Tia Catha is one of my wonderful, talented aunts. She grew up in Brasil, then made a life in New York. Her roots are split, driven deep both north and south. I can't wait to meet her. That is, if I can find her.
Catha travels the globe in search of strong coffee and conversation.
She hopscotches continents, defies time zones, transcends the laws of quantum mechanics and special relativity... When our paths finally cross, she'll be younger than I am. She's that fast.
Maybe it's her funky shoes.
Liberated from paid employment, Catha nimbly employs quiet charm and a freakish gift for languages (she speaks dozens fluently) to accrue frequent flyer miles, fans, and stories you'll soon be reading in The New Yorker.
Is she in Sao Paolo this week? Manhattan? Vienna? Dublin?
Lord knows. I'm an infant. I can't locate my toes, let alone a lithe, indefatigable vector of lean muscle mass and caffeine. With a titanium heart bigger than the Amazon, she slips across borders undetectable by radar. Blink and she's gone, a kinetic flash of red on the horizon, trailing turtle's breath and lime. The girl's a blur. To find Catha, you need GPS. Fortunately, she documents her adventures in her blogs:
Calitoves and days without a job
