Flying home

I rise at 7:30. Planning to eat breakfast, finish packing and then grab an Uber.

Despite being a good boy yesterday, I’m feeling quite tired. Some coffee livens me up a bit.  And I get some energy from scrambled egg, cheese and ham. And orange juice, of course.

A breakfast of scrambled egg, cheese, ham, orange juice and coffee.

I’ve still got a fair amount of hotel cachaça left. I decant it into a half-empty cola bottle. Het presto – an Uber drink.

By the time I’ve checked out, it’s 8:45. I have a bit of a wait for an Uber. But I’ve plenty of time. My flight isn’t until 11:35.

The traffic is quite heavy. We slow almost to a standstill at certain points. Especially where there are road works. But we always soon get going again. I’m in no great hurry. I’ve left loads of time. Because I’d rather hang around for an hour than have to rush.

Swigs of my special cola drink help keep me calm. So calm that I start nodding off. Now there’s an oldie way to start the day. Falling asleep just after getting up.

It’s well before 10 when we roll up at Navegantes airport.

It doesn’t take long to check in my bag. What to do now? That looks quite a nice café. And I’m still feeling a bit knacked. A nice cappuccino should do nicely. It’s so nice, I get a second. And a chocolate thing. Need to keep my energy levels up. And my eyes open.

A cappuccino and chocolate biscuit.

Gol are boarding very early again. They’re already on group 2 when I get down there. I basically walk straight through out onto the tarmac, up the stairs and into my seat. Which is 2C.

Nothing much happens on the brief flight. Other than it taking ages for then to open the doors after landing. With us eventually disembarking from the rear.

My GOL aircraft from Navegantes.

It’s quite a walk to the international terminal. It takes around 15 minutes to get there from my bag pickup. Wisely, I’ve grabbed a trolley. Which makes things easier.

I’m slightly worried about whether I’ll be able to check in yet. It’s more than 8 hours until my flight. I ask the nice young lady at the desk:

“Can I check in for the Amsterdam flight?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Brilliant. No hanging around landside. Where I have to pay.

I have priority all the way to the duty free. I already have three bottles of cachaça in my check-in bag. But you know, you can never have too much cachaça. Not when Andrew is around.

I also pick up some sweets and chocolates for Alexei. The woman in front of me in the queue for the till drops her cachaça variety pack. It lands with crash and leaks all over the floor. The fruity smell of the spirit fills the air. I feel for her. I’ve done exactly the same thing myself with a bottle of whisky in Schiphol duty free.

The lounge is in a different location to most of the others. Almost at the end of the international pier, next to gate 327. It takes a while to walk there.

Lounge whisky.

I remember this lounge being pretty small. There aren’t a great number of free seats. I get one at a desk with lots of sockets, clearly intended for those with laptops. None of them seem to work.

After a while there’s a crackling noise followed by a burnt smell. Looks like some sort of short is occurring under the table. The staff requests I move to a safer seat. They don’t have to ask twice.

Luckily, my laptop has a long battery life and is fully-charged. I fire it up and get myself a whisky. And stuff to nibble on: olives, tomatoes, those funny little red things, grapes.

An email tells me that my flight is delayed by an hour and fifty minutes. Great! I’ll be getting even more value from this lounge.

Being here for a long time, I don’t go too crazy with the whisky. Fancying a change, I plump for a gin and tonic. The server begins by completely filling the glass with ice. Back at my seat, I shovel out handfuls into an empty whisky glass. And the drink is still too cold and too fucking watery. I revert to whisky for my next drink.

View of the runway at Sao Paulo airport from the lounge.

I entertain myself watching old clips of Mock the Week. It passes the time nicely. The many, many hours I have to wait.

When the display finally says “go to gate”, I trundle down there. Quite a mob has beaten me to it. Most of it in the priority queue.

There being no air bridge, we pack into buses. This is such fun.

As soon as we take off, I settle back to get some kip. Not even bothering to get my headphones out. The meal isn’t too dreadful. Some sort of chicken and mash. I eat more than half of it

Then lie back for some kip. I doze on and off for 5 or 6 hours.

The view from my seat on the plane.

With about 2 hours to go, they switch on the cabin lights. Rather than just stare into space, I unload my headphones and watch some stuff. Several episodes of The Frsnchise. Which s OK, I suppose. Vaguely amusing.

Breakfast is, I think, some sort of tomato omelette. It’s alright, in a rubbery sort of way. The coffee and orange juice are more welcome.

I’m feeling remarkably chipper considering I’ve been travelling for over 24 hours. Though for more than half of it I was either lounging in the lounge or asleep.

It’s 13:20 when we touch down. Not much longer and I waltzing straight into one of the electronic gates. Once again staff direct Dutch passport holders in Dutch to the automatic gates. What about other EU passport holders. Aren’t they entitled to use then, too?

Luggage will be arriving on carousel 22. About as far away as you can get. It takes a while for my bag to emerge. Not too crazy long. Just long enough to be annoying. Even so, it’s only about an hour after touching down when stumble through my front door. To an empty house.

Dolores is at a meeting, Alexei is out cycling and Andrew is still in bed. I have to make my own tea.



Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1887 Truman (Burton) No. 3 Stock

A Truman's No. 1 Burton Barley Wine label.

I’m afraid that this is where we end with the numbered Burton Ales. Not because Nos. 1 and 2 didn’t exist. It’s just that I don’t have any log photos for them. Just bad luck, I guess. And the fact that such strong beers wouldn’t have been brewed very often.

No surprises in the grist. Other than that there’s sugar in a Stock Ale, for once. Making up around 8% of the total. All the rest is base pale malt. As you would expect.

Just one type of Worcester hops from the 1886 harvest. But rather a lot of them: 11.5 lbs per quarter (336 LBS) of malt. That heavy hopping is reflected in the bitterness of 101 IBU (calculated).

Though that bitterness would have mellowed by the time this beer was drunk. As it would have been aged for probably 18 to 24 months. After which it was likely blended with a Runner. 

1887 Truman (Burton) No. 3 Stock
pale malt	18.25 lb	91.25%
No. 2 invert sugar	1.75 lb	8.75%
Fuggles 180 mins	3.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	3.50 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	3.50 oz
OG	1092
FG	1024
ABV	9.00
Apparent attenuation	73.91%
IBU	101
SRM	10
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	180 minutes
pitching temp	54º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

I speak!

I rise at 8 after a long, long sleep. I feel so much better. It seems like every day this trip I've had an hour too little sleep. Or more.

I've arranged to meet Thomas for breakfast at 9.

I have the same breakfast as always. I love living life on the edge. I spend a couple of hours chatting with Thomas.

A breakfast pudding of guava, pineapple, orange juice and coffee.

Doug turns up and tells me that a car will be picking me up at 18:30 tonight to take me to my talk. That's cool.

I arrange to meet Thomas downstairs at 12 to go into town for drinks and food. We decide on de Marchand taproom. But it isn't open. Instead, we wander down onto the seafront and go into a random restaurant, Casa do Camarão. And order caipirinhas.

I start with a couple of strawberry ones. Along with some cod balls. Which are tiny. The two combined are smaller than one in Colarinho. And cost more.

Tiny cod balls.

A couple of Italian judges join us. And I get a passion fruit caipirinha. Which is dead good.

We decide to go somewhere cheaper to eat. A buffet place. Where it's about 12 euros for as much as you can eat. Deep-fried sushi is available again. I get various meats, loads of battered prawns, sushi, some meat bits, half a tomato, a few slices of beetroot and some pickled chili. A totally normal combination. At least here.

There are two choices: all you can eat for 75 reals, or 105 per kilo. Which means, if you want good value, load up you plate with a kilo of food all you can eat. If you're only going for 500 gm, pay per kilo.

A buffet lunch of potato, beetroot, sushi, boiled eggs, tomato and various meat.

As all the tables downstairs are taken, we head upstairs. Where there’s loads more room.

When I try to order an Uber to take us back to the hotel, my phone goes all weird. I don't see to have a mobile connection. Fuck. Have I used all my data? We go back to the buffet place and log on to their wifi to order the Uber. Which is an extortionate 1.50 euros.

On the way back, my connection reappears. Maybe all those highrises were to blame for my inability to connect.

Back at the hotel, I say goodbye to Thomas. Who is flying back to Atlanta. When will I see him again? Who knows?

Luc is already waiting for our car to the festival when I step outside the hotel. It doesn't show up at 18:30 or even 19:00, when Luc is supposed to be giving his talk. He's pissed off. And with good reason.

Me? I'm in South American mode. It will arrive when it arrives. Which is 19:10. There are already two passengers.

"Just as well we're all good friends." I remark. It's very intimate on the back seats.

Inside the hall, I grab myself a glass and go into the festival to find a beer. Any beer, really. On the way in, I bump into Tina.

The Green Coast stand at the beer festival.

"It's empty inside." she says. That's just how I like my beer festivals. Though the music is loud. Very loud.

There's a bit in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy about a rock band. Where the best place to listen to their concerts is in a concrete bunker 20 miles from the stage. I'm wishing I could find that bunker.

I have to shout into the ear of the server to get my NZ IPA. Three times.

“Why do they have music so loud?” I ask Tina.

“What?”

“Why do they have music so loud?”

“What?”

“Oh, forget it.”

“Almost seven forty-five.”

The location of the talks is cleverly hidden behind the counter where glasses are handed out. No chance of any random punters stumbling across it accidentally. Or even finding it if they’re looking for it.

There are nine of us for Luc's talk. It thins out after he's dome. One hand is enough to count my crowd. Including the staff. And me.

My talk goes quite well. Is that despite or because of the small crowd? Who knows?

Do I mind that the attendance was so poor? Not really. I don’t expect things to always go smoothly. I’ve learnt to just take things as they come, when I’m in South America. As long as one person enjoyed it, I’m happy. Easily pleased or at peace with myself? You decide.

Okcidenta stall at the beer festival.

I head back into the festival with Tina. And we bump into Rafaelo. Who is in Bavarian gear today, in honour of it being a beer festival. He points us to an Argentinian brewery with barrel-aged stuff. I get myself an Imperial Stout. With a head almost as dark as the beer itself. Just my sort of beer.

When I've finished it, I fuck off. I need to be up fairly early. For a long journey. And I don't want to start out feeling shit. I'll be seeing Rafaelo in a few weeks in Chile. And Tina after a few more in Rotterdam. No need to torture myself for social reasons.

Outside, it's raining. Proper Brazilian rain. Not quite as bad as earlier. Like the world won’t be ending until tomorrow. Not in just a couple of hours.

As we swish through the deluge, I reflect on the trip. Much like the rain, it's been intense and enveloping. Unlike the rain, it's also been lots of fun.

I'm in my room by 9:30. What a good boy you've been, Ronald. You deserve that cachaça nightcap.



Casa do Camarão
Ed. Imperador - Av. Atlântica, 2100
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-666.


Restaurante Tempero e Sabor
R. 1700, n 193
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-514.


Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.