And there we were, the Brazilians and I, at the Inka Torero Latino Grill, packed so close together it was as if we were in one another's clothes, all of us in an uproarious clamor, celebrating Brazil's 4-to-1 victory over the Japanese, the girls dancing the samba and the guys, wearing yellow and green Nike jerseys with names like Ronaldo and Ronaldinho on the back side, raising their voices in jubilation.
There was music and there was ample beer and there was a palpable air of festivity, and there was in all certainty not a single seat available. No, not one. But that was okay, because most preferred standing to sitting anyhow, and dancing over the two; and further, the only important thing right then was to enjoy life just as the Brazilians do—without reservation, without discrimination, and with as few manmade interventions as possible. Only a few musical instruments and the surrounding televisions on which we all had just watched the sport of soccer, part and parcel of Brazil's splendid culture, played out nine time zones ahead of us in Germany. Otherwise, it was just us: our bodies, our companionship, our shared and simultaneous joy in being right there right then, the engaging present, perpetuated by the tkk tkk tkk of the samba band's primordial drums reverberating through the restaurant, a few minutes after 2 on the afternoon of Thursday, June 22.
We were living. And it of course was all instigated by World Cup soccer, that international event occurring every four years that attracts worldwide emotional investments like nothing else—more, even, than the Olympic games and many of the world's chronic wars—but which has yet to seduce America's interest in its 76 years of existence. Yet, for the hundreds of Brazilian transplants there at Inka, on Buffalo Drive between Tropicana Avenue and Flamingo Road, in the midst of the Las Vegas desert, some 3,750 miles detached from their evergreen homeland, it was more than just an athletic competition on the grandest stage: It was a reason to come together, just like a national holiday.
"In Brazil, everyone would take the day off from work, or leave early, just for the game," said Louie, a young man who left Rio de Janeiro for America during his teens and brought with him his enthusiasm for soccer, his county's national pastime. "That's what we did today, so that we could come here to celebrate with each other."
Which, further, is what we did when Brazil had scored its fourth goal, an awesome shot by the great Ronaldo Luis Nazario de Lima into the back of the net in the 81st minute. There was a collective shout—GOOOOOOOOALLL!—and then a wave of excitement that rushed across the restaurant, sweeping through the bar and kitchen, until the entire place was flooded with so much zeal that the hinges on the doors begin to creak. Pedro Serrano, general manager of the restaurant, explains the esprit de corps like this:
"In Latin America, soccer is everything. It doesn't matter who you are: You play it, you love it. And that's just how it is."
And further:
"Many Americans never see or experience anything like this. We just completely let loose."
It's true. There were people with face paint, the greens, yellows and blues of their flag stroked across their cheeks, and there were people vacillating their hips without pause, as if dancing were as natural and necessary for their bodies as breathing. And after Brazil had scored their third goal, in the 59th minute, there was a woman before me jumping up and down, up and down, up and down, her malty breath permeating my face, and with a shriek of unfiltered joy she said: "I LOVE YOU!!!" Freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, she was by nature slim and the color of autumn, and she had a chipped front tooth that heightened her charm, and because she could very well be the most beautiful woman in this city of beautiful women, my hope was that her affection was singular for me. But by the pitiless force with which she hugged me, and the sloppiness in her kiss, I came to understand her irrepressible joy was unleashed on me but meant for the entire world.
Between goals, the tension would build. With every attempted shot Brazil took there was a collective inhalation—hands were held high, backs were arched, only the drums in the corner of the restaurant and the ball rocketing across the screen of the many televisions seemed to pass the chasm in time—and then a massive exhalation: OOOOOHHhhhhhhh! So that when a goal was scored, such as Brazil's second, in the 53rd minute, breaking the 1-1 tie, the Brazilian crowd had exploded into the air, its potential energy turned kinetic just like a spring.
There was a certain intensity among that microcosmic Brazilian nation explicable only in contrast to foreigners, like myself, who were the sole ones in the building unable to steer their eyes from the breathtaking women, their supernatural curves and exposed little moles that made them appear more naked than if they were completely unclothed. Everyone else had their eyes locked on the televisions, spellbound by the game, which they watched to the hypnotic rhythm of the drums, breaking only to blink, breathe and take a swig of their beer.
If there was anyone at Inka rooting for Japan, he or she had been smothered.
And any hope that severe minority might have had of pulling off an upset of the world's most renowned national soccer program, with its immortal legends, like Pelé, and its record five World Cup championships, and its favorable odds to win another this year, was eradicated in the 45th minute—the game's halfway point—when the great Ronaldo scored a goal that tied the game at one apiece. It was the definitive moment. For as the ball went flying into the net everyone could see the capitulation in Japan's faces, as if reality had just pierced their dreams and the indefensible certainty that Brazil would continue to score, and win, became clear. Perhaps that was why the crowd at Inka had not been vexed when Japan scored the first goal, 33 minutes into the game.
Or, perhaps it was on account of something else—something that reflects a sharp difference between the culture of the 5,000 or so Brazilians who have moved into the Las Vegas Valley and that of the land into which they moved. Americans, it seems (especially in bars like the Crown & Anchor, where there was always a packed house to cheer on America before they were eliminated from the 2006 World Cup last week), wish to see their teams win, in any respective sport, for the mere satisfaction of saying: "Ha! We're better than them!" Conversely, losing hurts our pride. But the Brazilians' passion for winning seems to be motivated by their desire to keep the fiesta rolling, scared only that they will have to search for and perhaps even invent some other reason to come together and party if their team loses. For in the World Cup, especially after the first round of play, losers do not receive a second chance.
Without a doubt the Brazilians had congregated at the Inka Torero to bask in the nostalgia encapsulated by the restaurant on that day, wishing to forget the feuds and mundane troubles innate in any heritage and remembering only the good from their homeland. Yet above all they had come to watch World Cup soccer on account of patriotism.
Unlike Americans, with their Super Bowls and World Series and NBA Championships, Brazilians do not consider their countrymen world champions unless they in fact beat teams from across the globe. They do not suffer that ethnocentrism. Even so, their national pride derives less from winning and more from character. That is, coming together to watch the World Cup, several Brazilians told me, they wish to see in the individuals representing their country on the athletic battlefield those virtues which Brazilians hold high and sacred, and which Brazilians like to ascribe to themselves: strength and honor and courage and endurance and compassion and, more than anything, sacrifice. In seeing these things carried out by their countrymen on the world stage, the crowd at Inka seemed to be reassured that the land that bore and bred them is worthy of their pride.
Adriano Dos Santos and Daniel Colla, two Brazilians, organize the gatherings, sending out mass e-mails to the Valley's Brazilian community. "Networking is the Brazilian way," says Adriano, wearing a yellow jersey with his name and the number seven on the back. "So the Internet was natural for us." Moreover, Adriano says that he has worked out an agreement with Pedro, Inka's owner, to have the rest of the gatherings housed at Inka Torero, and that he anticipates the crowd to increase in size and intensity with each succeeding game, as Brazil strives to defend the World Cup title it won in 2002.
And that is tough to fathom, for when I had arrived to Inka on Thursday, a good 15 minutes before the game, it was as if I was walking into a rainforest spilling over with yellow and green, pulsating with omnipresent life, crowded with creatures diverse, multitudinous and oh so beautiful, males and females both. There were guys with impeccable smiles, wearing Brazil shirts and jerseys, Brahma beer in hand, greeting other guys with an amiable "Ay, cabron" and the girls with a hug and kiss. There were women, everywhere, sporting green halter tops or Brazil's flag as a bikini, or yellow sheen dresses so tight and seamless to their effulgent skin that they appeared naked at first glance, their modesty preserved only by the laxness of their culture, which abounded and governed in Inka that day. There was blond hair, there was black hair; there was fair skin, there was dark skin. And all those Brazilian women shuffled about the restaurant with the restless hips and Siren's asses for which many men across the Earth visit Brazil each year. It was like a mini Carnival. Jerry, an American who has been to Brazil multiple times and who on this day brought his wife to Inka to expose her to the festive atmosphere of Brazilian soccer, put it best when he said, with delight:
"It's like a little taste of Brazil in here."