November 29, 2009

We’re in a perfect place right now.  In Santa Catarina, an hour north of Florianopolis (touted as the perfect state capital in its own right) we’ve been staying in a bungalow on a peninsula overlooking green ocean and oyster farms (which, of course, make me think of Claire.)  The foliage around our bungalow is dense and green, with huge-leafed plants, demure purple flowers, saucy pink and red hibiscus, and my favorite, the pink and white, yellow and red coated tropical snap dragons.  Down a steep hill is a slice of beach with white-cushioned chaise lounges (they bring you ice water with mint and lime here).  If you stand there, you can see a few different fishing villages, brightly colored houses and fishing boats.

It’s rained a little, but it’s a soft gentle rain that’s cooling in the humidity.  We have a hammock on our balcony, with still more views of the fishing villages.  Next to a tennis court there’s a garden, where they grow all of the lettuces that grace the salad plates, and herbs, nasturtium flowers.  There are young fig trees, too.  The day before yesterday, my mom and I walked through the closest fishing village (maybe fifty houses, a few churches, one grocery), across the central beach and to a path that led through the forest, up over a mountain to a huge swath of beach that was totally, utterly empty save for three surfers.  I wonder how many places like this still exist, with nothing, and how many secluded, special, secret coves there are along the coast of Brazil.

We’ve had lazy days with lounging and reading, eating seafood and fresh fruits, playing Scrabble, exploring.  I’m going to be sad to leave this perfect, turquoise (and the most exquisite gray before a storm) place.


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