![[Brazil_Reflections_Part_13.mp3]]I woke up in Paraty on our second morning there and came out of my room into a house that already had a pulse. Livia was awake. Laio and Mariana were still sleeping. The air felt damp and cool, the kind of morning where everything seems softened by humidity, and the day already had that familiar shape I’d been learning to accept: we were leaving again. Livia handed me a breakfast pastry she had picked up on a walk. I had never seen it before. I asked what it was called and she said **um sonho**—a dream. The name was perfect. It was like a donut, light and soft, sweet enough to feel slightly unfair as a “breakfast” item, and delicious in a way that made the translation feel literal. Dream was not branding. It was accurate. By that point, packing the car had become my job. No one assigned it to me. It just happened through repetition. After enough transitions, roles form without discussion, and I had taken over the packing because I treated it like an engineering puzzle and couldn’t resist optimizing it. We had been hauling groceries with us since we left Laio’s house, and the groceries were always the hardest part to fit. They lived in a milk-crate-style container that had been handled so much that the lattice was starting to break. It was oddly shaped, more delicate than a crate had any right to be, and it had a way of ruining otherwise clean packing geometry. I had been experimenting all trip. Load order. Pressure points. Which bags could compress. Which items had to remain accessible. Which weirdly shaped object only fit if you rotated it exactly the right way. By the time we left Paraty, I had a system. I could feel the layout in my head before touching anything, like a mental model that made the trunk behave. Once Laio and Mariana were up, Laio explained the shift clearly: up until then, most of what I had seen was coastal life in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro—beaches, boats, sea air, old colonial streets near the water, and the rhythm of places that exist in constant conversation with the ocean. Now we were going inland to Minas Gerais, to Serranos, where Mariana was born and spent her early childhood before her family moved to Sorocaba. We were going to meet relatives and spend a few days in the part of Brazil where family land, farms, and long roads shape daily life. On paper, it was “a few hours.” In practice, it was most of the day. ## Lunch in Caxambu Around noon, we stopped in Caxambu with a specific restaurant in mind. Caxambu felt like a mountain town with old-world posture: narrow streets, tall buildings, layered hills, and facades that looked like they had been designed for a different century. Even with overcast skies and light rain, it was beautiful to walk. It had an almost European charm, like an old town that had been modernized without being flattened. I remember Laio mentioning something about the town’s reputation for mineral waters—almost in a joking way, like “magical mountain fountain waters”—but the identity felt real. You could sense the way a place accumulates architecture around a long-standing purpose. We parked, got out, and walked up to the restaurant that had been recommended. Closed. Tuesday. My first instinct arrived instantly: pull out my phone, start searching, solve the problem through reviews and ratings. I had already started imagining what I would type—something like “best lunch Caxambu”—and I could feel the familiar desire to optimize. Mariana and Livia solved it differently. Two women were standing outside under an awning, smoking and staying dry. Mariana and Livia walked over and asked for recommendations. No awkwardness. No hesitation. Just people asking people. The women gave directions with enthusiasm and strongly recommended a self-serve buffet where food was charged by weight. It happened fast. It also stuck with me. Laio said something simple and matter-of-fact that landed hard in me: a local is going to know more about what’s good than Yelp will. Of course. It’s obvious. But it is not how my brain defaults. I often imagine myself as an inconvenience to strangers. I imagine locals being annoyed if I ask for help. I imagine the social cost being higher than it is. But on the receiving side, when someone asks me for directions or recommendations back home, I’m never upset. Maybe if I’m busy I’m brief, but I’m not offended. So why do I assume strangers are offended when I’m the one asking? There may be a small percentage of people who don’t want to be approached. That minority becomes louder in our imagination than the majority. Watching Mariana and Livia approach strangers with no friction was a reminder that talking to people is normal, and often welcomed, and sometimes the simplest answer is also the best one. ## Comida a Quilo The restaurant was exactly what I needed and not at all what I would have found on my own. Long counters of meats, beans, rice, stews, vegetables, and sides I couldn’t name, everything smelling like smoke, garlic, and salt. I loaded my plate with the strategy I use when I don’t recognize half the options: small portions of everything that looks good, because curiosity is easiest when you don’t overcommit. I liked almost all of it. Some dishes tasted like open-fire cooking, not just grilled meat but that deeper charcoal flavor that lingers behind everything. Even the hot holding station looked old-school and mechanical in a satisfying way, with trays warmed over water and heat from below, like the whole place had been running on systems that worked long before anyone cared about looking modern. There was another detail I loved: payment flow. They handed each person a plastic card with a barcode. Drinks, dessert, extras got scanned onto your card, and you settled the tab at the end. I had seen something similar at Brazilian highway gas stations with multiple vendors: one card, one final checkout, clean exit. It’s a small thing, but it makes shared spaces run smoothly, and I always notice it because my brain is constantly watching how systems behave. Another Brazil pattern showed up again: when I ordered soda, it came cold but not iced unless I asked. And at checkout, the question I kept hearing everywhere: **débito ou crédito?** That lunch reset us. Then we got back in the car and kept climbing inland. ## Into Minas As we drove toward Minas, the land began to look more agricultural and more steep, and there were hills that didn’t look flat enough to stand on. Herds of cattle were scattered across those slopes like mountain goats, balanced on angles that seemed wrong to my eyes, standing there as if gravity had signed a special agreement with them. Somewhere deeper into Minas Gerais, the landscape changed in a way I couldn’t ignore. Termite mounds. Not one or two near a fence line. Entire fields dotted with them. Clay-colored cylinders, roughly evenly spaced, and somehow consistent enough to look like the land had been textured intentionally. Anywhere there was grass, they were there. My mind was blown. I kept pointing them out while everyone else barely reacted. For them, normal. For me, surreal. Laio thought it was funny how fascinated I was, and I kept staring out the window like I was watching a new category of landscape appear. I also learned the word overlap I loved: **cupim**—the termite reference and the famous hump cut of meat from zebu cattle—showing up in the same language family. One is insect architecture. One is barbecue. Hearing that connection while staring at termite-country made the drive stick in my head. ## Rancho Macota By the time we arrived in Serranos, we reached Mariana’s uncle’s property: Rancho **Macota**. The first thing I remember was the road that wound around the property past ponds and small structures, the cabin-style huts, the pieces of a place that functioned as more than one thing at once. We drove up toward Mariana’s uncle’s house, which sat at the top of a hill overlooking everything. Calling it a ranch is true but incomplete. It was part home base, part restaurant, part event venue, part activity space, and part small lodging site. Most of it had been built over years by Mariana’s uncle himself. Mariana told me the family history: her grandfather had a lot of land in Minas, and after he died the land was divided among his children. Many sold. Her uncle held onto his portion and developed it. The land started more simply, around cattle and timber cultivation, and from what I understood a lot of the planted trees were eucalyptus. Over time he kept building. A dock shaped like a guitar. Handmade ponds stocked with fish. A cinder-block maze. A stage and seating for live events. Cabins for guests. Custom tables and structures from wood he milled himself. Even the benches at the restaurant venue—with built-in umbrellas—felt handmade and unique. One cabin he offered us had a full tree trunk integrated into the build. Most of the trunk stayed outside, but branches passed through the wall line so it looked like the house had been grown around the tree instead of built after it. Mariana’s uncle seemed soft-spoken, like someone who preferred his work to speak for him. Calm, not talkative unless asked. But if you asked him about the property, you could feel the pride underneath, and it was earned. The whole place felt intentional and personal in a way commercial places rarely do. There was also emotional weight in that space: Mariana and Laio were considering it for their wedding. That night we met her uncle, his wife, and their son, and we were welcomed in the most predictable and perfect Brazilian way possible: barbecue, conversation, and a traditional brick outdoor stove doing serious work. Mariana’s uncle cooked the meat. His wife prepared the sides. Conversation happened mostly in Portuguese, and Laio would translate occasionally. I tried using my Apple AirPods translation at points. There was lag and it didn’t always catch everything, but when it worked it was impressive enough that everyone noticed. At one point I remember laughing because Mariana’s aunt was trying to get Mariana’s nephew—maybe three to five years old—to eat his dinner. He wasn’t listening at all. He was driving a plastic toy car around, fully committed to his own priorities. His aunt threatened to give his dinner to the frogs, and something about that made me laugh in a way that felt involuntary. The kid did not look intimidated. He just kept driving the car. ## The Waterfall Road The next morning we decided to drive to a local waterfall. The forecast was bad. It had already been raining off and on. The sky was gray and leaning toward worse. We went anyway. At first the road was normal. Then gravel. Then dirt. Then uphill dirt in rain. Mud everywhere. No four-wheel drive. The road was narrow with drop-offs, and when we passed people coming the other way we had to slow down and pull off to make space. At one point the car fishtailed slightly while climbing. Not dramatic, not out of control, but enough to remind everyone that traction isn’t guaranteed just because the car is still moving forward. We paused and debated turning around. Then a school bus came by. Laio asked the driver how much of the road ahead stayed unpaved. The driver reassured us we were close and that better road was just ahead. That turned out to be generous optimism. Most of what remained was still rough and unpaved. We discussed the risk plainly: if we got stuck, Mariana’s uncle had a 4x4 truck and could recover us. That made the choice easier. We kept going. I had enough low-traction experience to know the basic rule: uphill requires momentum, but controlled momentum. Too slow and you bog down. Too fast and consequences get expensive. I told Laio exactly that. He looked focused and calm. Serious, but composed. I was calm enough to trust him and alert enough to keep scanning the edges. Meanwhile Mariana and Livia were chatting in the back seat like we were on a city commute. At one point I looked back and saw no seat belts. I asked them to buckle up. After translation, the response was basically: there are no cops here. I said I wasn’t worried about police. I was worried about gravity. Belts went on. ## Clouds at the Top We eventually reached the waterfall area and had lunch at a restaurant near the top. The restaurant looked like a house and was nearly empty—only one other group there. The dining area was like a balcony: roof overhead, thin glass window panes, so it felt outside even while you were technically sheltered. Rain was loud on the roof. Mist hung in the air and touched your skin. On a clear day, the mountain view probably stretches forever. That day, clouds erased most of the distance. But the waterfall was still visible, and because of the rain it was raging. Locals told us that region is usually much drier than what we experienced. We happened to arrive during a wet streak that transformed everything: roads, river volume, visibility, pace. After lunch we kept noticing a dog drifting in and out of the restaurant area. We followed it and found a mother dog with newborn puppies tucked nearby, apparently born the day before. There were maybe ten puppies, different colors, and the mother looked exhausted and trusting. So we spent time with puppies in mountain fog, which was exactly as good as it sounds. After the waterfall, we visited one of Mariana’s relatives who showed us a berry farm. They were growing blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries, and he explained that strawberries are pollinated by bees, and that they had bees there specifically for pollination. Bees as part of the system. Bees as infrastructure. It was such a simple fact, but hearing it there, standing near the plants, made it land differently than it would have online. ## Gas Station Drinks and a Break in the Car After the berry farm, we met up with one of Mariana’s family friends. I don’t remember his name. I remember his cowboy hat. I remember that he made charcoal. I remember that he was a landowner. I remember that he and Mariana had agreed to meet because she had told him she was going to be in town and they wanted to catch up. We drove to a gas station restaurant in the middle of nowhere and parked. Before going in, I asked Laio if it would be okay if I took a little break in the car. He said yes. I stayed in the car for about twenty minutes, napping and clearing my head, taking a break from social contact. From the outside, it probably didn’t look like the kind of day that should be overwhelming, but I was feeling the accumulation of constant social exposure from the previous days and that day. I was also feeling the lack of control. I wasn’t driving. I didn’t make the plans. I was along for the ride. In hindsight, I did enjoy the day, and I’m glad I went along. But it wasn’t exactly my favorite use of time. It’s not what I would have chosen for myself. And that’s okay, because when you’re with a group, you sometimes accept the flow even when it doesn’t match your personal preferences. What mattered is that I wasn’t trapped. I had plenty of chances to ask for the plans to change. I chose not to take them. The whole point of this visit to Brazil, for me, was to give up the reins and let the day be what it was. I knew going in that sometimes the plans would be things I wouldn’t choose. That was part of the experiment. I believe everyone has a model for what they enjoy and where they find value, and I call that model my identity. Waterfalls, farms, meeting someone’s old friends at a gas station—these aren’t exactly activities where I naturally find value. But I wanted to test my understanding of that model. I wanted to say yes to everything, then pay attention to what happened in me. That meant giving up control. And my way of taking back a small amount of control was to step away for twenty minutes, meditate in the simplest way possible, and reset. In my normal life, I spend most of my time alone. I value social contact, but it drains me because I get energy from solitude. That twenty-minute nap wasn’t dramatic, but it gave me enough energy to re-enter without resentment. Eventually I went inside. He didn’t speak English. Most of the conversation was Mariana talking with him in Portuguese. I wasn’t exactly part of it, and that was fine. I don’t expect Laio to translate everything, and even if they had been speaking English I don’t think I would have had much to add. He was curious about me and I was curious about him, so we exchanged a couple questions, but mostly I watched and listened. One thing that felt almost unreal was what happened with his hat. Livia complimented his cowboy hat and said she liked it. Barely a second passed before he took it off his head and put it on hers, like the decision required no thought at all. He just gave it to her. Livia lit up. She genuinely liked it on him and seemed even happier wearing it herself. It was one of those moments that made generosity feel simple and immediate, not performative. After that we drove back to Rancho Macota. ## Pizza, Mario Party, and the Exit Scene Back at the cabin that night, we ordered pizza and played Mario Party. I was very happy. Laio likes Mario Party, but I don’t think Livia had played before. She joined me, and because I knew the controls and rules well enough, we changed the language to Portuguese to make it easier for her. No one was competitive. It didn’t feel like a contest. It felt like a shared activity where the point was just being together. I don’t think we even finished the game. The next morning was departure day. By then I could pack the car like muscle memory. Everyone packed their bags. I packed the car. Right as we were about to leave, Mariana realized she forgot something up at the house. We started driving up but got blocked by another car in the driveway. While we were in the process of calling to get it moved, Mariana spotted her uncle’s dirt bike on the side of the road. She lit up instantly. Without hesitation, in a dress, she hiked it up, kick-started it, and rode uphill like someone who had done that a thousand times. Because she had. She grew up riding dirt bikes. Loved off-road riding. Had scars from crashes to prove it. As she took off, she yelled “woo woo woo” with a grin that was impossible to fake. She came back down smiling ear to ear, jumped into the car, and we continued the departure process like that was the most normal thing in the world. On the way out, we stopped by various family members—Mariana’s aunts, uncles, family friends. Small visits stacked on top of each other. Pull up, greet, talk, leave, repeat. It was part of the texture of being there. Later, we went up to the top of Serranos. The town sits on a hill, and at the top is the church. It was December, and the church was playing Christmas music, which felt slightly surreal in that landscape. It was getting late, close to sunset. I sat with my back against a tree and took a moment to take it all in. Deep red mud. Vibrant green grass and trees. Deep blue sky in the breaks between clouds. Farms spread across uneven terrain. Stone walls dividing land areas. Cattle dispersed throughout the view. Zigzagging, haphazard roads in a town that felt old in a way my home towns don’t. It was beautiful in a way that didn’t require the conditions to be ideal. ## What Stayed With Me That stretch from Paraty to Serranos left me with a specific kind of memory: Beauty, often, without ideal conditions. A mountain town in light rain after your first plan fails. A waterfall view swallowed by cloud. Mud roads that demand full attention. A family property still under construction in the deepest sense of the phrase. A berry farm where bees are part of the system. A gas station meeting where I needed twenty minutes alone in a car just to feel like myself again. A cowboy hat given away instantly because someone liked it. I did take photos in Minas, but some of the most important moments from those days were not the photogenic ones. They were the lived ones. Continue to the next post: [[14. Order Inside the Rush]]