Back home

The twelfth day of the trip. Longer than I’m usually away. I’m feeling it when I drag my miserable carcass from under the sheet at 6:15.

Ablutions abluted, it’s time to fill my fat gut with coffee, scrambled egg, cheese and fruit. Exactly the same as every other day I’ve stayed in this hotel. I’m such a wacky bloke.

My driver rolls up a minute or two before the appointed time. We quickly rumble out of town, which hasn’t totally woken up yet. At least, the swarms of cars haven’t.

It’s still pretty damp. Out in the countryside, the pastures are sodden emerald. With only the occasional sad, seated cow and erratic palms to punctuate its emptiness. The hills, pumped full of trees, are mostly invisible, steaming with mist.

Weirdly unconvincing billboards pimping luxury developments often block the view. As do the roadside restaurants. Many, inevitably offering buffet. In a not particularly subtle way.

A little of the Dupipe was left over yesterday. Shame to waste it. And that diet cola. Time to make a travel drink. I wouldn’t want to dehydrate during the journey.

When it starts getting more urban, I realise we’re getting close to the airport. Small, low houses and workshops. And my special drink bottle runs dry. That’s good timing.

I’m soon checked in. I know there’s nothing really to do airside. I just find a seat by the gate and read Private Eye.

I get on as one of the first – thank you, Brazilian law – and the flight is on time. With the usual slightly scary landing, where the brakes are slammed on as soon as rubber hits the tarmac. That’s Congonhas for you. 

There’s only an hour between my flights. Congonhas, being no Guarulhos, is pretty compact. In no time, I’m at the gate.

I built a lot of wiggle room into today. I land in Rio at 13:05. My flight to Amsterdam is at 20:50. Bit of an overkill, I know. Price might have played a role, too. Though I do need to transfer from Rio’s domestic to its international airport. Already having booked a car, the transfer is a doddle.

It’s not even 14:00 when I get there. Far too early to check in. Waiting it is. Several hours of it. Getting to catch up on some of Private Eye backlog is my positive way of looking at it.

Once, eventually, checked in and airside, I remember what I hate about this airport: the endless walking. Even worse than Schiphol. And almost no travellators.

After some initial trouble linking to the wifi (I blame VPN), I settle in to watch some crap with nibbles and a few caipirinhas. A bit disappointed, I switch to whisky. They were the weakest caipirinhas I’ve tasted. Nothing like enough cachaça.

A bit before it’s time to leave the warm embrace of the lounge, a storm starts with flurry of flashes. Hope that’s over before takeoff.

They seem a little behind schedule in getting boarding going. Leaving my poor old legs standing around for 15 minutes.

I plan on a good kip. And sort of get it. I fall asleep during Next Goal Wins. I don’t get further when I restart, nodding off only a few minutes on.

It might not be my first impression, but I seem to have had a reasonable amount of sleep. Maybe five hours. Just very disturbed. I woke up lots of times. Just not for long.

We’re served a yellow rectangle of something they don’t bother to explain on a base of some red stuff. If anything, the visuals oversell the flavour. And they’ve promised fuck all. I don’t care. I just have to one mouthful. Which I regret. Coffee and orange juice will do me.

It seems a very long walk, considering we arrived on E pier. And the carousel for our luggage is the very far one.

The wait for the first bag isn’t too bad. It just takes a while for mine to come out.

A taxi soon leaves me opening my front door. Where Dolores has tea ready for me. She’s followed my flight on her computer. The wonders of modern technology.