One of the best weeks I’ve ever had was spent traveling in Brazil with Zaha Hadid, 29 years ago. We began at a big conference in São Paolo, speaking to an ear-phoned audience via simultaneous translation into half a dozen languages. Unfortunately, the organizer was short of funds and the translators began to walk off the job—resulting in Babel and bedlam. Four of us—me, Zaha, my wife, and a traumatized friend, just dumped by her partner—beat a retreat to the Copacabana Palace in Rio de Janeiro and headed for the beach across the street.
It was a topless beach in the most body-conscious country on earth and I relaxed into connoisseur mode. Zaha immediately began giggling at my gaze and suggested I take a better look at the beefy legs and bulging bikini bottoms of the gorgeous creatures I was pretending not to be staring at. It was the transgender topless beach! Perfect! Zaha loved formal transformations of all sorts—delighted in the play of parameters, the style-drive, and the freedom—and had a rich architectural vocabulary to describe various body parts.
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