First published January 2008
Shall I? I remember asking myself as I stared at a screen. It stared back; two plane tickets with a hotel right on Copacobana Beach. I have to go, I've been dreaming about it since I saw it on TV.
Nothing makes me move like blistering percussion of the samba.
A stark constrast to the polyester boardloom carpets, stripped lighting and air conditioned air I was thrusted into, listening to benign conversations about last night's Big Brother, rising prices and that deadline we have to me.
Fuck it, I thought as I clicked 'Confirm booking'.
I felt a surge of electricity travel through the tips of my finges to the tips of my toes in sheer unadulterated joy.
The carnival isn't a one day affair. No, the Cariocas (the demonym for people from Rio) know how to throw a party.
It's a last hurrah before fasting for Lent begin, so it starts on the Friday before Ash Wednesday and ends on Ash Wednesday.
All the samba schools parade down the purpose-built Sambadrome in the week with the winners and runner's up marching together on the Wednesday, much to elation and revelry of their supporters.
It's history is stems from Brasil's Portugese colonisers who brought their Catholic traditions with them. However, as much as Europeans love dressing up and running amok, when you fuse that with Brasil's huge African population, it's elevated to 11.
Strangley, it was Christianity that turned us into prudes about sex, sexuality and the body, but here anything goes. There is particular emphasis on the female body and sexuality, clevages of all types were proudly decorated and on display.
Everything is embraced and celebrated; shape, size, gender and race but it is the Afro-Caribbean, pardos (2024 addendum: apologies if this word is seen as problematic, please get in touch and tell me) and olive skinned who dominate proceedings.
The pounding of the drums rattled through the soundsystem as we took our seats on the mid terrace in the middle of the Sambadrome.
It was filled with costumes, the smell of Espetinhos de Queijo de Coalho - a grilled cheese lollipop - and people bustling about. The main thing was watching everyone, young and old, dancing the samba in the bleachers like it was their last dance.
I watched a dressed up toddler dance like a pro and the most gangster looking men sashaying their hips like they were Strictly. It was then that it struck me that perhaps this was their secret to being the greatest football team in the world - all the men can dance above thrashing around violently to Wonderwall.
It was an assault on the eyes as the ladies from each samba school came to each side of the Sambadrome, their glittery heels setting fire to the ground with frantic footwork on the concrete, followed by elaborate, ostentacious costumes and extravagantly creative floats - we saw Brasil's big Japanese immigration celebrated, as well as flora and fauna of the country, as they all synchronistically and joyously shimmied down the thoroughfare.
Baija Flor were the winners but I'm glad I wasn't a judge as I couldn't call it. They were also so perfectly put together in creative chaotic cultivation of all things Brasilian.
Even the hawkers were participating. It's not a big deal for tourism, it's Brasil's thing. It's Rio's thing. It is Brasil.
You don't need to buy tickets in advanced for the shows over the week, just get there early. Although it's recommended for the final show on Wednesday.
And if you really want to get into it, you can apply to join the parade with one of the samba schools - you do have to be there early so you're fitted for your costume and go through basic steps but you're not expect to learn any routines, just bounce along with the others who'll do the work.
And if big stadium crowds aren't your thing, every neighbourhood in Rio has a bloco (block party), which involves a bus rolling into town blaring out samba music and blasting out ticker tape ensuring everyone has the opportunity to indulge in a bit of hedonism before entering the austerity of Lent.
We went to the ones in Leblon, where I saw people laddened with shopping bags dance around in front of the bus like they were possessed by the dancing devils. And we also went to the one in the colourful colonial hillside town of Santa Theresa, where it's decaying beauty played the perfect backdrop to evening barnburner
It's a breathtaking and spiritual experience.
It's nourishment for the soul.
Which is just the antidote to a mundane office in cold, rainy England.
