Both Curitiba and Foz do Iguaçu are in the state of Paraná, but you could legitimately wonder if they’re related. I’d doubt it if it weren’t for the green “BR-277” road signs invariably pointing to Foz do Iguaçu, a 10-hour road trip away, and the Super Muffato supermarket chain I found again in Curitiba—sadly, they had never heard of my beloved pão de milho that I bought all the time in Foz.

Foz do Iguaçu is nestled in the steamy jungle and offers tourists from all over the world an amazing national park.

Curitiba, Brazil’s “coldest” city, is dry, serious, and very business-like—think São Paulo without the energy—and offers the lone French tourist cheap cups of coffee in the many public squares. It’s not a place many travellers would make a detour for, but it’s often touted as one of the most liveable and sustainable cities, with adequate sewage treatment, water supply through distribution networks, etc. It has funky bus stops too—I’m sure you’ve seen them somewhere online or in schoolbooks.

Feng and I stopped in Curitiba a few times, before Mark and with Mark. But this is one of those Brazilian cities I just didn’t get because back then, I just didn’t get Brazil and spoke very little Portuguese. I don’t have bad memories of Curitiba—I just barely remember it, except that everything seemed to be closed all the time.

My Portuguese is a hell of a lot better now, and places change too. I have a phone in my pocket, I can access Google Maps. I wanted to try Curitiba again. Maybe I’d get it this time.

And here I was, on my first day in Curitiba, a sunny Sunday morning, heading to the feira at Largo da Ordem.

Everything was closed, but I knew where to go because I had Googled it. Ah! See, I can do Curitiba better now!

“Curitiba had the lowest homicide rate in Brazil last year,” posters proudly claim throughout the historic centre.

Gee, I feel safer already.

Kidding aside, I didn’t think twice about crossing the empty centro—something I’d very much avoid on a Sunday in Rio de Janeiro or São Paulo. Curitiba feels pretty safe, and I hope this is not a cultural bias because most locals are white.

Much to my surprise, it wasn’t cold at all in Curitiba. I was prepared for a shock after 10 days in Asunción—40°C during the day and 25°C at night.

“Look, I left the window open!” I told Feng the night before. “It’s 18°C, not that bad, really.”

“Yeah, really. It was -45°C today in Ottawa.”

Right.

I found the Sunday feira—or rather, the pedestrian streets around Largo da Ordem—packed with stalls and people buying crafts or eating.

I stepped into the Mesquita Imam Ali ibn Abi Tálib because it was open to the public and I rarely have the chance to visit mosques. We all took off our shoes at the entrance and draped ourselves in a large piece of fabric provided. The Brazilians found it funny, and everybody was snapping selfies inside.

I hung out at the feira for a while, popping into whatever museum was open and free—the Museu de Arte Sacra de Curitiba first, then the Casa Romário Martins, featuring works by famous Curitiba artist Poty Lazzarotto.

“And, er… where do people go on Sunday in Curitiba after the feira?” I asked around when sellers started to pack up around 2 p.m.

“Samba club at 8 p.m.,” I was told, as if the answer were obvious.

Right. Silly me.

I wandered around the closed city before calling it a day. On Monday, everything else would be open, for sure.

But on Monday, all the museums (duh) and the market were closed as well. I went to the Torre Panorâmica instead—a 110-meter-tall telecom tower with great views over the city for only 10 reais.

I also walked to the Mercado Público when it opened, but it was so clean and orderly that it wasn’t fun—too sterile for my taste.

By Tuesday, sipping yet another cup of delicious cheap coffee in a public square, I realized that I still didn’t get Curitiba. Nothing wrong with it, really; it’s just that… well, the city isn’t cold—the people are.

There’s a rhythm to Curitiba, and I’m just offbeat.

Everybody seems to know what to do, when to go, and where to go.

Of course, they are locals.

But they’re so goddamn serious about it. In a way, they remind me of Parisians, who always do this and that the same way because that’s the way to do it—there’s no other way.

It felt a bit lonely, as if everybody had a purpose but me.

A decade ago, when life was starting the minute Mark was sleeping and we were staying in hotels, not Airbnbs, I was often looking for dinner late at night. I had heard about Curitiba’s “Rua 24 Horas,” and I was confident it was all I needed for food. But when I got there around 11 p.m., everything was closed.

“How come?” I asked a security guard nearby.

“Well, it’s late.”

“But it’s called the 24-hour street!”

“And…?”

He really couldn’t understand why I had reasonably assumed the restaurants and bars were open all night long. This exemplifies perfectly why I don’t get Curitiba—and why Curitiba probably doesn’t get me.

The Rua 24 Horas is still mostly closed, by the way.

It’s okay. I’m taking a break from Curitiba to go to “Germany,” but I’ll be back in a few days—and I’ll try my best to crack it.