# 51 Beautiful Brazil is Changing Me, One Samba Step at a Time
On the transformative power of music, dancing, and being together.
One
Music pours out onto the cobblestones. People on the street step to the beat of African drums in the last rays of the sun. They sing along with a velvet voice coming from a bar.
Daniel and I slow to a stop and peek inside through the wide open windows. A happy crowd surrounds five musicians at a table cluttered with green bottles of German and Dutch beer. They’re playing their hearts out, yet appear calm and in control.
I knew live music and spontaneous dancing were part of Brazilian culture, but before coming here, I never imagined they would be as ubiquitous as this. I felt spoiled in Rio de Janeiro and feel even more so here in Bahia’s capital, Salvador. Music lifts the air and paints the already colorful façades.
“These guys are so good!” says Daniel, who used to make records for a living. “They would fill clubs in Europe.”
I cannot recognize talent and skill like he does, but I know when music moves me, when the collective sound of multiple instruments pulls at my strings.
The bar is full, so we stay on the street with the other lucky listeners. There’s a strong sense of community, of shared awe. Middle-aged women dance in threes and fours, connecting with one another in visible yet unnamable ways. Old gentlemen make subtle, expert moves. Young girls swing their hips with incredible agility.
And I stand still, as though indifferent. Too self-conscious, perhaps. Too sad, maybe. Too overwhelmed as an observer to truly take part.
Two
“You must see the Museum of Carnaval,” said our tour guide the other day.
So here we are, seeing it. We read the descriptions and learn how carnival changed from an excluding Christian celebration to the embracing world spectacle it is today. We watch the documentary footage of performances and parades and photograph the costumes.
Unimpressed by the rather flat representation of the larger-than-life festivities, we reach the top floor where we enter a darkened space. A dance floor is bordered by a huge screen. Shelves hold masks, hats, and other carnival paraphernalia. We’re alone save for the museum attendant, who invites us to dress up. This is our time to shine.
Daniel gets out his camera, thinking I will be game. I used to love dressing up, and he doesn’t know me as someone too shy to dance. But I shake my head: not here, not now.
In the first video the attendant puts on, Daniela Mercury, a national star, explains the African influence on the Brazilian carnival and how this has made it so vibrant and unique. Clips of dance groups follow.
My body remembers the pulse of my youth, the sweaty jazz ballet rehearsals and thrills of Janet Jackson moves. In high school, I danced a solo performance of Prince’s Kiss on stage that boosted my profile. Later, I played the djembe to get better at African dance.
Yet here I am, standing still.
I imagine the attendant telling his girlfriend that evening: “There was this white couple today, just standing there like statues, defying our music.”
I’m close to tears by now, and although there’s nothing wrong with crying every now and then, I dislike getting emotional in public, so I turn my mind around. I go outward instead of inward. Look how these dancers sway their arms! How their feet merge with the drums! Feel their energy radiating toward you!
Miraculously, it works. I warm up. I don’t dance, but I sway and go from sullen to smiling within minutes.
The tears that linger are no longer proof of my sadness. They’re a sign that I’m alive.
Three
In a wooden house on an island hill that reminds me of our place on the Galápagos where I felt happy and part of the world, Daniel and I are watching videos together on his phone.
Two friends from Vietnam taught themselves swing dance from watching videos, and we follow their example. Not to learn Lindy Hop, but to practice our samba steps.
It takes us a while to find the right lesson; most videos aren’t meant for middle-aged authors who cannot remember the last time they truly let go.
“I need to see her back,” I say. “I cannot mimic her steps when she’s facing me.”
Finally, we land on a patient young teacher who breaks down the most basic move into three steps. Back, forth, together. Left, then right. We get it. These are the steps we’ve seen every Brazilian make the moment music touches them. We feared the rhythm was inborn, in their blood, and we would be forever excluded. But no. We, too, can surrender. We, too, can let in the light.
The next day, as we walk through the cute yet touristic village of Morro de São Paulo, where we’re fortunate to stay for a while, the music performed on the street sounds like an invitation.
“Let’s go,” I say. “I’m ready.”
I’m Claire Polders, a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Read about my books and more on my website www.clairepolders.com.
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Daniel and I will remain on Morro de São Paulo for one more day. Tomorrow, we travel to Boipeba, an island farther south where tourists are still in the minority.
All my best,
Claire
P.S. This post is one day late. I sometimes fail to plan ahead and suffer from migraines. Maybe it also means that I’m on island time—a good thing.
Hey Claire! I enjoyed the perspective — it feels new: movement isn’t just external; it shifts the interior geography too. Brazil doesn’t just give music; it gives you permission.
The way you describe standing still in Pelourinho really resonated with me. Some places don’t just invite participation; they overwhelm you with history, beauty, and emotional weight. Stillness in a place like Salvador isn’t indifference — it’s reverence. It’s the body negotiating how to enter a rhythm that existed long before you arrived.
And that museum moment — the tension between wanting to stay invisible and wanting to be moved — was beautifully honest. Most travelers don’t admit that gap between being present and allowing yourself to join the moment. You captured it without judgment, and that made it feel even more universal.
The final section warmed me: the rediscovery of muscle memory, the humility of learning steps that look effortless on everyone else, and the quiet courage of saying “I’m ready,” even if it’s just to sway, to let a little light in.
This was a generous, human piece. Thanks for sharing your take with us.
I loved your review of Brazil! I have only seen a small glimpse of it and hope to return in the not too far future. Brava!