COPACABANA, Brazil — On June 12, jubilantly donning green and yellow, a group of 20 tourists marched down from their rented apartments on the hills of Favela da Rocinha, the largest favela, or slum, in South America, to the bus station. But we were not the only ones. Brazil was swimming in an ocean of green and yellow, as locals and tourists prepared for the event of the year: the opening match of the Brazil 2014 World Cup. The match was hours away, but an electric current charged the atmosphere. Grins, greetings of “bom dia” and “Brazil” chants were exchanged at every corner.

After three hours of waiting on the sandy beach of Copacabana, a voice from the speakers exclaimed, “Bem-vindo, FIFA Fan Fest Rio de Janeiro! Brazil!” The crowd’s response was indescribable, as a wave of enthusiasm completely covered the venue. After an hour-long concert by a clearly beloved local Brazilian performer, a live screening of the opening match from the nearby Maracanã stadium begun. And so we watched, along with 4.1 million football lovers worldwide, the parade of culturally flavored Brazilian performances. A 10 second long shot of FIFA President Sepp Blatter was greeted with cursing, finger flipping and a resounding “BOO!” Brazilians were not amused.

The Brazilian national anthem vibrates through the air, merging with the voices of locals in the Fan Fest. Safe to say, none of us had ever witnessed so much heart pumped into the singing of any national anthem before. I however, also cheered the Croatian anthem, for which I became the object of very confused looks from all around me. As the match progressed, I became increasingly aware of the many nationalities present. At one point, I thought I heard someone speak Arabic, my mother tongue. I nudged the redheaded man.

“Was that Arabic?” No. Two seconds later, I realized what I had heard. “Hebrew?” Yes. I had been watching the match alongside an Israeli. Is that not a big part of the World Cup spirit? Honestly, it made me very sad, how could we have so much in common, yet feel so separated. “GOAL!” I snapped out of it. Neymar had just scored.

90 minutes passed. High on energy and excitement for the rest of the World Cup, we began to trace our way back to the exit gate. Of course, we experienced a horrible human traffic jam that was interrupted by a wave of people shoving police officers and jumping entrance gates.The next day, Argentine fans had similarly created such chaos that fans got sprayed with tear gas.

As incredible and magnetic as that experience had been, a general consensus was reached amongst us that we would remain in Rocinha for the rest of the matches.

Rocinha — “Were those fireworks or gunshots?” As I scan the match schedule in my mind, which I have almost religiously memorized, I reply “Fireworks.” Brazil is playing Chile today, June 28. At this point, we have already spent almost two weeks watching the matches in bars and restaurants scattered across Rocinha.

We made our way to the pizzeria at the top of the Via Ápia hill to catch the game. I found it incredible how you can feel the echo of the Brazilians’ prayers up and down the alleys of the favela. My friends ordered a couple of beers as we watched not only the match but also the reactions of the Brazilians around us. As soon as Neymar’s foot touched the ball, all the Brazilians around us cheered and prayed. He had become a national symbol and human representation of what the game means to them.

As much as I love football, I have to admit I had zoned out for half of that game. Rocinha, bless its heart, offers a lot of distractions. To my left, I saw an elderly woman curse and shove the police officers who could do nothing but laugh awkwardly. The police force is one of the most despised entities in Rocinha, if not all of Brazil. However the police officers were still sitting in the café with us. I guess football time is break time. At one point, a police officer was so immersed in the game that he accidently dropped his massive gun amidst young children and uneasy tourists. Lovely.

Thank the Lord, Brazil won. Walking down Via Ápia, you can feel the music and chanting vibrate along with your heartbeat, the exact same way you would at a concert. My friend had a random man walk up and kiss her. A resident of Rocinha, whose legs were amputated, slides up and down Rocinha on a skateboard. Stands selling caipirinha, a Brazilian cocktail, began to dot the Via Ápia hill. A two-day street party followed. Nothing beats being in Rocinha during a Brazil match.

The Final Whistle.Every time Brazil played, we all got quite nervous thinking about what might happen if they lost. However, nobody could have predicted what happened in the Brazil vs. Germany game. As we headed to Copacabana, we all shared our predictions: “Penalties, for sure.” “A 2-1 for Brazil.”

We settled for a restaurant that wasn’t as occupied as the rest. Slowly but surely, Brazilians started to pour in, singing the national anthem which I had grown to love so dearly.

What followed was a historical thrashing of the Brazilian team. The waitresses began to cry. Drunk Brazilian men began to mock the team. An elderly woman reprimanded them. None of this matters though, because Brazil had just lost to Germany. I was with three other girls and the first thing on our minds was: “How on earth are we going to get back home?” Germany scores its seventh goal; everyone at the restaurant is clapping and cheering for them. One of my friends and I were fans of the German team but we couldn’t even bring ourselves to smile that our team had made it to the final. The game is over: the score is 7-1 to Germany.

While David Luiz is shown crying on screen, I hugged the waitress standing at the door. Sure enough, we stepped outside the restaurant only to be greeted by the pelting of rain. Could this night get any drearier? Having lived in Copacabana, I lead my friends towards a bus stop two blocks down — no Brazil shirts were in sight.

Thankfully, a bus arrived promptly. There is no space for us to sit but we didn’t complain. Something quite odd was in the air though.

I nudged my friend, “Are we the only ones that watched this game?” The Brazilians in the bus seemed to be rather chilled out, laughing and singing. Perhaps they were drunk, or just dumbfounded.

We arrived. The scene at Rocinha was one of the most haunting I have ever seen. Of course, the drainage system in the favela is almost nonexistent, so the rain began to form a river. Via Ápia, the scene of three day street parties, is deserted but I have a strong feeling that it is not due to the rain. We somberly hiked up to our little apartment.

The next day, every store that had been selling Brazil-branded merchandise since I had arrived at the end of May, had taken its decorations down. None of my students are wearing the Brazil shirts I had gotten so accustomed to. In my heart of hearts, I know that this was what Brazil needed.

I walked down Via Ápia. In my head I heard David Luiz’s words, stuck like a song: “There are people who suffer so much here in Brazil. I only wanted to see my people smile, to see Brazilians happy because of football at least. We couldn’t do it. Everyone knows how important it was. We apologize to the Brazilian people worldwide and Brazil.”

It is 4 a.m. right now, on June 10,  and I can hear the referee whistle and football players shouting from the football pitch that is a hill away. When people say that Brazil’s religion is football, I do not doubt it for a minute — no one should.