Málaga is a love letter to Rio de Janeiro. Whenever I visit I feel like I have been transported to Brazil’s beautiful coastal city. Of course, that may seem ridiculous considering Málaga and Rio are thousands of miles away from each other. The Mediterranean’s chilly sea in February is nothing like the warm embrace of the Carioca waters. Nonetheless, whenever I am in Málaga, I can’t shake the feeling that if I just run fast enough or turn my head quick enough or close my eyes and open them up again, I will suddenly see the Corcovado mountain once again.
There are several reasons why Málaga reminds me of the more tropical southern destination: its streets are aligned with large palm trees; the ‘Parque de Málaga’ is home to not only pigeons and seagulls but green parakeets; and the location of the Southern Spanish city adjoins the humid air, the sea and the mountain. To put it simply, it is the closest I have been to Rio de Janeiro in years. Rio is amazing. There is nothing like drinking a Skol on Leblon beach while watching the sun dip below the ocean’s horizon. Living in Rio feels like your senses are on overload. The sounds, tastes, and sights are so visceral that two years since my departure, I can still recall moments as if I were there: the sweetness of the coconut ice cream at Praia do Vidigal, the sweat slipping down my neck as I hiked Floresta da Tijuca, the sounds of vendors yelling, “cadeira, cerveja!” at Copacabana beach.
But Rio feels like a broken promise, maybe that’s why I try to bury such vivid recollections. Such an attempt is both futile and half-hearted however, because Rio, and Brazil at large, makes itself known wherever I go. I remember it when I smell the breeze coming from the salty air in Málaga. Or when I see my roommate’s pressure cooker on the stove, a pot my aunt religiously swears by and one I haven’t quite gotten the courage to try yet. Or when I hike up Castillo de Santa Catalina Jaén and walk to the white cross that looks over the city like a Spanish Cristo de Redentor. And then there are the more upfront ways it grips me, like how the Airbnb host that I stayed with for my first two nights in Spain turned out to be from the North of Brazil. We shared empanandas together because they were similar to the fried delicacies of pasteis, coxinhas and empadinhas. Or how I finally visited a Brazilian restaurant in Granada and the Baiano server told me that he hopes to finally return to South America after more than five years away. Or how the kids at my school call me “Neymar” even though I never made it to the varsity soccer team in high school.
Thinking about my time in Rio used to hurt a lot. It was the abruptness of my departure that stung the most. March 19th, 2020 was the day I boarded a plane from Tom Jobim International Airport to Atlanta and then finally to Philly at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic. Sometimes I wonder if there even could have been a healthy, safe way of saying goodbye. Most likely, I would have been tugging on the city’s legs like a child regardless, desperately begging to stay for just one more week, one more day, one more hour… “Espera, viu.”
There is joy though. That is certain. I feel it most whenever I return to the water. Even if its freezing. February is the coldest month for Málaga waters. The average temperature is around 15 oC– it was 14 on February 06, 2022 when I jumped into its freezing currents to satisfy my insatiable need to swim. It was my Birthday weekend and I knew that regardless of the temperature, I wanted to at least submerge myself in the sea. And so, with no towel in hand and only a sports bra and boxers on, I dipped into the water’s embrace. Yes technically Málaga and Rio do not share the same body of water– one is the Atlantic, the other the Mediterranean– but according to my 4th grade geography class, all water is connected and when you are searching for home, you learn that home has no borders.
I used to be terrified of waves. I would get anxiety every time I saw them build, not knowing which direction to follow so that its weight wouldn’t crash into me. Navigating this never-ending torrent is a language-in and of itself. Doing it in the cold is a whole other demon. There is no, “hey can you just give me a moment to translate that in my head?” It’s only a barrage of new words, new grammar, new sentence structures you aren’t quite familiar with. It is the ultimate test of your listening comprehension: Are you able to predict the curve of the growing wave right before it breaks? Are you able to push your body to the sand in time to avoid the madness above? Are you able to adapt fast enough? These are questions you are met with every second you are swimming. As a lover of challenges, I indulge in the instability of it all. And as a lover of Avatar: The Last Airbender and the Legend of Korra, I think if I move my hands a certain way, I can bend the water to my will. We all know who wins there.
When you are swimming, there really is no competition. You aren’t Poseidon’s hidden half-blood child and you aren’t the real-life version of Moana. You are just a girl, a woman, who can’t help but laugh and smile as you try to predict when the next wave will begin. And the ocean is Yemanja.
Whenever I swim, I have to take my glasses off. But it is not as scary as it may seem. There is actually something entrancing about entering the sea with blurry vision. Of course, the people on the beach are still there– talking, lounging, judging. But without the ability to see them clearly, they become just fixtures in the background, as motionless and as opinion-less as the rocks that adorn the sand. When you can only see your arms and water in detail, the world becomes yours. The sounds of waves subsume those coming from the cars and conversation. Your shallow breathing becomes your heartbeat. The upcoming wave swallows your laughter. This is what it feels like whenever I swim.
And it is so different than how I felt when I first entered Rio waters my sophomore year, wide-eyed and inexperienced. I remember holding tightly to my friends’ hands as the water effortlessly pulled us deeper and deeper in. I would tell myself, “okay Tricia, this time will be the one: dig your feet into the sand, have your arms out, concentrate.” And then, there we went, laughing, struggling and coughing out the salty water filling our lungs. I remember thinking to myself, how the hell do these Cariocans not budge at all? They seemed so permanently rooted to the ground– so solid and sure of themselves. I felt like a newborn crying for its mother. Where are you? Why can’t I feel you? Where did you go? Why did you leave me?
I wrote about these thoughts last year in 2021 for an episode titled Mothers of Green Gables for an NPR podcast challenge. It was about The Birthday Blues, the confusion and sense of betrayal that lingers after adoption. But this year was different, I was different. February 4th came and went. But I couldn’t find that similar ache in my bones. Instead, it felt like I had met a friend I was no longer close to. You meet and you yearn for that same feeling you once shared but it is just not there anymore. And even if you say all the same inside jokes. And visit all the same places. And pretend to be the same person, you just aren’t. And neither are they. But it isn’t a sad feeling, its accepting that you have changed, that there is no ‘for-the-better’ or ‘for-the-worse’ in this occasion, it is just simply change. It is just you and the past you’s and the future you’s. And you all hold hands into the ocean until you can’t breathe and you learn how to live under water.
That is what this birthday felt like. Living underwater.
Are you able to adapt fast enough?
Maybe that was the ability that my friends and I could never understand during those first attempts at Ipanema beach three years ago. We were trying too hard to stay planted in the same place without realizing that the sand underneath us was already moving.
Years later, I want to think I know more than I did then. That now there is a fluidity I have that I didn’t before. And I think to a certain extent that is true. I recognize that to move my body the way I want it to, I must also let go of the idea that I can actually do that. As Bruce Lee advises, “Empty your mind, be formless, be shapeless.” I have learned to appreciate the powerlessness of swimming. If the ocean wants to do what it wants, you can only follow its lead.
Because of this, there are those inevitable instances when you can not duck under the wave fast enough and all its force hits you so hard there is no time to think: What am I doing? Where am I going? Who am I? You just give in. I try to not allow those questions about my identity consume me as often as they did when I was younger but I also recognize that these thoughts have been with me since I was a child, and they aren’t likely to leave me any time soon. The goal is to just move with it. Extend your arms out. Move your feet. Allow the water to take you.
“Be water, my friend,” Bruce Lee says. I breathe in and out. Feel the wave rise and ebb. See it build, grow and stretch across the horizon. “Be water, my friend.”
I will try.
Where in the world 
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