Going home

It's my last day in Brazil. Not that I'll have chance to do much, other than haing around in airports.

My flight isn't until 12:35. No need to get up too early. I wend my way to breakfast just after nine,.

Now that's embarrassing: I've forgotten my mask. A member of staff soon reminds me and U head back upstairs to fetch one. How on earth did I forget? I've worn one every time I step outside for more than 18 months.

Once masked, breakfast is the same egg/sausage/cheese combo as yesterday.

I've still some cheap Velho Barreiro cachaça to finish off. That it's only 10 AM isn't going to stop me . I hate waste. And I am a bit of a pisshead.

A taxi speeds me to the airport. I didn't really take much of it in on arrival. Mostly because I was utterly and totally knackered. In daylight and with me more awake, it seems quite nice. Modern and not too big.

 

This time checking in with Latam is a much more pleasant experience. Far quicker, too. I'd left a couple of hours, just to be sire. Meaning I have a good bit of hanging around to do. I fire up the laptop and watch an episode of Modern Life is Goodish. Light and relaxing. Exactly what I need.

I would have watched more on the plane. But, once again, the twat in front of me reclines his seat to the max the moment we leave the tarmac. At least it's a short flight.

 

Sao Paulo airport is a much more relaxing experience in this direction. Mostly because my KLM gold status means I can jump the check-in queue. The woman checking me in asks if I'm vaccinated but doesn't look at my document, let alone check it, after I wave it at her.

I drop by the duty free to use up my remaining reals. A rather expensive bottle of cachaça does the trick. For some reason everything is priced in dollars. And, despite paying in reals, my change is in dollars.

The lounge is pretty nice, too. And they're very generous with the whisky pours. I need top pace myself, as there are almost 6 hours between my flights.

I was going to get stuck into my laptop. But they're showing a Premier League game - Brighton against Leeds. It's a pretty dreadful game, which the whisky takes the edge off. When it's done, they switch the TV to a channel showing the final of the Copa Libertadores, the South American equivalent of the Champions League.

Getting bored of the footie, I watch an episode of Al Murray's new programme, "Why do Brits win every war". It passes time painlessly.

Best get some food in. It is free, after all. And doubtless better than what will be served on the plane.

Not knowing how long a walk it is to the gate, I don't cut it too fine.

Once airborne, I get out the laptop. Despite the twat in front of me reclining all the way back.  Reclining my own seat, I've just about room to fiddle on my laptop. I watch a documentary on the Fast Show. More nice light stuff.

After eating some stuff - the same as on the way out, I think - I get my head down. It's not the most restful sleep I've ever had. Good enough. I wake an hour or two out from Amsterdam. And watch some crap on the in-flight entertainment. I watched all the stuff worth watching - and more - on the way out.

The immigration people want to see my vaccination certificate. "How long will you be staying in Holland?" they ask.  When I reply that I live here, they want to see my verblifsvergunning (resident's permit.) It was the same on the way out.

My bag pops out onto the carousel pretty quickly. That's good. I really want to get home. I walk through the nothing to declare channel. Despite, with three bottles of cachaça in my luggage, being well over the duty-free allowance.

Outside, I hurry to the taxi rank. I feel rather under-dressed wearing shorts.