Mido's many braids swing as he waves to friends and we make our way through the deepening shadows of Rio de Janeiro's back streets. Fresh from leading a favela (slum) tour — the latest thrill for tourists interested in seeing how the other half lives Admilton dos Santos talks with animation about tonight.

"The best place to hear music is in Lapa, in downtown Rio," he says. "The antique stores along Lavradio Street turn into dance halls after dark. You can dance among the antiques to the rhythms of samba, pagode and chorinho."

Mido is an expert on off-the-beaten-track Rio. A third-generation denizen of the Chapéu Mangueira favela, he has "taken advantage of opportunities" to become a state-licensed guide. He speaks five languages, all picked up from selling soft drinks on the beach in Copacabana. He's a street guy, an operator, a man with a heart of gold who gives the proceeds of his tours to the community he lives in.

"I have always enjoyed showing tourists around the favela," he says. "I like to show them the reality, the positive side of life here, the community services and projects that keep children occupied and off drugs."

Traveling around Rio with Mido is an unique experience. The son of a boxer and grandson of a former slave — an Amazon Indian who escaped forced labor on a sugar cane plantation to found the favela above Leme Beach — Mido is eager to show me around. But first, he insists, we take a nap.

Artwork abounds throughout Rio

Later that night

Near the Arcos da Carioca (aqueduct), a monumental work undertaken in colonial Rio, the Lapa scene has wealthy Zona Sul residents rubbing shoulders with throngs of the working class. Nowhere is the "Carioca's" (Rio native) love of music more apparent. From storefront to storefront, the sweet strains of samba filter out through the hot haze of the "gafieira" (dance hall). There's also bossa nova and the hand-clapping and stomping of the percussive batucada.

"I love samba, African-American music, Caribbean music," Mido says as we enter Emporium 101 on Lavradio Street.

We join a table of transplanted Europeans enjoying caipirinhas — an addictive cocktail of cachaça, the local liquor, sugar and limes — and plates of "pao de quejo," Brazilian cheese rolls. Bertrand Matteoli, a plastic surgeon from Paris, is talking about the difference between what women want in Rio vs. Paris and Los Angeles.

"In L.A., when they go to the doctor, they ask for large breasts and little hips," Dr. Matteoli explains. "In Brazil, they want little breasts and big hips. In Paris, they want little everything."

I look around the crowd dancing among the formidable antiques and find plenty of support for Dr. Matteoli's summation. Beautiful women dressed in skin-tight slacks shake their (refreshingly ample) backsides in time to the music.

"I think we should stop under the aqueduct later," Mido says, clearly eager to move on. "You can have a drink and listen to music on the streets. For decades, Lapa has been a traditional Bohemian hangout. Today it is the meeting point of artists, music lovers and authentic Cariocas."

"Hey, why not," I think. "It's only 1 a.m. What's the rush?"

Things get started late in Rio — dinner never begins before 9 p.m. and an evening easily extends into the next morning. So off we go to a neighborhood that reminds me most of New York's East Village in the 1980s. Dark, even a bit dismal, the narrow cobblestone street is alive with Carioca dancers spilling out from minuscule boites and drinking clubs. There's great hilarity, a bit of madness. I stay close to Mido. This is not a journey I would have undertaken alone. This is, after all, Rio, known not only for its street scene, but street crime.

Trolleys travel the hills of the historic Santa Rica district

After midnight

When 2 a.m. rolls around, Mido decides it's time for dinner and suggests feijoada — a typically Brazilian meal made from pork, beef and black beans closely resembling a French cassoulet. We walk a few blocks through a pedestrian mall, and then — Could this be a caipirinha-induced hallucination? — we wander into an incredible Belle Epoque dining room.

Confeitaria Colombo, built in 1894 and refurbished to its original Art Nouveau splendor in 1913, would seem more at home in Bavaria than Brazil. The interior is a reflective mass of rosewood-encased Belgian mirrors topped by a ceiling dominated by a stained-glass skylight. The pieces of period furniture, Italian marble benches and French chandeliers coexist in perfect harmony on two floors built around a central rotunda.

Locals saunter back and forth between buffet tables covered with the feijoada's traditional clay pots. Groups toast with ceremonial feijao — water the beans were cooked in, served scalding hot — in front of plates heaped with mounds of cabbage, fried bananas and rice. We dine until I feel my backside could rival any on the dance floor at Lapa. Thankfully, Mido suggests more dancing and leads the way to Carioca da Gema for a little hip-hop.

"Carioca da Gema is an expression that means 'a real Carioca' — someone born in Rio," Mido explains. "Gem is the yolk of the egg; therefore, the true core. The true Carioca."

If anything, Carioca da Gema is authentic. It's an ancient two-story house with wrought-iron balconies moaning with the weight of cachaça-crazed dancers. Loud music, loud laughter and not a tourist in the place. It's a scene — and exhausting — but what a way to end an evening.

Mido and I make plans to meet the next morning for an outing to the historic neighborhood of Santa Teresa and the annual celebration of Brazilian art known as "Arte de Portas Abertas" (open studio tour).

Even gates become works of art in wrought iron

Santa Teresa

More than 60 artists are participating this year, and every conceivable medium is represented: installation art, hand-painted silks, infrared photography, Lucite sculpture and paintings in the style of James Brown, Jean-Michel Basquiat or Keith Haring.

We start at a small, offbeat museum dedicated to the trolley car situated on one of Santa Teresa's many cobblestoned hills. The bright yellow trolleys run throughout the district and are a pleasant way to get around. Mido warns me Santa Teresa is not entirely safe, so I keep an eye on my purse and camera. It's a pleasant day of strolling from studio to studio speaking with the artists, viewing their work and nosing around their turn-of-the-century homes.

At one corner we come across a Bahian woman who has set up a makeshift luncheonette and is serving the traditional hot-spiced food from her region of Brazil. She is festooned in red beads — signifying her allegiance to a certain Santeria goddess — a pristine white turban and swirls of fabric crafted into a skirt. From a table dominated by a wooden fetish of a fist cushioned in a nest of leaves, she dishes out chilies, tomatoes and pork.

Portas Abertas has been around for six years, and has developed from informal visits to local ateliers to an area-wide celebration of multiple media. The catalog accompanying the tour calls the event "art battling barbarism," referring to the area's reputation for crime. But on the weekend nights of the event, there are so many people milling around, including children, it's hard to conjure up much fear, or even caution.

The homes of the various artists are every bit as spectacular as the art. Built predominantly in the 1800s, the palatial quarters with celestial ceilings, hand-carved moldings, crenelated roofs, wrought-iron balconies, and hand-painted tiles are often hidden behind crumbling stucco exteriors or reached through open plazas choked with the overgrowth of jungle vegetation.

Art imitates life imitates art

Local artists incorporate a number of styles

After a buying frenzy, and feeling euphoric from the inhalation of exceptional art, I and Mido opt for another artistic stop: the Carmen Miranda museum in Flamingo Park. This small circular, futuristic structure is filled with the pint-sized sequined gowns, tropical fruit headgear, platform heels and jewelry worn by Brazil's greatest export. Movie posters cover the concrete walls, while an endless "greatest hits" tape plays, featuring Miranda's most popular songs. This is the kind of stop that takes no more than 10 minutes, has great T-shirts and leaves a lasting impression. Hints of Miranda's tragic story — her death at 46 of a heart attack, her depression and frustration at being cast as a dancing stereotype, her alcoholism — appear in photographs from films and endless parties.

The photographs and fruit headgear put Mido in mind of a cocktail, so we drive over to one of his favorite afternoon haunts, a "botequim" or neighborhood bar. Mido chooses Petisco da Vila, in the Vila Isabel district north of the city near the samba school and home to many of Rio's most renowned samba musicians. Mido also likes Cobal de Botafogo, which is a fruit and vegetable storehouse during the week and a music hall and restaurant on weekends. There are spirited groups seated two-deep around small café tables, and musicians begin to wander in, forming a band that grows larger as the hour grows later. Mido and I order kiwi batidas, joining a table near the ever-expanding band.

"For me this is the most typical thing in Rio to do," Mido explains. "You can have a caipirinha or a beer and eat a good feijoada and listen to some good pagode and samba music. It's a place where Cariocas go after the beach to meet with friends and discuss life."

I stayed in that last night, opting for a Belini and peanuts at the Cipriani bar at the Copacabana Palace Hotel. Ricky Martin was checking in; the staff was aflutter. They recalled stories about U2's Bono singing a cappella from the hotel's balcony during the Rockin' Rio tour. Sting was such a gentleman; he held the door for elderly women. Scenes from the American classic "Flying Down to Rio" were filmed here. And although not off the beaten track, the hotel even garnered approval from Mido.