Rio de Janeiro

I arrived in Rio de Janeiro on a LATAM flight from Santiago, a four-hour hop across the continent that landed at Galeão International Airport as the sun was setting behind the mountains west of the city, turning the sky exactly the colours that Brazilian sunsets are obligated by law to be — orange, then rose, then a deep tropical purple. The taxi to Ipanema took 40 minutes on a good day (this was a good day) and cost about R$80, and the driver had samba on the radio and pointed out the Sugarloaf as we crossed the bridge as if he'd arranged it personally for my arrival.

I stayed in Ipanema for the full three weeks, at the Hotel Fasano Rio on Rua Vinícius de Moraes — a Philippe Starck-designed boutique hotel a hundred metres from the beach. The rooftop pool has a view of Dois Irmãos — the two granite peaks at the end of Ipanema Beach — and Leblon beyond, and I swam there every evening at 6pm as the light went amber and watched the kitesurfers below and thought about nothing useful at all, which is the correct thought to have in Rio.

The beaches. Ipanema Beach and Copacabana Beach are the twin poles of Rio beach culture, separated by Arpoador — a rocky point where surfers ride the beach break and the whole of Ipanema gathers to applaud the sunset in a ritual that happens every clear evening and feels entirely spontaneous every time. I found my patch on Ipanema at posto 9, the section in front of the Fasano, and established a routine: arrive by 9am, set up with rented chair and umbrella, swim at 10 and again at noon, eat an açaí bowl from the beach vendors (açaí with granola and banana, R$20, eaten with a spoon standing in the surf), leave before 2pm before the sun became genuinely punishing.

Copacabana is noisier and more democratic — the beach is wider, the crowd is mixed, the kiosks sell caipirinhas from 11am. I walked the length of the Copacabana promenade in the early morning and watched the older residents doing their exercises on the mosaic pavement — the black and white wave pattern designed by Burle Marx — and ate a pastel (a fried pastry filled with cheese or shrimp, R$8) from a vendor and felt immediately at home.

Christ the Redeemer. I took the cog railway from Cosme Velho — the Trem do Corcovado, running since 1884, a steep 20-minute climb through Tijuca Forest — up to the statue at 710 metres. The scale of it in person is not something you're prepared for even after seeing it ten thousand times in photographs. The outstretched arms span 28 metres. Below in every direction lies the entire city: the Sugarloaf, Guanabara Bay, the beaches, the favelas on the hillsides, the downtown towers. I arrived at 7am before the tour buses and had twenty quiet minutes alone with it.

Tijuca Forest is the world's largest urban tropical forest, 3,200 hectares of Atlantic rainforest reclaimed from 19th-century coffee plantations, embedded within the city. I hired a guide for a half-day hike through the forest — we saw toucans, brown howler monkeys (heard before seen, a sound like something being wrenched apart), and Cascatinha Taunay, a waterfall dropping 35 metres into a pool where we swam. The forest smelled of wet earth and orchids.

The food. Churrascaria Porcão in Ipanema — the definitive Brazilian steakhouse, all-you-can-eat, a rotation of skewered meats brought to your table by gauchos with giant knives, starting with picanha (rump cap, the national cut) and continuing through twelve other cuts until you physically cannot move. I went twice. Aprazível in Santa Teresa, a neighbourhood restaurant with jungle views from terraced seating, serving traditional Mineiro food — slow-braised pork, bean stew, fried cassava — with a wine list and a view that justified the taxi up the hill. The botequins of Lapa on a Friday night: the bars along Rua do Riachuelo where live samba started at midnight and continued until dawn, and I drank cold chopp (draught beer) and tried to dance and was very bad at it and did not care at all.

The Santa Teresa neighbourhood I explored on foot and by tram — the historic yellow streetcar that winds up the hill from downtown through the bohemian streets — past studios and galleries and restaurants and street art. The favela tour: I went with Favela Santa Marta, a community-run guided tour through one of Rio's hillside communities, and came back with a completely different understanding of the city than any beach or restaurant could have given me.

I left from Galeão on a LATAM night flight back to Europe, sitting in economy this time, the favelas on the hillsides still glittering as we climbed over the bay. Rio is the most beautiful city I've ever seen and also one of the most complex. It requires both things simultaneously and offers no apology for either.