The Brazilian Canga

Something happens when you put on a Brazilian canga. Something that I can barely put into comprehensible words, however I’ve had three (1,2,3…) Caipirinhas so let me explain…

Earlier today we went to the local market and wandered around shops and food. We were serenaded with live music while dining, enjoyed exotic fruits, and browsing local stands before they closed for holiday. I didn’t really think I would buy anything, but I’m very aware that my casual chill wardrobe is seriously lacking for being in Brazil. Fuck. I need to unleash my inner Brazilian…

We stumble upon one last corridor, where I find a Brazilian canga. Legend has it, you can tie it many ways and it has many faces. It’s a dress, it’s a wrap, it’s a top, it’s a skirt… This one was black with a pink pattern running through it. It’s beautiful. I fell in love at first sight and decided to make it mine.

Later on, I had opted out of the beach club party activity for the evening. Not because I’m not game for throwing down on the dance floor, but because after a long and awesomely eventful day I wasn’t sure if I could swing it. Playing it safe maybe, or was I?

There are 3 other women left in our house, who also opted out of the dance party. As soon as I got home, I google how to tie this fancy canga. I try several different ways before settling on a sweet halter top that knotted around the neck; that and a pair of jeans and black flip flops, my wild curls tied up, I look in the mirror… Holy shit, I’m Brazilian!!!! We must do something with this new identity.

I walk upstairs to my other house guests and say “let’s go walking on the beach!” They agreed. I just wanted to be out, not necessary with music blasting, but still taking advantage of a Saturday night in Brazil.

Off we go, along the beach at night, barefoot with wet sand and the rising tide as waves crash into the shore. I look up to the stars (always do) and the possibilities take me away. We end up breaking away from the beach and hitting the main strip, where we happen upon live…. Swing music?!?! In Brazil, maybe with some Argentinian undertones. The band is rocking and the audience is into it. Some couples are dancing and I am entranced as I watch them sway. We grab an outdoor table nearby to enjoy.

Then onward. Onward through local shops and perusing and going with the flow. The air carries the salty sea breeze and we are carefree. But, I must say, as a traveler, there are 2 main things that drive me, that I must be aware of at all times: Food and sleep. I must know that I will eat, and where I will sleep.

The latter I already knew, but my stomach rumbled, reminding me it was time to shift focus from happenstance to steadfast purpose. The band had finished to an encore with standing ovation. We walk over to the other side of the strip and head down the opposing row of shops and restaurants. I had already been to these restaurants before. I wanted something new.

We landed at Boteco Jurê, a restaurant with an open seating that let in the breeze from outside which carried the strangely familiar acoustic strings of the live music within.

From here, my words may not be the best, and I’ll probably edit them later in several rewrites. But for the sake of getting out the raw truth, I must tell you, that if I closed my eyes in this moment, we were in a speak easy in New Orleans and the band had put their foot in it, I mean they were funky! I mean English lyrics and Motown and everything that’s before my time that I somehow know about anyway.

I mean that between our English and Spanish and Portuguese we made it work. I mean delicious food and we translated the Portuguese menu from what we’ve learned and experienced. I mean our waitress was absolutely lovely and spoke some English too. I mean we had by far the best table in the house (right in front of the band). I mean though they sung English well, the drummer spoke only Spanish and the guitarist was from Uruguay. I mean 3 Caipirinhas and I took one for the team so we could hold the table a little bit longer. I mean I could sit in my seat no more, the music pulsating through my veins like I was in the arts district of Austin at some garden party with a live band. Dear God! I had to move! We had to dance! We jumped up from our seats and break it on down on the dance floor. I mean I told my lovely housemates to “Sippity sip,” our term for drink slow to make this last, and we took turns ordering beverages (keeping our prized table on lock down).

We cheered so much for this band, they did 3 more songs past encore. We chatted with them and took pictures after. I dropped the mic on the evening. We walked back home, floating, laughing, lost in a dream; knowing this story and this evening, and every choice made led to the night of a lifetime. Completely unplanned. Amazing. Beautiful. Wonderful. Meant to be.

I am in my pajamas in bed now, writing this, and also starring suspiciously at that canga. It’s like the magic of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, or the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter. Regardless, as I retire this mystical article of clothing for the evening, I’m seriously considering wearing it again. Tomorrow.