better, not exactly. It will not be better, nothing will be resolved, nothing will be stopped or surrendered, until Lorena and Iris somehow take another breath, and that night never happened, and the broken world is set to rightness. But it’s something. It’s more than that. It’s hope.

Flynn reaches his apartment, and heads up the steps. He has a feeling he won’t be staying in Brazil much longer, will be going somewhere else, and he needs to find out where that will be, needs to find out everything he can. He steps inside, shuts and deadbolts the door, and goes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Black and rich; Brazil is one place you will never go without good coffee. He opens the blinds and cracks the window. Can smell diesel exhaust and the salty wind from the Atlantic Ocean and the whiff of roasting meat from sidewalk carts, gulps it all down. He’s ready now. Life can have him back. His head hurts with an almost crystalline clarity.

When the coffee is ready, Flynn pours it into a mug. He goes to his jacket, takes the journal out of the pocket, and carries it over to the table. Sets it down, runs his fingers over the embossed LP on the cover, and stares at it for a very long moment. Then he takes a deep breath, opens to page one, and begins to read.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil slum ballet school taps resilience to survive pandemic

Against a backdrop of jumbled shacks seemingly piled atop each other, the dancers run in place with studied movements, then collapse to the floor in steady succession.

This is a rehearsal at the Ballet of Paraisopolis, one of the biggest favelas in Sao Paulo, Brazil.

The dance school is just returning from a four-month hiatus for the coronavirus pandemic, which has left Brazil with the second-highest death toll worldwide, after the United States: nearly 130,000 people killed.

Covid-19 has hit hard in the favelas -- poor, overcrowded neighborhoods that often lack clean running water, sanitation infrastructure or basic health care.

But although the virus is still spreading fast in Sao Paulo, the epicenter of the outbreak in Brazil, students and teachers at the school say they wanted -- needed -- to dance together again.

"I was really anxious to come back. It felt like my first time," said 17-year-old dancer and local resident Kemilly Luanda, taking a break from rehearsals in an improvised studio whose ballet barre is a balcony railing -- the dividing line that separates this world of graceful leaps and precision pirouettes from the brick shacks it overlooks.

The favela juts up against one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city, Morumbi, a privileged reserve of luxury high-rises and mansions.

Continue reading.

[hsbchocolate]

EXPLICANDO A GUERRA PRA QUEM É DA QUEBRADA Eu vou explicar a Guerra pra quem é de quebrada! A Rússia é aquele mano folgado lá da Zona Sul Capão Redondo que nunca se trombou com os EUA, aqueles Playboy do Morumbi que andava bem vestido e só andava com os mano Europeus da Vila Sonia e Brooklin Mas tinha um mano chamado Ucrânia nascido e criado na Zona sul que começou a andar com os Boy do Morumbi e fica de buxixo com os EUA. Certo dia os Boy chamou o Ucrânia pra fazer parte do bonde deles e se o Rússia embaçasse ia levar um cassete do bonde. Só que o Rússia que não é bobo é fechado com os mano da 25 de Março, os China Paraisópolis e Angela, aqueles mano que vende cabo de celular e película, ta até vendendo umas Lacoste e Nike e manda no centro da porra toda. O Rússia chamou o Ucrânia pras ideias e disse que ia enfiar o cassete se ele colasse com os Boy. O Ucrânia desacreditou e começou a levar um cassete, os Boy aparentemente deixou o Ucrânia na mão e disse que vai brecar os rolê do Russia na cidade toda. Agora vai todo mundo pras ideias e quem tiver moscando vai nessa. (em Capão City) https://www.instagram.com/p/CagMdR6sIMV-7TLX88M9MZHCiHDkmnBwZQseEE0/?utm_medium=tumblr

[marcelomassao]

Dia a dia. * * Day by day. * * #nofilter #shotoniphone #amazing #bestpic #br #brasil #brazil #story #apple #sp #sampa #saopaulo #011 #marcelomassao #portrait #portraitmode #work #city #cidade #morumbi #selfie #photography #sunglasses #oakley #nike #tng #busstop #bus #taboaodaserra #cars (em São Paulo, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3x2K4rg9Qq/?igshid=1nzpfo6dyj7xe