Shut up about Barclay Perkins: Carnaval

Monday, 17 March 2025

Carnaval

(Not that I’ll be saying farewell to meat this trip. Quite the opposite. I am going to Brazil. Meat capital of the world.)

I rise at 7:15. For what will be a long day. Worth it, though. Did I ever tell you how much I love Brazil? You may have noticed through my many visits. This will be number nine.

I don't bother with any breakfast. There'll be time for that at Schiphol. And it will be free.

I jump in an Uber around 8:00. It's quite misty. The traffic isn't too bad and soon I'm checking in. The formalities don't take long, thankfully. And before I know it, I'm sitting in the lounge. They say every journey starts with a single step. For me, they start with a pair of whiskies.

A brace of whiskies to start.

It's quite full in the lounge. I have trouble finding a seat.

One whisky down and it's time to look at the food. Which is a bit different from last time. I get an omelette and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. Very posh.

Once my first course is down, I read a little Private Eye. Well, someone has to do it.

For round two, I have two rosti and some baked beans. I'm really living the dream. Especially when I get another pair of whiskies.

Rosti and baked beans breakfast.

Lots of flights are delayed. Was that because of the mist? Luckily, mine isn't. Or, wasn't. Just before I'm about to head for my gate, it shows as delayed by 30 minutes. I get myself a nice cappuccino. Just to make sure I'm awake.

I time getting to the gate perfectly. Arriving just as they announce that my group can board. Brilliant. Zero time fucking around at the gate.

Has the mist delayed our flight? No, one of the windscreen wipers isn't working. At least that's wat they tell us. We wait around for a while and finally pull away from the gate about an hour late. Just as well that I have no connecting flight.

As usual, I pass the time with some shit films. Rock of Ages is fucking dreadful. Not helped by lots of shitty music. The plot of Rush Hour is ludicrous, but at least has Jackie Chan. Point Break is, well, total bollocks.

The first meal is fucking meatballs. Again. Just about edible. At least I can add some knives to the red wine with the miniatures I picked up in Schiphol.

I don't usually sleep on daytime flights. But I make an exception, fishing out my neck pillow. Do I sleep? Sort of. I doze a little.

After they serve us the final meal - a sort of pizza thing that I don't eat - I watch some Live at the Apollo. Which is reasonably amusing.

We land 30 minutes late.

There's the usual cross-continental trek to immigration. Is it me or are there more moving walkways this time? I'm already totally knacked and the walking doesn't help. Even with the walkways.

I'm quite sweaty by the time I get to immigration. Where, thankfully, there's not much of a queue. At least, for oldie people like me. There's a fucking huge one for the unlucky young people.

Where the fuck is my bag? It's priority and supposed to be one of the first out. I guess they didn't tell the baggage handlers here that.

Finally, after quite a wait, my bag flops out. And I make my way to the taxi counter.

It's not as long a drive this time. As I'm staying in the city centre rather than Ipanema. Where I can't afford to stay because of stupid Carnaval. For a while I thought I might not be staying in Rio at all, the hotels were so expensive.

As we approach the centre. there are lots of exotically dressed people. Barely dressed, many of them. They’re milling around the streets in small groups. Looking as if they’re on their way to or from somewhere.

When we get to the hotel, it doesn't look right. Because it isn't. It's the wrong Ibis. Brilliant. It takes another 10 minutes of crawling through partygoers to get to the correct hotel.