On our first new year's eve in Brazil we woke up in a tent on a remote beach and leisured our way home, by way of three caipirinhas, just in time to add one last nap to last year's tally. Then we read up on Brazilian customs to make sure we did things right. Wear white the internet said, with colored underwear selected to invite your new year's fortune. Eat lentils and pomegranate seeds. Avoid chicken. Make offerings, the internet said. Throw white flowers into the sea, or send vanity products on a homemade boat. Jump seven waves at midnight, making wishes, and then walk backwards to shore. Go to the parties, the internet said, and watch the fireworks. Out we went, wearing white, lentils in our bellies, armed with information and ready to party. We saw groups of other whitely-dressed people and watched the launching of a ship with gifts for Yemanja. We heard music coming from houses and popup tents and from the patios of closed restaurant and bars along the beach. That's right. The restaurants, bars were closed, we weren't invited to any parties and we couldn't even buy a drink. Undaunted, we returned home for lawn chairs and a bottle of Champaign and then back to the sea to hoot and holler, watch fireworks and jump waves for good luck. That's about the time it started to rain. We didn't have our jackets, our chairs were sinking in the wet sand, our dog was miserable and it was still 50 minutes to midnight with no relief in sight. Back home we went, with our muddy chairs, soggy champagne and stinky dog. We watched the fireworks from our window and jumped up and down in our little house, making wishes, wearing underwear selected to bring health and harmony, hoping for the best but unsure of what repercussions our new year's efforts might bring.
No comments:
Post a Comment