Saturday, October 3, 2009
Cachaca, Canoa and C.O.O.L - Brasil
I'm sitting in my sandy hotel that is not actually on the beach, drinking my last cup of Guanabana juice. My bags are packed, and I have that sinking high school graduation feeling.
"I think maybe you are part Brasilian," my new friend Priscilla told me yesterday, and I couldn't have asked for a better compliment.
From this trip I've learned that the Brasilian wax is a misnomer, not to ride a mototaxi in a miniskirt, how to understand (but not speak) Portuguese, and that being vegetarian in the countryside is not the best of ideas.
Our last days in Icapui were spent swinging in hammocks in homes in the hilltops and restaurants on the beach. I hugged my new little sisters and gave them small gifts and knew it was not enough. A pink notebook or candy is no match for eating tapioca, bayon and coconut biscuits at Niete's home, and nothing I can stammer in Portuguese is like the stories, tears and laughs these women have shared.
My Mac is on the last sliver of battery and I prefer to spend my last hours with my Fortalezan friends. Ciao.