Recife, Brazil | July
5:15 p.m., the stoplight at the Cabanga Iate Clube
Leftover limes and desiccated cachaça: the sour tang after too many caipirinhas. Three drunk men crowd in the aisle. Grating music from a cell phone, unidentifiable songs. The oldest of the men barks in guttural, lifetime-smoker sounds, and blood-shot eyes look directly at me. I don’t know what they’re yelling about, and they keep leaning out the bus windows, motioning to people on the street, shoving each other. I look to my seatmate, and she smiles and rolls her eyes and gives me a look that says, plain as day: men.