More Ipanema beaching

I’m up earlier today, around seven. Woken by nature’s alarm clock (daybreak).

I get a shock when I look in the bathroom mirror. My face, arms and legs are all bright red. How the fuck could I have got sunburnt? The I was only exposed to the sun walking to and from the beach. Maybe five minutes each way. It’s almost as bad as Australia. Where I couldn’t go two steps from my front door without turning into a lobster. 

After messaging the family a bit (I’m getting dead modern I can now use a laptop and a phone simultaneously), I rumble downstairs. Same drill for breakfast: bacon and scrambled egg to start, fruit for pudding. I try to keep the vitamins flowing when on these trips. Wouldn’t want to go down with scurvy. Though the limes in the caipirinhas are probably enough to stave that off.

What’s the plan for today? Get pissed and go berserk. As always.

Getting any redder not being an option, I give myself a good greasing with factor 2000. Will that be strong enough? Maybe two or three more coats will help.

The walk down to the beach is mostly in the shade. I quickly jump between each patch of cool. (Well, as quick and as jumpy as I can manage with my crappy old body.) I go a bit further along the beach than yesterday. Where there are more manageable steps. I had to be helped up yesterday.

I randomly choose Shack 58. Where a very friendly young lady sorts me out with a big umbrella (I’m taking no chances with the sun today) and a big caipirinha – 700ml.

It’s a similar scene to yesterday. Lots of muscular chests and exposed arse cheeks. But also plenty of flabby bellies and droopy bottoms. It’s very egalitarian. Everyone seems pretty comfortable with hanging their bits hang out to dry. I like that. Means I don’t feel out of place. Though I am the only fully-clothed person in sight. 

A beach vendor tries to sell me some fags. When I refuse, he shows me what looks like a lump of compressed weed. After I turn that down, he starts rubbing his nose in the international symbol for coke. “Now you’re talking”, I say.  Of course, I don’t.

That escalated quickly. Does he go through the whole routine with every potential customer? Or assume all gringoes are druggies? Even a washed-up old twat like me?

Two caipirinhas in two hours is enough for me. Feeling a bit tipsy. And a bit hot on the beach. So, I’ve escaped back to my room’s airco. I’ll go out again later when the sun is setting and the local beer pub is open.

I can’t be arsed to go to Flamengo now. That beer pub 150 metres away is calling. After I’ve had a kip. And a sandwich. Not eaten since breakfast. Ham and cheese, in case you’re wondering.

I get to Espaço 09 just after the 5 PM opening time. Obviously, I’m the only customer. With four staff to take care of my needs. They have an Imperial Stout on draught. But it’s too early for that. I’ll save it for my last pint. Instead, I order:

Mad Brew, New England DIPA, 8.7%, 32 reals for a US pint
Pretty damn sludgy. Nice head, mind. Not a bad price (about 6 euros) for a half litre of beer of this strength.

People are streaming past from the beach No surprise. it’s getting close to dusk. Some haven’t bothered getting fully dressed and still have their arses hanging out. Never seen anything like that in Amsterdam. Not out on the street, at least.

Back to the beer. Smells like grapefruit juice. Which is what you would expect. Hoppy, but not that bitter. OK, if you like this sort of thing.

Is there a brewery at the back? There are various shiny things. Or are they just serving tanks? On closer inspection, that’s definitely what they are.

Fiorentina against AC Mlan is on the TV. I can also watch a Spanish game which is showing in the pub over the road. Quite odd simultaneously watching matches in different pubs. Another win for microchip technology and its massive TVs.

Odd that they have Lagunitas IPA on draught. I wonder where this version is brewed? Probably in a Heineken plant in South America. (It won’t be California, as that brewery has closed.) There was a lot of Heineken being sold on the beach. Someone was even selling it on draught. Lugging all the kit required for that must have been fun in 35º C heat.

I’m still the only customer. That’s OK with me. I did my misanthrope bit yesterday. No need to repeat it.

Feeling quite knacked again. I’m yawning like a basking alligator next to a swimming pool full of kids. Not sure why I’m so tired. All I’ve done is sit on the beach and drink caipirinhas. Only two

I really like Ipanema. Cool beach and lots of bars and restaurants. Plus normal shops. Which are handy if you want to buy cheese for your hotel room. And who doesn’t? You can never have too much cheese.

I ask for the same again. I can be a right boring bastard. I can happily drink four or five of the same beer. But they’ve run out. The waitress brings me a taster of another beer. It’s:

Odin, NE IPA, 7.5%, 32 reals for a US pint
Even more sludgilicious than the last beer. Though it tastes very much like it. Had I not been told it was a different beer, I’d have assumed it was just the end of the barrel.

Music has been pootling around in the background. Mostly classic rock. But The Charlatans’ The One and Only has just started up. Great song. What got me into the band. Love the organ sound.

Fiorentina AC Milan has finished. Now they’re showing Corinthians in what I assume is a local league game. It’s like baseball: when a ball goes into the crowd, whoever catches it, keeps it. I’m automatically rooting for Corinthians, what with their weird history. It’s a pretty good game. Corinthians come from 0-1 down to win 3-1.

They’re now playing Stalins of Shite. I hate that song. Oh well, it’ll be over soon enough.

The Imperial Stout is off. So, I’m sticking with Odin. Which sounds like something a Viking might have said. It’s not got any less sludgy.

The Policia Militar are parked outside. I think they’re getting some food. I would take a snap. Except Andrew warned me off that in Tijuana. Seems being photographed can make military police quite angry.

I get some more cheese and ham in the supermarket on my way back to my hotel. I nibble on it while I watch Match of the Day. Which I’ve recorded from Dutch TV and watch via a VPN. Isn’t modern technology wonderful? It does mean I have to watch those bastards Arsenal win again. God, how I hate them.

I’m so depressed by the Arses winning, that I need to watch a few episodes of Spirited to cheer myself up.

A few sips or Ardmore drive me into the warm embrace of sleep. Well, as warm as it gets with the airco cranked up to eleven.