Searching for São Paulo

When I tell people I’m in Brazil, their eyes widen and they begin to look a bit jealous.  “Wow, Brazil! Where?” they ask, probably imagining perfect beaches, sun-tanned supermodels and  all-night parties.

“São Paulo,” I tell them. Then they just look mystified.

“Of all the beautiful places in Brazil, why on earth would you choose São Paulo?” sniffed my cousin Nikolas a few weeks earlier, as we sat in his kitchen in Milan on the eve of my South American holiday.

“I’m half-Brazilian, for goodness sake, and I’ve never bothered going there,” he ranted, putting three spoonfuls of sugar into his espresso – I assume to sweeten his distaste for my travel choice. “You must visit Rio, go to Florianópolis or fly to Salvador de Bahia in the north. Then you will see the real Brazil. Chill out on the beach, listen to some samba. São Paulo, well, I think it’s just a big,
ugly, bad city.”

São Paulo’s reputation as Brazil’s dirtiest and most dangerous place is well known. Local celebrities prefer to fly around in helicopters rather than risk the roads; muggings are common and at the end of last year there was a spike in shootings between gang members and police.

I know all this because I’d spent the few weeks before my trip gingerly clicking on all sorts of terrifying newspaper stories. But I am stubborn enough not to be deterred. I love exploring new cities and was sure that once I got there, I would find a fabulous, cosmopolitan Brazilian city that no one ever goes to. So I went.

“I’ve lived in São Paulo for 15 years, my wife has lived here all her life, and nothing has ever happened to either of us,” says my new friend Steffen, as we stand at the traffic lights on São Paulo’s busiest thoroughfare, Avenue Paulista. “This is a great, safe city and there’s lots to see and do.”

While Steffen talks like a sampa – a slang term for a São Paulo native – he actually moved here from Germany to work as a correspondent for a television station in the Nineties. He’s also not my real friend, although he smiles a lot and is clearly trying hard to be a good pal. I’ve paid my new buddy to spend the day showing me the city via a nifty website that lets you ‘rent’ a local’s friendship and pick up some handy insider knowledge at the same time.

Adventure on two wheels

After arranging everything over email the evening before, I met Steffen in the lobby of my hotel this morning. He came armed with an itinerary designed to show São Paulo at its best – and two bicycles.

“Bikes!” I squeaked, eyeing them with suspicion.

Physical exertion isn’t my forte at the best of times, and after two months of travelling, I’ve settled into a happy routine that involves eating, sightseeing, eating, sleeping, and eating some more. I can barely make it around the breakfast buffet without panting.

“Yes,” said Steffen, placing the smaller bicycle in front of me. “São Paulo is a very green city and is best explored by bike.”

“But there are lots of hills in São Paulo,” I said, waving my guidebook at him. This is true – the city could double for San Francisco, if you just ignored the ugly grey buildings.

“Don’t worry, the route I picked for us is flat,” said Steffen, cheerfully, while I chewed on a ball of dulce de leche (a delicious caramel sweet) and wondered if it would be rude to ditch my new friend before our outing had even begun.

But his good mood swiftly lulled me, and without further complaint we set off, Steffen leading the way on a professional-looking mountain bike and me pedalling madly after him on a tiny, fold-out thing covered in pink flowers.

True to Steffen’s word, São Paulo turns out to be friendlier to those on two wheels than four. Each Sunday, the city rolls out the red carpet for cyclists by lining hundreds of kilometres of roads with traffic cones, marking out temporary bicycle lanes. Volunteers with red flags stand on each street corner telling pedestrians and cars to “pare!” (stop) and “vá!” (go) depending on how many bikes are rolling down the road.

It’s been a huge success, and every week the streets are filled with families, athletes and sightseers like myself, taking in the city from their saddles.

Puffing, but not exhausted, I make it to the suburb of Pompéia, where Steffen lives. Ahead of us, the streets have disappeared, replaced by a sea of colourful tents that lead to makeshift bandstands hosting live music, fruit and vegetable stalls and a delicious-looking line of Brazilian street-food vendors. I’m impressed, but everyone else acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world to throw a huge street party on a Sunday morning.

After Steffen and I park our bikes, we head straight to a crowded stand where a smiling, festively plump grandmother is dropping squares of dough into a sizzling vat of oil. She’s making Brazilian pastels, pockets of buttery pastry stuffed with minced meat and an olive or two.

This is the best street food I’ve ever had and, after having cycled around town, I eat three of them without an ounce of guilt. I’m finally happy Steffen brought those pesky bikes – today’s exercise should keep my second breakfast off my rapidly expanding South American waistline.

Posh Paulo

Our next stop is a place called Alto de Pinheiros, in the west of the city, which Steffen says has a big park. Apparently there’s even a minor ATP tennis match happening and if we get there in time we might catch a game. Steffen must be a big tennis fan, because he picks up the pace as we curl through some of São Paulo’s wealthiest suburbs.

I pass the time by admiring the villas, which range from Tudor-style houses that look like they’ve been plucked from English villages, to white mansions straight out of Miami Vice. They look like they’ve all been designed by world-famous architects whose work is so good they’ve encased them behind seven-foot fences. The only odd part of this film-set scene are the small, makeshift huts at the end of each tree-lined avenue.
“They’re guards,” says Steffen, when I finally catch up to him. “They’re not official, but streets in rich areas like this have them. They are paid to sit there all day and report any suspicious activity.”

“What kind of suspicious activity?” I ask.

“Maybe a car driving slowly or people in the area who don’t look like they should be there. It’s safe,  but they keep it safe,” he replies.

Worried they’re going to report me – a dishevelled girl puffing along with a toy bike – I pedal a bit faster.

We swing through similarly beautiful suburbs called Vila Romana and Alto de Lapa before we reach a big, horrible hill. And Steffen expects us to go up it.
“We’re almost there – just lower your gears!” he calls, cycling off.

I protest, weakly, but he’s already gone, making the hill look like a little speed bump. It’s so steep that halfway up I consider throwing my bike into the gutter. In the end, sweaty and cranky and embarrassed by my failure, I get off and walk the rest of the way up.

Steffen’s waiting for me at the entrance to Alto de Pinheiros park. I stomp past him, but my bad mood quickly evaporates when I get on to the park’s flat cycling path and realise I am at least good enough to go faster than a gang of six-year-olds, whose suntanned mothers jog after them in fluorescent headbands and the latest Nike trainers.

São Paulo’s sportiest citizens have congregated here, running, cycling, swimming and doing sun salutations on the grass. I feel like I’ve entered  a boot camp session, and wonder  if the ‘rent a local friend’ guise is really some sort of mean trick to get me in shape.

Stylish stop

I feel like more of a follower than a friend and Steffen must have finally taken pity on me trailing behind, because after a few loops  of the park he tells me we’re going to Vila Madalena, São Paulo’s trendiest quarter.

This next destination pleases me because I’ve heard it’s full of great little hole-in-the-wall restaurants and chic local designer boutiques selling one-off pieces that aren’t sneakers and running jackets.

We stop at an empanada bar for lunch, then while I browse the colourful boutiques, Steffen catches up with a (real) friend of his over a coffee. I park my bike outside a tiny bookstore and “forget” to lock it, secretly hoping it will be stolen. Of course, no one wants to take a child’s bike, and it’s waiting for me when I come back out, armed with some novels and a new dress. I stuff my purchases into my bike’s basket, and only later realise I’ve just made it even harder to pedal uphill.

Our day ends with a visit to the Museum of Modern Art, which houses some of the world’s best art collections. I’d been hoping to check out Liberdade – the Japanese quarter – but I’m so tired that when Steffen comes to say goodbye he finds me slumped on a lounge chair in front of a Picasso. “You are exhausted after our ride!” he exclaims, looking genuinely puzzled. “We only did 25km – it’s a short ride I do every weekend…”

Twenty-five kilometres? I’ve never associated my name with cycling that kind of a distance. As I drag my weary legs back to my hotel, all I can think about is a hot bath and 25 hours of sleep. But first, I’m going to write my cousin Nikolas an email… he may be Brazilian, but he knows nothing about Brazil’s best city.