Back to Brazil

I rise a little before eight. To discover I have no internet connection. I fiddle around a bit and it magically returns. Not exactly sure what I did. If anything.

I had a pretty good kip. Other than a coughing fit in the middle of the night. The last remnant of my cold, I think. There’s nothing like waking up struggling for breath. It’s what I live for.

The kids trail by at 9:35. We go pretty much straight downstairs and check out. An Uber arrives in about a minute and we're soon racing along the side of the River Plate. It's like a sheet of glass licked by a low layer of mist. I can see how it got its name.

It takes about 45 minutes to get to the airport. Which is modern and modestly-sized. Just how I like my airports. There are only eight gates.

Passport control and security are a doddle. Though for some reason the automatic gates won't accept the kids' passports. They have to have a human look at them. And they get stamped.

I counted on getting breakfast in the lounge. But we don't have access. That's a bummer. Instead, we buy cola and a sandwich. Like plebs. It isn't exactly cheap. I consider getting a whisky, but fuck it. It'll be some stupid price.

I'm flicking through the Guardian website when suddenly it becomes unresponsive. I've used all my 1 gig of data. Oh well. It lasted most of the holiday. I log into the wifi network instead.

It's a bit vague when the boarding process is starting. But we get ourselves into the priority queue in time. And convince the staff that I’m suitably old.

I read Private Eye. Which is always a good way of passing the time. And coughing. I do a lot of that. It’s one of the things I do best.

The cabin crew ask us where we're from as they try to explain the sandwich filling.

"Holland." I reply. Sometimes I respond with England to that question. Where am I from now? It depends on whether you mean where I'm originally from or where I'm living now. Then there’s my nationality, Or nationalities. It’s all very confusing. Too much for my brain. Far easier to just pick one at random, without thinking.

"Is there much walking in Sao Paulo airport?" Alexei asks. He wasn't impressed by how far we had to walk in Rio.

"I'm not sure. I hope not. I don’t like long walks."

“I know, because you’re old.”

“You don’t fancy it, either. And you’re young.”

“I was just thinking of you, Dad.”

“Right.”

It turns out that there's fuck all walking. Thank fuck. There's no air bridge and a bus takes us pretty much directly to immigration. Which is queue-free. The baggage carousel is just behind it. This is so easy.

Just through on landside is a taxi office, where I purchase a voucher for the city centre: 160 reals. The taxi rank is only a few more steps away. That was a total piece of piss. Some of the least walking I’ve done in an airport. Especially one as large as this.

We bump along the motorway following the beautiful river. Into which waterfalls of sewage cascade from pipes in its banks. There's a delightful grey-brown scum on the top of the water, inviting you to take a dip.

"Look! There's a capibara by the river." Alexei remarks. He asked me if they had capibaras in Sao Paulo. I said probably not. It seems I was wrong. The driver hears us and makes biting motions with his hands.

During the 45-minute ride I do some Olympic-level coughing. Damn this cold. I’m sure the driver is impressed. I wonder why he’s just put a mask on?

As soon as we're settled in our rooms, I look for a supermarket. There's one just 50 metres away. I think I can just about manage that. We head there to stock up on water, beer, cachaca and crisps.

On the way down I notice something: “Look, there’s a 13th floor. You’d never see that in the US.”

One of the young women working in the shop speaks such fluent English, that it initially confuses me. I’ve had this happen before in Brazil. Come across really good English in unexpected places.

Once our stash is safely stashed in our rooms, it's time to find somewhere to eat.

None of us feels like much fucking around. And there's a restaurant just opposite, SagradoMineiro. So that's where we traipse. A very short traipse.

It being a very pleasant temperature, we sit outside. Drinks first.

"I'll have a caipirinha." Alexei says, rather surprisingly. It would be impolite not to join him. Andrew has a Brahma.

I've been fancying a steak for a few days. And that's what I get. A filet mignon. Alexei has one, too. Though of a different kind. With tomato sauce and cheese on the top. Andrew has an omelette. All three come with the compulsory twin carbs. Chips and rice in their case. Roast spud and rice in mine.

The food is pretty good. As are the caipirinhas. So good, we get a second round. Though we don’t linger long after finishing our food.

“Another round, Dad?” Alexei asks.

“No. I’m not made of money. It’s cheap cachaca and crisps back in my room for the rest of the evening.”

We chill in my room watching the weird Olympic opening ceremony. With some YouTube on the side.

“Is that a balloon?” Alexei asks.

“I’ve no fucking idea. Why is it on fire?” I reply.

“Is it?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

Perhaps we’d have more idea what was going on if we could understand the Portuguese commentary.

“Would you like to be in Paris now, Dad?” Alexei asks for the fourth time.

“No. I’d rather be in Grantham. It’ll be full of twats and dead expensive.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be there for the Olympics?”

“No. Definitely not. Well, only for the football and cricket.”

“They don’t have cricket in the Olympics.”

“Exactly.”

We head to our beds reasonably early. Even Andrew.



Sagrado Mineiro
R. Maj. Sertório, 82
República,
São Paulo
SP, 01222-000.