UPSIDE DOWN SUMMER. TAKE 2.

FADO. “Fate,” in Portuguese.

There could not be a more apropos word.

Fado is a mournful genre of music; I have long listened to – adored – the music of the Great Fadista

Cesaria Evora. It has been my muse, and comfort, during long hours of writing – when spurred by the somber melodies (but not distracted by lyrics, as she sang in Kriolu - a mishmash of Portuguese and West African) I have typed. And typed. And typed.

And now: I am sailing to Sao Vicente, the island of her home (tho’ she’s passed), in the Cape Verde Islands! My God, I even fly out of Cesaria Evora International Airport when I leave!

It is an overwhelming sense of destiny. 

I have dreamed this dream into truth.

‘Much like I dreamed Africa into my reality. For years I had my African library. Every book by and about Isak Dinesen. And then her husband. And then her husband’s lovers. And then her lovers. The neighbors. Kinsman. My library grew – 40 books: an obscure obsession for a Californian. Yet I collected everything I could – current, and antique – of British East Africa.

And then one day, I flew: on assignment, to Cape Town, crossing over the throbbing body of Africa at night:

APRIL 12, 2001:

We fly over exotic places I dream to visit. The bulk of France, the Pyrenees, the sainted walk Paulo Coelho writes of. Spain, Majorca, the Med.

We slice through Africa: Algeria, Niger, Cameroon, Congo,  Angola, Namibia. Hopefully at the light of day I will be able to spy the great savannahs and deserts, before we land in Cape Town.

Beneath me, in humble farms and gracious estates, sparkling cities and crowded huts, perhaps in tents and shacks and even some just bedded beneath the starry sky – thousands will sleep as I drone overhead. Maybe one or two will notice the flashing speck in the sky as we float over Africa. Will they wonder about me in this distant plane: who I am, where do I go, why? Will it even pass through their thoughts for a fleeting moment? Any more than their presence in the sand below tickles mine?”

Fado is a song of destiny. It’s a song of the sea, of poverty – not just monetary, but poverty of spirit. Resignation. Melancholy. Sinking into a longing – “saudade” – that is perhaps, never sated.

And yet mine, always is.

What a blessing.