Farsighted Fly Girl

Long, cold winters are a Chicago hallmark.  I know it's only February but technically, there're three more freezing months to go. It doesn't really start to warm up consistently until June. So this is the time that I start my winter dreams of tropical escapes.  Cachoeira, a charming, small colonial town in Bahia, Brazil is where I long to be. Perched on the banks of Rio Paraguacu, Cachoeira is filled with cobblestone streets and warm people. Cachoeira means waterfall in Portuguese and the whole time I was there, soft sprinkles of intermittent raindrops fell. I thought the rain added to the languorous, mystical feel of the place. Of course, the fact that I visited a candomble house high in the hills of Cachoeira, might have contributed to that feeling.  I took the postcard perfect photo above while I was standing on top of a hill, gazing down at the lush beauty.  I wish I could be surrounded by all that  lavish greenery now. What are your winter dreams?

I said I'd explore the complexities of candomble in earlier posts and here it is, finally. I'll admit, I've been avoiding this for as long as possible because there are so many layers and meanings and opinions attached to this religion that I just don't know where to begin. So I'll begin with my personal experience. On a late June night, in the small southern Brazilian town of Vassouras, I was invited to a candomble ceremony for the feast of San Juan. We drove down some roads and up some hills with only the moon lighting the way. Faintly, we heard the echos of drumming. We climbed down some stairs, past blooming bushes and I saw a huge bonfire. Men were holding large drums over them, tuning the instruments with flames. A tiny altar with flowers and a statue of San Juan stood under a small shack. The men sat down, joined by adolescent boys. They began drumming in a swirl of intricate rhythms A groups of women, clad in long white gowns and head wraps, moved in a circl...

I love adventure. I don't love creepy situations. Generally speaking, it pays to be open to new experiences except when you're freaked out. I learned the hard way that when your inner voice is telling you to beware, it's best to listen and forget about that great travel experience that you're passing up. On my last night in Brazil I stayed in a 400-year-old convent. Yes, it has been converted into a hotel but there's very little evidence of this. A huge crucifix carved from what looks like petrified wood looms in the lobby. Christ hangs from it with suffering and pain carefully etched into his face. The hallways and rooms are painted a stark, institution ,white. All of the floors creek. The key chain I was handed for my room looked like it was at least 100 years old. It was heavy brass and displayed the Carmelite symbol. No decorations mar the minimalistic and dark atmosphere except an oil painting of the last supper in the lobby. Compared to the rest of the place,...