That subtle smell that always accompanies a fishing village permeated the air while we zigzagged through the historic center, admiring the clean white paint on the walls and the colorful doorways. Making our way lazily down toward the water, we came to the boat dock. The old, worn ropes and the chipping paint on the small fishing boats were like old friends–so charming and obviously well-loved.

Quiet fishing village

Fishing boats docked in Paraty

After a stroll through the livelihood of so many locals, with names of wives painted on the sides, we passed back away from the water toward a bench missing more slats than it had. A horse grazed in the nearby churchyard, a man sat quietly behind his foam cooler full of fresh coconuts, and a young couple giggled together in the grass.

We took a walk down to the beach near our hostel and bought a few beers before heading to the rocky end to watch the boats come in and out of the small harbor. The clouds were a little drab, implying impending rain but it did little more than sprinkle for a few minutes while we sat by the water.

After a slow, lazy day we wandered back into town for dinner and back toward the hostel, thinking we`d call it a night. As we ambled over the cobbled street, we passed an old man who had set up with a mic and guitar, borrowing electricy from a city light pole.

Mr. Copacabana

He was singing a little offkey and his guitar refused to stay in tune, giving way to the overbearing nature of sea air. We sat and listened to him sing for nearly an hour, watching others pass by as they missed out on a perfectly delightful moment in their travels. Dropping a few bills into his hat for his time, we walked home savoring a perfect day and night.