Page 56 of Omega

I followed the beach and tried to just enjoy the sunlight and the heat and the ocean and the beauty of Brazil, and tried not to think. I just walked. Eventually, after maybe three miles, the beach ended at another rising mountain of jungle, this one much larger and more permanent, as in not the kind of outcropping you could walk around. So I picked a road and started following it, passing a lovely café right on the water, the kind of place where I’d have loved to be able sit at a table and watch people come and go, eat, drink, argue, kiss. But I didn’t dare stop. So I followed the road, up, up, up. It just kept going up, half-finished high-rises on my left, the jungle on my right stopping just at the road’s edge. Not a nice area, necessarily, not for tourists. But I kept going. Unwisely, perhaps, but I was committed to just walking, walking, walking.

The jungle gave way to a mammoth hotel, and I realized I was topping the rise. Sort of.

Okay, no, not really. There was still a lot of hill left to climb.

Alotof hill.

Jesus.

I started climbing and was sweating balls, out of breath, and exhausted beyond all comprehension, but I’d started up this hill and by god I’d make it to the top. Just because I’m fucking stubborn that way.

Up. Up. Up.

It eventually crested with the sea far below and off in the distance, blue and hazy, nothing but an outcropping of tree-covered rock ahead and a handful of dilapidated, white-washed buildings off to my right. The road turned into ancient, cracked octagonal cobblestones, angling to my right toward the cliff’s edge. A hand-painted sign announced a telephone number, and beneath the number were some Portuguese words, and one word in English that I recognized: “camping”—a campground, then. Run-down, out of the way, and shitty.

Perfect.

A trio of chickens meandered past me, clucking to each other, seeking shade under a lone palm tree, hustling a little faster as I passed them. At the road’s edge was a white-washed cinderblock building topped by a slab of corrugated tin, nothing but some cheap chicken-wire fencing at the very cliff’s edge. A couple of yellow signs announced something or other in Portuguese, which obviously I didn’t read. But I did know enough back-of-the-house restaurant Spanish to recognize that “fritata” and “coco verde” probably meant food of some kind. That, plus the rickety plastic table and chairs and the bright pink umbrella, meant this was very likely a restaurant of some kind.

Way out here, fiverealmight just get me something to drink and somewhere to sit and not have to walk for a few hours.

In I went. It was dark, the ceilings low, and it smelled wonderfully of frying food. It was hot, but cooler than outside, a window AC unit puffing away noisily somewhere, and a wide-bladed fan overhead lazily stirred the air.

So… “restaurant” may have been stretching things a bit.

But it was a public establishment, and it was deserted, so I could probably kill time here without attracting any attention.

There was a table near the door, and I sat down with my back to the wall so I could watch the interior as well as the door and the street beyond. I heard voices in the back chattering in Portuguese, but I was in no hurry. I was just glad to be off my feet and out of the sun. Eventually a tiny, hunched old woman emerged from somewhere, saw me, and started exclaiming excitedly, hustling over to me, placing a twenty-year old laminated menu in front of me. It had maybe six items on it, none of which I recognized, but at least the numbers next to the items told me I could probably make the last of my stolen money stretch enough to get me a meal and something to drink.

I spoke over the old woman’s excited rambling. “American. I speakInglés.”

“Oh…no, no. NoInglés.” And then she was off again, chattering way too fast for me to catch anything even if I did speak the tiniest amount of Portuguese, which I didn’t. Except “thank you”, which wasobrigado.

Um.

“Agua?” That was Spanish again, but it was all I had to go with.

She understood, bustling away and returning with a tall translucent red plastic cup, the kind you used to get at Pizza Hut. It was full of ice water, and I took it and guzzled it down greedily, offering my best version of “obrigado,” which made her grin and chatter something else at me.

I fished the crumpled five-realbill out of my pocket and set it on the table, gestured at the menu with a shrug, and then patted my belly. Which hopefully translated to “Pick something for me, lady, because this is all the money I have and I don’t read Portuguese.”

Apparently she understood, because she took the money, stuffed it into her apron pocket, and vanished. She returned with a fresh glass of ice water and then vanished once more. This time she was gone for about twenty minutes, which were gloriously silent, except for the occasional crackle of ice against the red plastic. When she returned, it was with a plate loaded down with a shitload of food.

It looked like little balls of something deep fried, a largeempanadasort of thing, but bigger and flatter and crispier-looking, and then a huge glop of rice and beans topped by what looked like a fried flour substance mixed with bacon and peppers of some sort. It smelled like heaven. But way too much food for a measly fivereal. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and turned them out to show that I had no more money, and then shrugged broadly.

The woman just waved at me, and a dismissive grandmotherly wave is the same all over the world, it seemed. “Comer! Comer!” she said, gesturing at the plate.

I’d seen the gesture before, but in Italian—“Mangia! Mangia!”, or “Eat! Eat!”.

I thanked her again, picked up the fork and tried one of the deep fried balls. Ho-leeee shit. Best. Thing. Ever. It had some kind of creamy melted cheese and shredded chicken inside it, and it was divine.

The woman pointed at the deep fried balls when I stabbed another one. “Coxinhas.”Co-sheen-yas.

Delicious.

The empanada-thing was next. I forked it open and discovered that it contained more melted, gooey cheese, ground beef, sautéed white onions, and jalapeños. She called it apastéis.I didn’t care what she called it, as long as I could keep eating it. The rice and beans and flour concoction was just as amazing as everything else, so by the time I finished I was sated, stuffed, and happy.

I wished I had more money to give her, but I didn’t, so I had to settle for effusive thanks, which the woman just waved away. I took my cup of ice water—my third one—and moved out to the table on the patio, sitting in the shade of the umbrella, and stared out at the sea.