Depends on your definition of "failure"

What a glorious morning in Olinda, waking up and having breakfast on the veranda with my pousada co-tenants: lizard, gecko, tiny monkey, and the resident beija flor (Portuguese for hummingbird which translates to “flower kisser”). And this morning, I finally got some solid work done… a solid 1.5 hours, for sure.

I had had a great sleep and again was feeling fresh and ready to spend the day exploring Olinda. The only parts of Olinda worth exploring only take a chilled out one-day to wander via foot. Following breakfast and some work, at about 10 am, I laced up my mom-shoes and headed out into the sunshine filled, cobblestone streets with my little map in hand and headed for my first stop, the Convento de Sao Francisco, founded in 1535, destroyed by the Dutch, then rebuilt in 1631 and it was Brazil’s first Franciscan convent. It is still in use today and, even as I strolled up, it appeared there was a wedding happening:

Convento de Sao Francisco, Olinda

Next I headed for where all the Catholic men were once kept, the Mosteiro de Sao Bento, built by the Benedictine order of monks in the 1500s.

Mosteiro de Sao Bento, Olinda

As I turned the corner on Rua Sao Bento and the monastery came into view and a full-on thick fluid sheen of sweat had by now taken hold of my entire body, I immediately imagined those first monks who came here, sweating profusely in their impractical, yet dogmatic, garbs, to do the civilising and righteous work of the lord. Ha!

According to the internet, it is the only church in Olinda with a mezzanine which is where, in “colonial times” (whatever that actually means), the wealthy would sit:

Mezzanine in the Mosteiro de Sau Bento, Olinda--the VIP box

While the non-wealthy, free people sat on the ground floor:

Inside on the ground floor of the Mosteiro de Sao Bento, Olinda-- the economy class seats

And the slaves rocked out outside in the courtyard, reflective of the long tradition of inequitable access to services; in this case, access to the services of the divine.

After a few quiet and cool-ish moments spent sitting in the pews, I headed out once more in search of the puppet-making museum where apparently you are able to even play with the puppets! But I walked and walked and came to the conclusion that my Frommer map was entirely out of date and that it no longer existed. Also, nothing was really open yet either so it’s hard to say if it isn’t there or if they weren’t open so there was no sign out. Who knows. I kept walking to the next museum on my little fun-filled day-long itinerary which was also not there, or perhaps it had a different name, but I couldn’t find it either. So I thought, well I guess I’ll just go find the Brazilian seafood restaurant recommended by Frommer that sounded really great. Nope. Couldn’t find that either. In fact, I kept ending up walking through streets I pretty much had no business walking through and here, in this more impoverished part of Brazil and me in my mom shoes and wayfarer sunglasses, I was most definitely not “blending”. It was all a total fail, really. I gave up looking for that particular restaurant and decided I’d settle for another one, whatever decent looking place emerged as I walked around more. Nope. Nada. Nothing. Rien. It seems they don’t “DO” lunch, here. And if they do, it isn’t until, at the earliest, 3 pm. Well fine. I get it. With the heat and stuff. But I assumed that, given it is a tourist town, that some clever Olinda inhabitant with an entrepreneurial spirit would have the great idea to set up a lunch place with a lunch time that more closely reflects the cultural lunch time values of, perhaps, say, North Americans and North/ Western Europeans. I did find this place for rent which could make a nice spot for a bistro, no?

For rent!

It’s across the street from this:

Basically I just walked and walked and finally, drenched and shiny with sweat, I admitted defeat for the day and went back to my Pousada. I was certain I had been out and about for hours and hours and that it was at least close to 2 pm. I then found out that it was only 12:20 pm and that even my Pousada’s restaurant didn’t open until 1 pm. It feels as if, in the tropics in the oppressive heat, that time, like the people, stands still.

To kill time until I could access a meal, I went to my room, changed into my bathing suit, grabbed a beer from the minibar and went lounging poolside:

In all my travels, I’ve always felt this pressure to “site-see” so I can go home and tell everyone about all the things I saw. I think it’s safe to say that I’m not alone in this feeling. I recall the first time I said “fuck it” to site seeing, however. It was a two week trip to Santorini a long time ago. I was staying in this great little villa with a pool and had a suite with my own little terrace. I woke up on maybe the second or third morning there and was really having a hard time getting out of bed dreading the idea of touristing and navigating strange transportation systems. I asked myself, out loud: But what do YOU want to do today, Adrienne? I responded to myself with: I want to lay in bed and drink cappuccinos and read the pile of books I brought with me (pre-e-reader phenomenon). So I did. I might have even ordered delivery pizza at one point during that day. Basically I sat in a my bed in a hotel room on a Greek island and ordered 'za. I still don't believe that was a wasted day. When I’ve had the luxury and good fortune of travelling with friends and family, they’ve been good motivators to actually go out and see things rather than just me café-hopping and drinking and eating all day, which is really nice sometimes but it gets both expensive and unhealthy. And sometimes one simply wants to stay in your nice boutique hotel room and watch re-runs of “Friends” in Spanish. It's hilarious.

Today's "failed" afternoon ended up being exactly what I needed.

After an hour by the pool reading and having a beer and re-calibrating my body temperature, I went for a cheeseburger and fries at my Pousada restaurant and a two and a half hour afternoon tropical siesta. It was my thinking that I’d wake up and feel ready to hit the town for the night. That also didn’t really happen.

I went wandering at around 6:30 pm looking for a nice place to sit outside and maybe have a drink before having a late-ish dinner. But that isn’t really a thing here, a nice place to have a drink. The only places that were open or opening at 6:30 pm were full-on restaurants or what I’d describe as “holes-in-the-wall”. The latter all had the kind of ambience I wasn't seeking created by one of two things: 1) bright fluorescent lighting and plastic chairs scattered around onto the street or 2) by very dark, seedy blue-ish lighting where I did see some women in there alone but it looked more like a place where filthy, fat, pasty American tourists (or any nationality, but for the sake of brevity…) would go for some Brazilian sexual exploits. Mostly it appeared to be all locals sitting around on the streets drinking beers. And it was mostly men. It didn’t feel quite right to sit by myself and have a drink in the dark heat on the street with the local men. It’s not that I was scared but rather the idea of this felt more intrusive, than anything.

I retreated back to the trattoria I had dinner the first night and dined on the beautiful veranda overlooking a lush courtyard and had my same beautiful and kind young server with her infectious laugh serve me.

My dinner companions consisted of a large tree...

...a cricket the size of my index finger, and the silhouette of the next door neighbour’s parrot who was sitting on their window sill against the backdrop of their kitchen’s light. I can’t say for sure, but I think we had a staring contest.

I also had the company of a surprisingly wonderful book, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch by Henry Miller (P.S. this book was "borrowed" a long time ago and you, the true owner, can have it back when I see you next). He writes at great length about alone-ness, which I think is apropos for my current travel situation:

“No, we are never alone. But one has to live apart to know it for the truth…To be alone, if only for a few minutes, and to realize it with all one’s being, is a blessing we seldom think to implore….only when we are truly alone does the fullness and richness of life reveal itself to us..” 

As I walked home, the nightlife scene didn't seem to have become any more welcoming so I retired for the evening. Tomorrow morning I head for a truly isolated tropical paradise, Praia de Carneiros, near the village of Tamandare, about a two hour commute south of Recife....my "driver" is picking me up at 10 am.