Suely, the barefoot judge

Suely arrived from the waterfall, still dripping wet.

Shaven-headed, glistening with water. Bare feet caked in mud.

Yet wearing an impeccable blue dress shirt and a black skirt that clung to her body.

She walked into the Lagoa da Italianinha snack bar as if it were the courthouse.

She sat at the counter and ordered a black coffee and a toasted roll.

The waiter stammered, "Your Honor... you..."

She simply smiled and replied, "The case can wait. Thirst cannot."

She drank her coffee slowly, wetting the counter.

She left just as she had arrived: barefoot, shaven-headed, wet, and free.

Vitório, the Barefoot Boy of Vitalba

Vitalba, Tuscany. Stone streets and sunlight hitting the vineyards.

Vitório, 14, lives here.

Adopted by Dona Maria. A notebook full of work, top grades, a mind that never stops.

Everyone says, "That boy is very intelligent."

But Vitório has two secrets.

The first: he goes to school barefoot.

Even in winter. Even while his classmates wear expensive sneakers.

"Shoes cramp my ideas," he says with a laugh. But deep down, he dies of embarrassment when people stare.

The second: he bathes fully clothed.

He waits for Dona Maria to fall asleep, sneaks into the bathroom, and turns on the shower while wearing his shirt and trousers.

It’s his way of washing away the weariness and the pressure of "being the best in the class." Afterward, he hangs the wet clothes out to dry.

Vitório wants to be different. He wants to be free.

But he is afraid. Afraid of what people will say in the town square. Afraid of disappointing Dona Maria. Afraid of being called crazy.

So he studies, gets perfect marks, and walks home barefoot.

Keeping his clothed baths all to himself.

In Vitalba, there are boys who wear suits just to fit in.

And then there’s Vitório. Who prefers his feet on the ground, even while fearing the world.

Sayonara and the midnight bath

Lagoa da Italianinha, 11 p.m.

A bright moon, and the river slowly cutting through the town.

Sayonara appeared on the riverbank.

The "clean homeless woman." A folded sheet in her bag, a bar of soap, a towel.

Even at night, her hair was tied back and her clothes were clean, however tattered.

The heat was unbearable. The shelter was stifling.

She looked at the river, listened to the flowing water, and made up her mind.

She waded in, clothes and all.

The icy water rose up her legs, soaking through her trousers and shirt.

Sayonara closed her eyes and floated for a while.

Not a soul on the street. Just the crickets and the sound of the water.

She washed her face, washed her arms, and washed away the weariness her soul had gathered throughout the day.

Ten minutes later, she emerged dripping wet. She hung her clothes on an improvised wire line, lay down on the sheet, and fell asleep gazing at the moon.

Dona Deinha saw her from a distance the next morning and remarked:

"That Sayonara... she has no home, but she has dignity. Even at night, she bathes like a decent human being."

In Lagoa da Italianinha, there are people who shy away from the river at night.

And then there is Sayonara. She uses the night to cleanse herself and to remember that she deserves care.

Malu, Alice, and Wellia at the lagoon

A sunny Saturday at Lagoa da Italianinha. Scorching heat.

Malu and her twin sister Wellia made a plan early on: "Let's go to the lagoon?"

Wellia brought her daughter, Alice. Braided hair and a unicorn floatie in hand.

The three of them arrived at the water's edge together. Same faces, different ways.

Wellia took off her sarong and stood in her bikini. Yellow with a floral print. The kind a mom wears when she still wants to catch some sun.

Alice took off running: "Auntie Malu, come on! The water's nice and warm!" Wearing a pink, sparkly swimsuit.

Then it was Malu's turn.

She looked at the lagoon, looked at her sister in the bikini, looked at her niece in the swimsuit... and stepped in.

Wearing a top and a hippie skirt. A long, patterned skirt swirling in the breeze. A cotton top with embroidery and fringe. Barefoot.

Wellia stopped at the water's edge. "Malu?! You're going in like that?"

Malu laughed and stepped into the water. Her skirt floated like a flower. "I am. A hippie goes in like a hippie."

Alice stood there watching. Then she laughed and shouted: "Auntie Malu turned into a skirt-wearing mermaid!"

Wellia and Alice swam. They dove, built sandcastles, and splashed water.

Malu didn't swim. She floated. Skirt spread out, arms open wide, letting the lagoon carry her. Her top turned sheer and clung to her, but she didn't care.

"That's how I feel the water," she said. "On my skin and on my clothes. With no rush to dry off."

People at the lagoon looked on. Some found it odd. Others thought it was beautiful. One lady even remarked: "She went in there to bless the lagoon."

Wellia swam over to her sister. "Tired of being different?" Malu splashed water on her. "Get tired? A real twin has to be different—otherwise, what’s the point of having two?"

Alice climbed onto Malu’s back. "Auntie, take me for a ride in your 'boat-skirt'."

And off Malu went, with Alice on her back, spinning around in the shallow water. Her skirt turned into a sail.

When it was time to leave, Wellia and Alice dried off in two minutes.

Malu stood there wringing out her skirt; her top was dripping wet. It took her three times as long.

"Was it worth it?" Wellia asked.

Malu looked at the lagoon, at her sister’s laughing daughter, and at the setting sun.

"It was. I didn't go in just to bathe. I went in to remember that you can be happy even with your clothes on."

In the car, Alice fell asleep in the back seat. Wellia was driving. Malu sat by the window, her skirt still damp.

Two twins. One in a bikini. The other, a hippie.

And a little girl in the middle who learned that the lagoon has room for every kind of outfit.

As long as there’s joy along with it.

Adilma and the amazon rider's dip

Mandacaru Farm, Lagoa da Italianinha.

Red earth, blooming *mandacaru* cacti, and heat that scorches even your thoughts.

This is where Adilma lives.

A true countrywoman. 45 years old, sun-kissed skin, a ready laugh.

And her pride and joy: being an *Amazona*—a horsewoman.

Every Sunday, she mounts her chestnut horse, Trovão, and heads to the horsewomen's gathering in the town square. Leather hat, plaid shirt, boots, jeans.

People say: "If Adilma’s in the saddle, the party’s started."

It was a Tuesday. 1:00 PM.

The sun was so fierce that even the chickens were huddling under the *juazeiro* tree.

Adilma had just returned from the fields. Sweaty. Dust coating even her hat.

Trovão was panting in the corral.

She glanced over and saw the farm’s pond. Still, green, cool water.

The pond usually reserved for the cattle to drink from.

Adilma thought: "If the beast can do it, so can I."

She didn't think twice.

Boots and all, she climbed up the bank.

Leather hat on her head, plaid shirt buttoned up, jeans, and a big-buckled belt.

"Let's go, Trovão. Bath time!"

And in she went. Clothes and all.

The icy water hit her shins, her thighs, her waist.

Her hat bobbed a bit, but she held onto it.

Her shirt clung to her body. Her jeans felt ten kilos heavier. Her boots sank into the mud.

And she laughed. Laughed out loud.

"Oh, bliss! This washes away the dust, the weariness, and the sin!"

Trovão followed her in. He drank some water and splashed her.

Adilma scooped up water with her hand and tossed it onto her hat. "For good luck, Trovão!" She stayed in there for about fifteen minutes. Washing her arm, washing her trousers, even washing her leather hat.

When she emerged, dripping wet, her neighbor Dona Genezya appeared with a water bottle.

She stopped at the fence, jaw dropped.

"Adilma! Good heavens, woman! Have you lost your mind? Going into the lake fully dressed? Hat and boots and all?!"

Adilma, wringing out her shirt, replied: "Genezya, a horsewoman doesn't fuss over such things. If the sun burns, the water heals.

And a leather hat is meant to get wet. Otherwise, it dries out and cracks!"

Genezya laughed. "So now what? Are you going back home like that?"

"Not a chance. I’m going to hang these clothes on the wire and stay here in the shade until they dry. Trovão is already lying down."

She hung up her shirt, her trousers, and even the hat on a branch.

She sat on a rock, barefoot, with her feet in the water.

By late afternoon, the sun had dried everything.

Adilma put on her still-damp clothes, placed her hat on her head, and mounted Trovão.

She passed by the gate, waving: "See you tomorrow, Genezya! If the heat comes back, there’ll be another dip!"

Genezya shouted back: "That woman is a country girl, but she’s got style! She even enters the lake in full regalia!"

In Lagoa da Italianinha, there are women who are afraid of getting their clothes dirty.

And then there’s Adilma, from Sítio Mandacaru.

A true horsewoman. One who enters the lake wearing her hat, her boots, and her dignity.

Because for her, honoring the land means just that: working in boots and cooling off in those very same boots.

Samuel and the river of Lagoa

Everyone in Lagoa da Italianinha knows Samuel.

An upper-middle-class kid. Son of Valéria, a flight attendant who lives in London.

A big house, an air-conditioned bedroom, name-brand sneakers in the closet.

But Samuel has a serious problem: he hates fancy clothes.

A wedding party? He shows up in shorts with a plaid shirt over them.

A fancy birthday party? Sneakers with holes in them and his baseball cap on backward.

Flip-flops. Always flip-flops. He even showed up to a neighbor's wake wearing Havaianas.

His aunt despairs. "Samuel, honey, put on some dress shoes!"

He replies: "Auntie, dress shoes pinch my feet. Flip-flops mean freedom."

Saturday. 2:00 PM. Scorching heat.

His aunt says: "You're staying home to play games. No messing around. And get dressed properly, okay?"

Samuel nodded. Five minutes later, he was out on the street.

Torn sweatpants, a loose blue shirt.

And the flip-flops. Those famous blue flip-flops, already a bit worn out.

He passed the town square, cut through the alley, and hopped over the low wall.

Destination: the river that runs through Lagoa da Italianinha.

The river isn't pretty. It’s muddy, rocky, and full of small fish.

But in the summer, it becomes the town's official swimming pool.

When he arrived, four boys were already there.

"Samuel! Here comes the rich kid!" one shouted.

Samuel laughed. "Rich kid? No way. I'm poorer than you guys today."

And—flip-flops and all—*splash!* He jumped right into the river.

The icy water hit his shins. His sweatpants grew heavy.

He shouted and started running through the water, splashing the others, slipping on the rocks.

He spent forty minutes like that. Wet hair, glasses and flip-flops caked in mud, pants soaked through. It was 4 o'clock when he got home.

The gate was open. His aunt was in the living room.

She took one look and nearly dropped dead from shock.

Samuel was dripping wet. Mud up to his knees. Flip-flops caked in brown mud. Shirt in his hand.

"Samuel!!! I told you not to get dirty!"

Samuel, water running onto the floor: "Auntie, but the river was just too good. And that’s what flip-flops are for, anyway. Getting wet."

His aunt stifled a laugh. "At least you took off your dress shoes, right?"

Samuel went upstairs to shower. He left a trail of mud and water all the way to his room.

When he came out, he was wearing a different pair of shorts. And guess what? Another pair of flip-flops.

His aunt sighed: "I give up. God gave me a rich nephew with the soul of a street kid."

Samuel hugged her, still soaking wet.

"Auntie, rich or poor, kids have to play in the river. And it’s better in flip-flops."

Josy and the full-clothes shower

 

Lagoa da Italianinha. 6:40 PM.

Heat that melts your thoughts.

The front door slammed shut.

Josy had arrived.

Hair tied back, knit top, jeans, and her heavy work bag in hand. A day spent on the go: cowded bus, annoying boss, bank lines.

She dropped her bag on the sofa. Glanced at the clock. Glanced at the fan. Glanced at the bathroom.

And didn't think twice.

Josy went straight to the bathroom.

She sat on the edge of the bed to do just one thing: take off her shoes.

Old sneakers. One at a time. Thump, thump on the floor.

She stood up. Walked into the bathroom. Locked the door.

Turned on the shower. Icy water pouring down hard.

And she jumped right in. Clothes and all.

Her knit top soaked through instantly. Her jeans grew heavy. Her hair tie started dripping.

She stood there under the water, eyes closed.

"Oh... that feels so good," she sighed.

Water ran down her top, her pants, her socks.

The only dry part of her was her feet—because her shoes had been left outside.

From outside, her neighbor Eliane Josefa knocked on the wall. "Josy! Is everything okay in there? You're taking a while!"

Josy shouted from inside the shower stall: "Everything's fine, Dona Eliane! I just wanted to wash off the day's exhaustion and the grime of the streets!"

She rubbed the wet top against her body, washing her pants at the same time.

"I worked all day. If I had to take my clothes off, fold them, put them away... I’d just give up. This way, I wash myself and the day's clothes in one go."

She laughed to herself. "It's a bath and laundry service all in one."

She stayed there for about ten minutes. Until the water warmed up a bit.

When she stepped out, she was dripping wet. She left a trail from the bathroom door to the clothesline.

She hung up her top. She hung up her pants. She even hung up her socks.

Then she sat on the sofa in just her pajamas, her bare feet finally resting.

Dona Eliane shouted from the window: "You crazy girl! I've never seen anyone take a shower fully dressed!"

Josy laughed and replied: "That's the Josy way of life, Dona Eliane! I take off my shoes. The water takes care of the rest!"

That night, Josy went to sleep early. Feeling light.

Because sometimes, exhaustion doesn't wash away with just a shower.

It washes away with the shower, the change of clothes, and the relief of not having to make any choices.