Four years ago, I found myself on the northeast coast of Brazil feeling like a complete stranger. It was my first time to South America. The culture was new, the food was new, and for the first time, I was immersed in a language foreign to my ears.
I made a routine of heading to Recife’s Boa Viagem Beach. The city, whose name translates to “reef” in Portuguese, featured on its edge this gorgeous beach with salt grain sand, waves sparkling like silverware and toothy dried coral reefs peaking above the tide. One day, I plopped myself on a lawn chair unaware that I’d seated myself in a business. Within moments, a server came to take my order. Not understanding, I looked at him with confusion. He smiled as if enjoying an inside joke and left only to return minutes later. We did this dance a few times before I, the only foreigner on the beach, finally understood and ordered a beer.
Two days later, on the beach again, my stomach growled. I was hungry for some freshly-caught seafood from one of the fisherman sauntering up and down the beach. When I spotted a young guy lugging a bucket of shrimp, I waved him over communicating enough to buy myself a bowl, feeling proud for completing such a simple task.
I smiled. Nothing beats an ice-cold beer paired with flavours from the ocean and freshly-squeezed lime. Then, out of nowhere, the sky opened and it started to rain. Water lashed down aggressively, seemingly in an effort to drown Boa Viagem. Brazilians dashed to cars and I crouched under an umbrella. I’m lucky my waiter had taken note of me because within seconds, he and a fellow vendor ran over and constructed a makeshift hut with four beach umbrellas. Thankful for their kindness, I finished my salty ocean snack dry and in peace as the lone person on the beach, while drops drummed overhead. It’s a lunch I’ll never forget.
