Photo © Michael Sommers.
As a travel writer, you end up experiencing a wide range of lodgings, ranging from flea bag to palatial. While amenities and creature comforts are certainly welcome, for me – and for many others I’m sure – the aspects that inevitably leave their mark tattooed into one’s already overloaded memory are always the “little things” that those who operate hotels do to personalize one’s stay.
“Little things” are not always synonymous with the number of stars a hotel flaunts. Italian marble bathtubs, Drive-In sized TVs, and astronomically high thread counts do not counts as “little things.” Sure they’re nice if you can get ‘em, but they don’t make your hotel experience go down in history.
In a recent post I recounted a quick Christmas trip I made to Barra Grande, on the southern coast of Bahia. The idea for a getaway was sort of a last-minute idea and, although I’d been to Barra Grande before, I was in the mood to try something new in terms of location and accommodations. After some cursory Internet research, my interest was piqued by a new and very small (only four rooms) pousada that sat right on the beach of Praia dos Três Coqueiros, a 30-minute walk from the village of Barra Grande.
Although Pousada Tortuga was pretty basic and cheap (which is what I was looking for), I was seduced by the “little things” that the web site drew attention to.Although Pousada Tortuga was pretty basic and cheap (which is what I was looking for), I was seduced by the “little things” that the web site drew attention to: an attention to colors and lighting (via some interesting looking lampshade); a hand-woven carpet that looked like it was made by somebody’s grandmother; a bird of paradise in a drinking glass, perched elegantly atop a mini fridge.
When I called to make a reservation, Philippe, the French owner, was warm and inviting. He was also amenable to knocking a few reais off the rate, which clinched the deal.
It turns out that Philippe isn’t the permanent owner of Pousada Tortuga. A licensed diving instructor who hails from a tiny village near France’s Champagne capital of Reims, he had renounced the corporate life and, in the company of his Argentinean partner, Soledad, had spent the last few years setting down temporary roots in diving hot spots as varied as Spain, the Dutch Caribbean, and the Greek island of Lesbos. For some time, however, the couple’s big dream had been to come to Brazil. Last November, they made it into reality when they became the proud renters of their very own pousada in Paradise, having signed a 1-year lease with the Brazilian-Argentine couple that had built and presently own Pousada Tortuga.
Although the couple has never run a guesthouse – and the smallness of their enterprise has led them to dispense with hiring help – their instincts seem to be pretty flawless. The first morning, when I awoke and blearily stumbled outside to my patio to inspect the morning, the small table beside my hammock was crowned with a full thermos of steaming hot coffee. Talk about an idyllic start to the day. I was able to immediately pour myself a cup and, clutching it like a precious talisman, make my barefoot way through the garden to the beach.
Having drunk to the dregs while wading like a toddler through warm sea water, I felt awake enough for a refill. I returned to the patio to find a plate of freshly cut fruit miraculously sitting on the table. As I slid a crescent of mango into my mouth, Philippe appeared with juice made from abacaxi (a whiter, firmer variety of pineapple), spiked with fresh mint, and asked me how many eggs I wanted. By the time, he brought the eggs out — Soledad seemed to know intuitively that I only like them scrambled and well done — the pousada’s only other guest, Dirk, a German asset manager/surfer who spends at least two months out of every year chasing waves around the world, had joined me on the patio. Hearing us chat, without missing a beat, Philippe pulled our individual tables close together so they were overlooking the garden. Accompanying the perfect eggs was some type of soft, flattish bread that reminded me of a waffle.
“Is this a waffle?” I asked Philippe.
“No, but we’ll make you some,” he said. (Once again no beats were skipped).
Waffles in paradise??? I’ve lived in Brazil for 12 years and while I’ve encountered countless crêpes and even a few pancakes, I’ve never crossed paths with a waffle.
Before I could protest, Philippe had slipped away and 10 minutes later he had returned with a heaping plate of thin, but light, fluffy and delicious waffles. Although the Canadian in me silently screamed for maple syrup, the wise Philippe encouraged me to spread a thin layer of doce de leite, Brazil’s ubiquitous answer to creamy fudge (made from a mixture of caramelized sugar and boiled milk) into the honeycomb-like cavities of my waffle. Mmmm….
It was subsequently a given that, every morning after that, I’d be served waffles for breakfast and I’ll never forget the unexpected, frankly quite childish joy I experienced at receiving waffles on a secluded tropical beach.
Like I said, it’s the “little things.”
