Flying home

I have a really good kip. And rise at 8.

I do some pottering around for a while. Alexei knocks on my around 9. And downstairs we head.

It’s even more crowded than yesterday. Though we can find seats. Any guesses what I have? Scrambled egg, cheese, fruit. I’m very predictable.

We have a bit of a hole to fill today. Our flight isn’t until 21:45. Even getting to the airport early for lounging, we’ve several hours to fill after checkout.

I assume we’ll have to check out at eleven. But ask at reception, just to be sure. We actually have until noon. Cool.

Around 11:30 the kids arrive at my room with their packed bags. We trail downstairs to check out. Dumping our bags there, too.

We plan on being lazy, spending the day at the pub over the road where we ate on our first day here. It doesn’t open until 12, leaving us 15 minutes to wait.

When we get over there at 12:05, Several tables are already occupied.

“They must have been leaning on the door.” Something I remember well from my days living in the East End back in the 1970s. On Sundays, there would usually be groups of men hanging around outside the pubs, waiting for them to open at 12. Including me.

We grab an outdoor table and peruse the menu. As it’s going to be a long day, I start with a mineral water. What a sensible person I’ve become. Alexei and Andrew both have water, too. Plenty of time for drinking.

Most of the other guests are eating. Groups of middle-aged men, couples, young friends. All types of people. Which is nice.

I get an Eisenbahn Pils for my second drink, while the kids have Brahma. Served the typical Brazilian way: a long neck 600 mil bottle jammed into a cooler.

Quite a few homeless people are wandering around. One sits down just outside the pub. After a while, a waiter comes and gives him a bag of food.

Later, another homeless man walks by and speaks to some of the customers. One of then gives him their doggie bag and buys him a can of coke. That’s very compassionate.

After a couple of hours, we start feeling a bit hungry. Well, me and Alexei do.

“What about getting some appetisers?” Alexei suggests.

“Fine by me. What do you fancy?”

There’s something called pork crackling that catches our eye. And you can’t go wrong with chips.

I’ve moved onto caipirinha. Andrew joins me, though still orders a Brahma to go with it.

We hear screaming from up the street. A rather large gentleman appears running down the road, yelling crazily. Followed by a petite woman who tries to calm him down. Which she manages to do and they continue walking down the street. When they’re out of sight, the screaming starts up again.

Alexei joins us on caipirnhas.

“This will be my last chance to drink one.”

“Other than in the lounge.” I remark.

“They have them there?”

“Of course. It’s still in Brazil.”

There’s another commotion somewhere down the side street we’re on. It continues for a while. A military policeman, walking in a very determined way, walks past us headed in the direction of the noise. His right hand on his holstered pistol.

The kids discuss exactly what sort of hand gun it is. Settling on either a German pistolll or an Austrian Glock.

A few minutes later, the policeman walks back past us. We didn’t hear any gunshots. Everything must have worked out peacefully.

The caipirinhas are going down nicely.

Another homeless man appears. Shouting incoherently and pestering customers. The waiters try to get him to move on. To no avail.

It’s the first time I’ve felt uncomfortable the whole trip. He’s still hanging around when we pay up and leave. After five happy hours of boozing and snacking.

Bags picked up, we pile into and Uber and soon are speeding alongside the open sewer that passes for a river.

We check in three bags again. Despite only really having one. They don’t seem to give too much of a shit when you’re checking in Sky Priority.

There’s not much of a queue for either immigration or security. Soon we’re in the duty free, deciding which cachacas to buy. We only get two. And they aren’t even litres. $18 and $25.

It’s the W lounge, again. Which is quite a way down one pier, by gate 327. I remember this. There are moving walkways. But only in one direction. Hopefully our gate isn’t in the other direction. Like happened to me last time.

“Why do the walkways only go one way?” Andrew asks.

“Probably because they were being cheapskates.”

The staff warn us: “It’s quite busy upstairs.”

We sit in the smaller downstairs. At a large table intended for laptop users.

While the kids get me a whisky, I try to log into the wifi. I can connect, but can’t get internet access. Like a true IT professional, I get angry.

“It’s probably the fucking VPN again.”

“You’re very grumpy, Dad,” Andrew says.

“No, I’m fucking not. Get me another whisky.”

Which Andrew does.

Andrew can’t log into the lounge wifi, either.

“Try the airport wifi. That works.”

Which is what I do. Firing up the VPN so I can watch the cricket highlights on Ziggo.

I nibble on a few bits of food and sip some whisky. Watching the cricket is very calming.

“Our gate is 330.” Andrew tells me.

Brilliant. That means we don’t have to trail back along the pier.

With my oldie privileged status we get on the plane first. Even before the business class passengers.

Before we take off, an attendant comes by and asks Andrew if he wants to move to the row in front. It’s a bulkhead row and only the window seat is occupied. Of course he agrees, welcome of the extra legroom.

I move over to Andrew’s seat. This is brilliant.

As soon as we’re done eating, I try to sleep. Which works really well. Soon I’m spark out. When I wake, we’re only four hours out from Amsterdam. And I promptly nod off again.

I properly wake when we’re two hours out. And we’re served a weird breakfast of mostly sweet stuff. I don’t eat much of it. But appreciate the coffee and orange juice.

Passport control is really annoying. The automatic gates aren’t open and there’s quite a queue. After a while, they do open the gates, but we can’t use them as Alexei is travelling on his UK passport and Dutch ID card. Fucking Brexit.

When we’re almost at the head of the queue, a group of Brazilians in wheelchairs are wheeled up in front of us. They don’t have to hand all the documents they need for entry. Much pissing around entails.

At least our bags are on the carousel. Soon, we’re in a taxi bowling along the motorway. It’s warmer than in Sao Paulo.

Back home, Dolores is waiting. With tea.



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