Sunday morning, it seems nearly too prosaic to put in the edge of brown red roof tiles, when the horizon so completely trumps it as the ascendant horizontal line. But the roof's regularity and pattern  seem remind one that the the upside of repetition is pattern. Off in the distance the headland, a part of Bouddi seems unassailable, a constant stone watcher of water. Copacabana, despite the echo of  frenzy in all those o's and a's, remains a sleepy hollow, with enough sky and water to keep you wondering.