Flying to Rio

I've just come back from Brazil.Again.Meaning lots more travel posts. Something I know you've been waiting for over the past three months. When I haven't strayed outside The Netherlands.

Every journey starts with a breakfast, as the saying does. Or as cup of tea. Both, if you're dead lucky.

I get up at about seven. I even beat Dolores up. Being a nice human being, I take her up a cup of tea. It’s been a while since I last did that. Since I stopped working three years ago.

“You’ve got a routine, haven’t you, Ron. So, you don’t get stressed.”

“Yes,” I say glibly “I pack up everything as I think of it.”

My cab is just pulling onto the motorway when I realize that I’ve forgotten my printed itinerary. It’s the second time I’ve done that. I panic slightly, as I don’t have the name of my Rio hotel written down anywhere.

Security is a doddle, but I spend ages in the passport queue. For some reason all the electronic gates aren’t working. Which is annoying, as it’s cutting down my lounge time.

Pausing only to pick up a bottle of Ardmore in the duty free, I head straight to the lounge. Before even picking up a whisky, I log onto the wifi. Luckily, I sent Dolores my itinerary yesterday. I can download it from my sent mail. Phew. If I’d failed to get into the wifi, I’d have been fucked.

I get the traditional Teacher’s and Jim Beam. Not mixed, obviously. One of each. Which calms my nerves a bit. Then I assemble myself a breakfast of chipolatas, scrambled egg and mushrooms. Bound to be better than anything I get on the plane.

I don’t have long. Less than an hour. Only time for three rounds of whisky. Reading a little Private Eye. And some cheese. You can’t go wrong with cheese. You can never have too much cheese. There are just so many cheese proverbs. I’ll come back with some more in a minute.

Goof timing again. I get to the gate a few minutes before priority boarding starts. Where we’re told we have to wear face masks. Just as well I brought some along.

Sat in my seat, I notice, as the other passengers stream past, that around half are unmasked. The selfish bastards.

A young Brazilian bloke occupies the window seat. The one between us remains empty. Now there’s a win.

Just before we start to taxi, there’s an announcement that, as of today, masks are no longer compulsory. The 40% wearing one, then remove them. Including me. Selfish bastard that I am.

Even before we taxi, I’m getting stuck into the first film: Everything, Everywhere, All the Time. It’s pretty long. Which is useful for a flight. It passes some time well.

The Brazilian bloke has paid for a posh vegetarian meal. When it arrives, the main course is beef. So he hands it back. A lot of faffing around ensues, with him eventually ending up with the standard vegetarian slop.

I, on the other hand, get the standard meat slop. Meatballs and mash. How many times have I been served this? I don’t care to remember. It’s no worse than other times. No better, either.

Next film is The Secrets of Dumbledore. It’s a bit crap, I think. But, having dozed off halfway through, I miss a big chunk of it. Which passes the time even quicker.

The other films I watch are pretty crap. Faced with the selection on a plane, it makes you realize how awful most Hollywood films are. Like Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Absolute tosh. But tosh that passes a few hours. Supposedly a comedy, it didn’t get me to break into a smile. Not even once. I do some scowling, though.

I picked up a few miniatures in the duty free. For a bit of illicit drinking. I stiffen up my glass of wine with some Jim Beam. It passes more time. Which is what a flight this long is all about.

Every so often I nod off. That’s how gripping the films are. The challenge is to make sense of the plot when you’ve missed the middle third. Or not. As most of what I’m watching had little sense to start with.

We’re served food twice more. It’s not particularly appetizing. I plough through some of it, anyway. For something to pass the time. The last couple of hours really drag. Starting, weirdly, almost exactly when I run out of miniatures.

Immigration is a mile or two away from where we disembark. A nice long walk is just what I need. Not. At least I waltz through immigration using the priority lane for the old and infirm. Yeah. An oldie person bonus.

I change some dosh and soon I’m in a taxi speeding towards Ipanema. Where I’m staying again. I really enjoyed my brief time there in October. Those two hours of precious daylight before I had to rush off to Florianopolis.

Nothing odd or scary about the taxi ride. Other than the long tunnels we pass through. What would happen if we broke down? There’s no pavement and no escape alcoves. Clipped by a lorry or suffocated by fumes? Is a toss up which would get you first.

Checked in, I fire up my laptop. No problem logging into the wifi this time. Though I struggle to do the same with my phone. Always something that I can’t get to work.

I flick through the TV channels until I find some football. There’s always football on somewhere in Brazil.

Feeling a bit peckish, I go downstairs and order a sandwich. It takes a while to come. During which time I remember that “caldo” means hot, not cold. It comes with a big pile of chips. Which possibly explains why it takes so long to appear.

Back in my room, I nibble on the food while watching Spirited. Never seen it before. But anything with Matt King has to be good. Super Hans is one of my all-time favourite characters.

I go to bed around midnight. Chased along by a tot of Ardmore.