The White Elephant in the Room

I’m often asked if Alberto’s last will and testament specified that his ashes should be spread all over the world?

The answer is no.

There was no explicit request, other than cremation.

My ash-spreading ritual began with a single, off-the-cuff idea as I packed for Fourth of July in New Hampshire.

It felt surreal to go without him, to be packing for just one person. My suitcase was open on the window seat, beside his urn. I’d looked at the urn, then back to the open suitcase, gauging whether it might fit.

The thought was half in jest.

My head, however, remained fixated on the idea of him coming along.

So two hours later, I unscrewed the urn, cut the industrial twist-tie, and scooped a few teaspoons of him into a Ziploc bag. A few days into the trip, I made the decision to spread him in the lake that he called one of his happy places.

As July crept into August, I began plotting escapist trips for what I knew would be rough days—anniversaries, birthdays, holidays—and the ash transfer became part of my pre-trip preparation: got 3 oz. toiletries? A good book? Alberto in a cufflink box?

The ritual refined itself in Miami—fresh flowers were added—and location-scouting took on more significance in London. By the time I swept through Rio, the rite reached a brand-new height.

Jan. 2, 2010, 12:43pm: We are one of a thousand cars inching up a narrow hill on our way to see the famed Cristo statue. After 40 minutes and as many feet, the hotel owners who were kind enough to drive us suggest that we walk the rest of the way.

This will be faster, they say.

We thank them, hop out and head uphill. After about 10 minutes of walking, the scene devolves into chaos: pedestrians weave between moving cars, the two-lane road shrinks inexplicably to one, cars are haphazardly parked everywhere. We continue until we see what appears to be the end of a line that stretches uphill as far as we can see.

There are no signs, no park officials to explain what this line is for.

I ask the people in front of us if this line is for the tickets or the shuttle or what?

When they answer in a foreign dialect, I realize they’re wearing the type of Brasil T-shirts sold in tourist shops.

Primera vez aqui? I ask. (First time here?)

They nod.

Sorry, I tell my cousins, these guys don’t know what’s up either.

Brent, I say, when you were here for Carnival, do you remember two lines?

It wasn’t half this crowded, he says, but I think there was only one line.

Brent is as even-keel as they come, but even he’s shifting his weight and checking his watch. He and Qui are flying to Buenos Aires tonight so the last thing he wants to do on his final day in Brasil is spend four hours in line for a statue he’s already seen.

We continue standing in the queue until a side-view mirror on a descending autobus catches the purse strap of a nearby girl and drags her downhill.

Eff this, I say, resolving to find someone who can tell us how this place works. I notice a Chinese guy in his 20s wearing a Hollister T-shirt and a pair of Persols. He’s walking downhill when I approach him.

Vôce ingles?

Yes, he answers with an American accent.

Thank God, I say. Do you know if this is the ticket line or the shuttle line?

There’s another line up there to buy tickets, he says. It’s shorter than this one. This is the one to get on the shuttle.

So do all these people have tickets already?

Probably not, he says, but they’ll have to stand in it again when they figure it out.

Bless you, I say, and signal to my cousins to follow me.

We hike up to the shorter line, which is essentially a series of bodies winding around cars in a parking lot with no marked spaces. I find a guy selling beers out of a cooler in his trunk, buy a few for us and join Brent and Qui in line.

This line is bearable, especially with a cold Skol in hand, but the lack of posted signs or national park employees still bothers me. Is there a VIP ticket option that allows you to bypass the second line? Should Qui and I get back in the ridiculous line while Brent buys the tickets?

I hear an American accent and leave my cousins to follow it. When I lose the voice in the crowd, I find myself next to a man with turquoise eyes, a black mullet and a green futbol jersey.

Qué locura, I say. (What madness!)

He laughs and asks in Spanish where I’m from?

Nova York. And you?

Sao Paulo.

I ask about the two different lines.

He asks if I have a ticket yet.

My cousins are in line, I say.

When you have your tickets, you can get in this line with me and my girlfriend. She’s right there, he says and points.

The girlfriend waves. She is maybe tenth from the front of the shuttle line.

Are you serious, I say.

Yes, yes, he smiles.

Do you need us to buy you tickets, I ask.

No, no, we have, he says, holding up his ticket.

I ask his name, thank him, shake his hand and dash back to the ticket line. When I approach my cousins, I can hear them talking about Alberto: if he were here, Brent says, he would be asking where is the fucking VIP line already?

I interrupt and tell them I have apparently found the VIP line: I point out my new friend Renal who’s holding our place at the front of the line.

You’re amazing, Brent says.

We’re getting some extra help today, I say.

Tickets in hand, we find Renal, who ushers us into an air-conditioned shuttle that ascends through clouds and around hairpin turns, lurching to a stop at the Roman staircase leading to the Cristo statue.

Jan. 2, 2010: Tre Miller-Rodriguez is posthumously curing Alberto of his fear of heights: spreading his ashes on Rio’s highest mountain, in the shadow of Christ the Redeemer. (1:53pm via Facebook Mobile) 

Every angle of El Cristo is more majestic than the last.

Jesus, as it turns out, does not know how to take a bad picture.

I start up my iPod and edge my way through sweaty tourists toward the balcony. From my backpack, I take the bag of flowers cut from my hotel garden and the black box of his ashes. I also bring out a small towel and a spray bottle of water because after London, I learned that ash sticks to fingers.

I cross myself, take a handful of Brasilian flowers, a scoop of him and release.

It spreads out like a fan through which I can see the entire city, the ocean, the huge rock formations that look like pebbles from this elevation. The view makes me sob in happy-sadness: if he were here, he would be so awestruck that he’d forget his fear of heights.

In this moment, it occurs to me that spreading his ashes here means he’ll have to conquer his phobia. 

Posthumously.

I imagine how mad he’d be that I dragged him here. I would remind him that he got me over my fear of going topless, so I’m merely returning the favor.

For the first time ever, I am smiling my way through this ritual.

Until I’m jostled by a loud German woman behind me.

I turn around and over her head, I notice the green jersey of Renal, who recognizes me.

I mouth the words muchas gracias, and touch my fist to my heart in gratitude. He nods and smiles before disappearing into the crowd.

I continue spreading Alberto’s ashes and flowers to my Cuban music until he’s gone.

There’s one flower left, which I kiss and release 2000 feet above the City of God.