A day downtown

All I have to do today is get downstairs before ten for breakfast. I just about manage.

A fruit breakfast again. I've been trying to eat as healthily as possible. Four different types of fruit today. I’m still feeling knackered. No gallivanting about and a very early night. That’s the plan.

After eating, I doss around in my room for a while and work out where I’m headed later.

Around midday, I walk down the hill to the city centre. A bit of light shopping first. As I’m headed to the supermarket, I spot a chemist and nip in there. A couple of things I need to pick up.

When you don’t give a fuck about looking an idiot, shopping without a language in common can be quite fun. It's amazing how far the odd word and hand gestures can get you, even when buying medicine.

After a few minutes of non-verbal communication, I get what I want and go to the till. Where the charming young woman chats away with me in pretty good English. That’s Brazil for you. Delightfully random.

In the supermarket, I make directly for the booze section Which isn’t bad. I would get some cachaca for the kids. But then I’d have to check in my bag at Florianopolis. It’s easier just to pick it up at Sao Paulo duty free. Instead, I get myself a bottle of rum. And some chocolate and cheese. Typical shopping, really.

I’ve pencilled in Boss Beer in the old central market for food. Mostly because the name includes the word “beer”. And it’s easy to find. I can’t be doing with too much messing around. Easy is the key word today.

It’s also handy, as Boss Beer is at one end of the market. No fiddling about walking to one of the places in the middle along crowded narrow corridors.

There’s a selection of draught beer: Lohn Pilsner, Schorstein IPA and Roseta Rossa Session IPA. I order a caipirinha. Why? Past experience has taught me to be wary of craft beer in non-specialist places in Brazil. Had a terribly oxidised Eisenbahn IPA at another place in the market last year.

There’s a band playing in the centre of the market. Covers of English-language songs, mostly. There’s also political noise from Lula supporter. The final round of the presidential election is tomorrow. Hopefully, it will all run smoothly. But will the pubs be open?

Another caipirinha is in order. It’s another warm day: 28º C. Not great for me. And the sun isn’t even out.

The second caipirinha seems to be settling my gut. Half-way down and I’m starting to feel vaguely human again. So much better, I may even eat.

I order some oysters as they are apparently a local speciality. They cost an extortionate 1 euro each. Then a pasty with some lurid green sauce. Pretty good. You can’t go wrong with a pie.

A third caipirinha has me on top of the world. I wouldn’t like to overdo it, mind. That will be enough for today. I have to climb back up that hill, after all. Three decades of living in Holland have left me terrified of the slightest incline.

It’s about 15:30 when I walk back. Pretty much everything in town is shut. It’s like the old days in Germany. Spooky.

I lounge around in my room for a while. And fancy a rum. I struggle to get the top off with my weakened wrist. I drop down to reception where a nice gentleman opens it for me.

Feeling that slices of cheese and chocolate isn't a full evening meal, I nip to the little corner shop and get a sandwich and a bag of nachos. I beef up the sarnie with extra cheese. That's better.

I watch Match of the Day from Wednesday and today. What has happened to Newcastle? Someone has taught them how to defend.

I retire early - 21:45. I need my sleep.

Luckily I have my rum friend along for the ride.




Beer Boss
Largo da Alfândega
Centro, Florianópolis
SC, 88010-400.

Into town

I feel really shit this morning. Totally exhausted. Too much standing around yesterday at the awards ceremony.

I drag myself downstairs at 9:30 for a fruit breakfast. Maybe that will help. The cough has resurfaced. After breakfast, I lie in bed until checkout time, coughing my guts up every few minutes. What a joy it is to be alive.

A few other judges are in reception when I check out and I say good bye to them.  A nice bunch this year, with quite a few people I've never met before.

I'm taking it really slow today. I get to my city-centre hotel around noon and spend a couple of hours just relaxing in my room. It doesn't help that it's much warmer today - 32 C. I'll go out for some food later when it's cooled down a bit.

Searching the internet for beer and food destinations, I come across Beer and Pork. Sounds perfect. Two of my favourite things. It opens at 6 PM. Which is exactly when I jump into my Uber. It’s a bit of a ride away, on the mainland.

The doors are still locked when I arrive at 18:20. I’m not the only one hanging around outside. Fortunately, we only wait a minute or two.

Inside a band is finishing up its soundcheck. Obviously, this is a live music sort of place. Pretty sure I’ll be long gone by the time they hit the stage for real. I’m planning an early night.

Handwerk American IPA sounds the best of the 14 draught options. It’s OK, but there isn’t a huge amount of hop character. Which is sort of what you expect in an American IPA. On the hazy side, too. Thankfully not too sludgy. Lovely copper colour.

I take a seat outside, where there’s an amazing view of the island. Clouds shroud its hills While water laps just a few metres away. Joggers jog along the narrow beach. Florianopolis is so beautiful. So much so, it’s hard to do in justice in words. Only what looks like a wastepipe spoils the scene.

Of course, there’s no printed menu. I have to log onto the wifi and scan a QR code to pull it up on my phone. And then order via the phone. Why can’t you just order from a fucking waiter any more? What do you do if you don’t have a mobile? Just as well I’m getting all modern.

I’m not 100% convinced that I’ve ordered my food. I wander over to the bar to enquire. While I’m there, my sandwich is delivered to my table. I had ordered it, then.

A pork sandwich with barbecue and stuff. Quite nice. And not too much.

Darkness has thrown down its blanket. Lights glisten like crystals on the island opposite. Two men cast nets from the beach, an arc of seabirds waiting hunched behind them. It’s all very scenic.

Only the one beer. I don’t really fancy another. And I want to get back to my room early.

Soon I’m in a cab weaving through the night-time city. A blur of light and colour flowing by.

Back in my room, I lie on the bed and watch football. There’s always football in TV in Brazil.

A rum sambas me to sleep.



Beer & Pork Brewery
R. Des. Pedro Silva, 2019
Coqueiros, Florianópolis
SC, 88080-700.

Judging done

My wrist is aching a treat. As I have nothing planned today, I trundle down for breakfast about 9:30. Where I sit with Thomas Sjöberg and eat fruit. And hang around talking all things beer until almost midday

The dancing yesterday seems to have helped my cough. Though I haven't completely stopped hacking up my lungs.

 A bit after noon I wander down to the beach, grab a seat in the shade and order a caipirinha.  After a while several judges come up and sit beside me - Em, Gordon, Shane and others. I have the one caipririnha and four little meat pasties. Which are pretty nice.

I opt for the early (4 PM) bus to the awards ceremony in the Hard Rock Live. It's much further away than I expected, on the mainland. it takes almost 90 minutes to get there, what with the traffic.

It’s a barn of a place, obviously designed for live music. Around the outside is a row of self-serve tap units. Where to start? Which is the strongest? Bodebrolin Double Perigosa sounds like it. 25% ABV. That’ll do. I may as well get a full measure.

I grab one of the few seats. I really can't be doing with hours of standing. My crappy old body isn't up to that any more. I chat with Kjertil, who has to bugger off early on account of a flight at stupid o’clock tomorrow.

My next beer is a step down: Satelite Galactic Valley 2 Fazenda at just 7% ABV.. That looks a bit sludgy. Damn. I should have looked at the style: Hazy IPA. Oh well, I’m not going to waste it.

I sort of wish I’d just stayed on the beach drinking caipirinhas until sunset. Then crawled off to bed. My energy levels are really low. I’m coughing like mad again. And my wrist is throbbing like a badly-tuned moped. Other than that, I feel great.

Maybe I should have something to eat. I get something from one of the food trucks at the back. Selling meat on a stick. Beef first, followed by some chicken thing. Both come with a side of bacon-flavoured sand. Yum.

The ceremony is, as I expected, quite loud. Not as bad as earlier in the year in Blumenau, mind. And I have a seat. That’s the most important thing.

I finish with a Tupiniquim Pecan Imperial Stout at 12% ABV. It’s Stoutiliscious.

They rattle through the awards at a good pace. I’m grateful for that. Then it’s just waiting until it’s time for the bus back to the hotel.

I get the 10:30 bus. The early one. And doze all the way. This is a new level of knacked. So much so that I don't join Dick and friends for a caipirinha nightcap. Just flopping straight upstairs to my room. What have I become? An old git is the answer. A very tired old git.

A rum nudges me slumberwards. It doesn’t take much of a push.




Hard Rock Live Florianópolis
SC-281, 4000
Grande Florianópolis,
São José
SC, 88122-001.
https://www.hardrock.com/live/locations/florianopolis/pt/ 

Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

Judging day three

I have a fruit breakfast gain. I need my vitamins. This cold just isn't going away. And it’s a nice light breakfast. I don’t want to be too full with all that beer coming my way later.

My cough is pretty bad. It must be great fun judging with me. It makes me feel dead Victorian, coughing myself to death. TB is called the English Sickness in German. How appropriate.

I troop upstairs to the judging room. Damn, I don't have my shirt for the group photo. I quickly nip downstairs to fetch it. They're just about to take the photo when I return to ironic cheers. But I'm not the last. Thankfully. A few straggle in after me.

Only three of us on the table today. But one of my table mates, Gisela, doesn't speak English. Which makes things complicated. And this time I’m the captain. Which has its upsides and its downsides. Paul, the other judge, is the brother of Alfredo, who was on my table on day one.

Two sets in the morning: English IPA and beer with Brazilian ingredients. Not weird exotic stuff, but barley and hops grown in Brazil. Enough good beers to award full sets of medals.

I’m very frugal at lunch again. Just a couple of small pieces of meat. If I lived in Brazil, buffets would drive me crazy. You get them all the time and the food is rarely any good. Dried-out meat and fish. It’s crap. There. I’ve said it.  

Lunch is followed by three sets: Beer with Brazilian ingredients (all the weird shit), Adambier and Scotch ales. Pretty eclectic, eh? The first lot was far less terrifying than I had feared. Nothing too over the top.

Afternoon judging doesn't take too long. We're done by just after 4 PM. When I quickly piss off before they ask me to judge BOS. I quite fancy getting to tonight's event while there's still some food. I know how those BOS sessions go. They always drag on for ages. Especially if there are a couple of argumentative judges. I'd rather watch the Block NZ and be at tonight's event on time.

Feijoada and samba tonight, at the other hotel. Hopefully some caipirinhas, too. It's scheduled to start at 6 PM. So will probably kick off closer to 8. I'm starting to get the hang of South American timings. 

I wander along the beach a little after 6:30 PM. The sky looks incredible. It can be so gut-thumpingly beautiful here.

As expected, not much is going on when I arrive. I do spot some people drinking cocktails. Kalvelage, a local distillery seems to be sponsoring the event. I get myself a caipirinha. It’s very nice. As caipirinhas always are.

Judges slowly dribble in as I dribble into a succession of caipirinhas. Eventually, it’s time to get stuck into feijoada. Which, obviously, is served as a buffet. I go for a bean stew with meat lumps. Much less crap than buffets usually are. It’s very filling.

When most of the eating is done, the samba school shows up. And all the fun starts. It’s amazing what you can achieve with just percussion instruments. It’s very dancy. Very infectious. Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m dancing away. Impossible to resist. It must be 15 years since I last hit the dance floor.

The samba school leads us out, Pied Piper style, to the gazebo. Where they continue to do their thing for a while.

Heading back to the bar, I take a shortcut through the terrace and bang! I walk straight into a glass door, bouncing back and falling over. I break my fall with my right hand at the cost of knacking the wrist. Bugger. No other injury, luckily.

Time for another caipirinha.

My life really is turning to shit. To think I’m missing hanging around in an office for eight hours a day just to waste my time hanging around with beer chums. Drinking free caipirinhas and dancing to a samba band. How did my life go so horribly wrong?

It's brilliant the situation I'm in now. No employer ever again to kowtow to. Becoming an oldie person is so liberating. I no longer need to give the faintest of fucks about pissing off actual or potential employers. And you get to push in at the front of queues, get a discount on public transport or get to cook crazily. Only slight downside is your body slowly crumbling to achy dust. Outside the straightjacket of work, no-one (other than Dolores) has any leverage over me.

I haven't felt this free since I was 18.

It's great to be own man again. Like when I was young and irresponsible. I intend taking full advantage. Before my crappy body pegs out.

No Jura to embrace me tonight. Just some local rum. It works the same sleepy magic.




Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

Judging day two

I just have fruit for breakfast. Mr Healthy, that's me. I eat with Thomas Sjöberg. We always seem to have lots to talk about.

Another day, another table. It's quite a fun table, with some well-qualified judges: Katia Jorge, one of the country’s first craft brewers, Kjertil Jikiun and Claudio Ebert. Makes my life easy. Which is what I like. As I keep telling you, I’m a deeply lazy person.

An odd combination of beers this morning: Grodziskie, Quadrupel and Dark Mild. All specialist subjects for me. Hunting down Grodziskie was obsession of mine for a while. Then I got to collaborate on brewing one with Jopen. Quadrupel is what I drink every day at home. And Dark Mild? Well, that’s my first beery love.

These are all final rounds. Meaning, we’re awarding medals. Lots of beer nerds don’t seem to get the way medals work, given the weird fuss about Allagash White being awarded a silver when there was no gold. It’s very simple: a beer has to be an outstanding example of the style to get a gold. Not just the best of a bad bunch.

Three bronzes and one silver are what we award. Nothing anywhere near the standard of a gold. The Quadrupels are all way too sweet. I’m guessing they were brewed all malt. Something no Belgian brewer would do.

A buffet lunch again - surprise, surprise. I go with vegetables, meat and a tiny amount of potato salad. Hopefully it will keep me going for the rest of the day. How many calories in the beer I’ve consumed in the course of judging? 5 cl here, 10 cl there adds up over twenty samples. Especially when half are Quadrupels.

Just two sets in the afternoon: Oatmeal Stout and British Imperial Stout. The first is a final round and for the first time we award a full set of medals. What a generous bunch we are.

I don’t take judging lightly. I realise that brewers have put a lot of effort into making the beers and I always try to do them justice.

We’re finished by 5 pm. That’s good. Time to relax a little back in my room. Which is what I do. Before the evening activity.

Tonight's destination is Bodebrown, the taproom of a brewery from another state. We've got six free halves each. I'm not going to argue with that.

Hanging around outside the hotel, I’m offered a lift. Not going to turn that down. And I get to ride shotgun. Another plus for being an oldie person.

The driver seems to be having a little trouble locating our destination. When we get there his struggle is explained. Weirdly, it's in a shopping mall. 

Quite a cosy place. By which I mean small. In a single-storey shack sort of thing, with a roofed terrace around it.

A swarm of judges has turned up. Doubtless lured by the bait of free beer. Just like me. I’m not going to turn down free beer.

Only one problem: ordering those beers is chaotic. With the weird Brazilian thing of having to order from waiting staff stood at the bar rather than those serving behind it. Getting each beer isn't quick.

I start with an IPA. And stick with it, as the beer menu is in two small a typeface for me to read. This is becoming a theme. Getting old, I think it’s called. Or, why don’t you always have your specs with you, you idiot.

The IPA is fine. Next round I order two. To save on hanging around pointlessly without a fucking drink time. That’s the time, that’s the time, I hate most.

 Of the free charcuterie, only a few grapes remain by the time I arrive. The others on my table order food. But I don't feel hungry to justify the outlay. I nick a few onion rings after they've finished their burgers. When they're not looking, of course.

I get an Uber back with Dick Cantwell and a couple of others. Feeling pretty knacked, though it’s not that late, just a little after 9 PM.

Back at the hotel, we have a Caipirinha outside the pizza place downstairs. It seems Dick and a few other judges have been night-capping here with caipirinhas. I can think of worse ways to end the day. I join them for one, then go back to my room. Don't want to be too late.

In the goodie bag hanging on the handle of my door was, along with a can of coke and a can of bitter lemon, a bar of chocolate. A year ago, that would have been useless to me. What could I do with chocolate?

But, oddly enough, I just started eating chocolate after a gap of 50 years. Not huge amounts. Just now and again. I’m getting on. How many more chances will I have to eat chocolate? So why not enjoy some now? (I do realise that I could apply the same logic to murder or genocide.)

A couple of pieces of chocolate are my dinner. Followed by a Jura lullaby.



Bodebrown Floripa
SC-401,
Km 05 - Loja 32,
Saco Grande,
Florianópolis. 

Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

Judging day one

The first day of judging. How exciting. Breakfast is supposed to be at 7, with judging kicking off at 8. It doesn't happen like that, obviously.

Normally I’d hate such an early start. But the judging is in the hotel we’re staying in. So much more convenient. No shuttle to bus to hang around for. And I can nip back to my room at lunchtime.

I have breakfast just before eight. Scrambled egg and cheese, if you're wondering. Not particularly exciting. Functional to the point of infinite dullness.

It's well after eight when I get to the judging room. Where nothing much is happening. There's a bit of an introduction, telling us the rules, like no phone fiddling. Not much chance of me falling foul of that.

When it all kicks off, it’s satisfyingly early. Last year, we didn’t get started until almost midday.

Only two other judges on my table instead of four. Alfredo Sundoval, a Venezuelan living in Uruguay and Rudy, brewer at Unika.

We start with Irish Red. Yippee! One of my favourite styles. Not. It could be worse. At least we get through them quickly.

Unusually, judging is on paper rather than on a computer. Quite a simple form that doesn’t take too long to complete. That’s fine by me. I just pity whoever has to interpret my handwriting.

Second set is Belgian Tripel. That’s more like it – the perfect morning beer. Sets me up nicely for lunch.

Lunch is a buffet, of course. Downstairs in the same room where we breakfasted. I have some fish and chicken. Along with tomatoes and a tiny portion of potato salad. It's like these buffets always are. Fuel for the rest of the day, not a gourmet experience.

I eat with Gordon, Rudy and Thomas. Which is fun. Plenty of lively conversation to compliment my lethargic lunch.

After eating, I go up to my room for some internet fiddling. I have some catching up to do, having been offline for a few days.

Two more sets in the afternoon: Irish Dry Stout and British Barley Wine. Not so keen on the first. While the second is impressive, with one really outstanding example. A good end to the day. And not too late. We’re done not much after 4 PM.

After a while of cruising one of the darker corners of the internet (Twitter) I drop downstairs to see if I can find someone to share an Uber. A few judges are hanging around.

I notice Em Sauter and go up and introduce myself. We’ve had some strange encounters on Twitter. Strange because of others reactions, not anything between us. Secondhand indignation is such a beautiful thing. I’ve been looking forward to meeting her since I noticed her name on the list of judges.

I get an Uber with Em and a couple of others to Kairo's, tonight’s destination.  It’s a brewery up at this (the top) end of the island. I recognise the place. I was here last year. Spartan is a very fair description of the interior. Very much the junior partner in the brewery and taproom partnership.

They have a couple of beers on, obviously, it being a brewery. I have the first beer of the trip (other than judging). It's supposedly a West Coast IPA, but is pretty sludgy.

I’m perfectly happy for sludge IPA to exist for the misguided fools who want to drink it. I would like such beers to be clearly labelled “sludge” so I don’t accidentally order them. And then have to drink them, obviously. I’m not throwing away beer I’ve paid good money for. No matter how much I think it tastes like baby spew mixed with out-of-date cheap pineapple juice.

There's food for us judges – meat, sausage, green stuff and bread. Very protein heavy, as Brazilian food can be. But I'm not really hungry. I eventually have a sausage, which is good, if a little fatty.

Em has an Irish Dry Stout and says it’s pretty good. I would try it. If I hadn’t drunk a shedload of them during judging earlier. I lazily stick to the IPA. Though I only manage two.

I don't stay late. I'm gone by eight. What an old man I am. Scuttling back to the quiet of my hotel room Where I do some internetting and watch Dutch TV. Which I understand is a weird thing to do. Doesn’t harm anyone. It’s not like I’m strangling cats, or anything.

Jura jogs along with me to sleep.



Kairós Cervejaria
Estr. Cristóvão Machado de Campos
Vargem Grande, Florianópolis
SC, 88052-600.
https://www.cervejariakairos.com.br/ 

Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

The judges meet

Just as well I set up WhatsApp before leaving home. So, I can tell Dolores that I'm not dead. I also get my email working on my phone. Look at how modern I am. Almost like a normal person.

Scrambled egg and bacon for breakfast. Though I'm not feeling that hungry. It's a pretty good spread here. Which is one of the reasons I booked this hotel. I stayed here last year and was impressed by the breakfast. Loads of cake. Not that I eat it. I’m not quite sure why that impresses me, then. Maybe vicariously for Dolores.

I wander to the bank and try to withdraw some money. No luck with any of my cards. That's a bit annoying. No idea what the problem is. Looks like I’ll be paying for everything by credit card.

I find a live Premier League game: Leeds vs Fulham. There’s always football on somewhere here in Brazil. It passes the time until checkout.

Just a short cab ride to the judges’ hotel. I say short, it takes 45 minutes. The island is bigger than you think, around 70 km North to South. Though not much more than 10 km at its widest. Much consists of densely-wooded hills. Along with the beaches, it’s all rather lovely.

Checked in and with a while before things kick off, I do some computer fiddling. When I disable some VPN thingy, the login screen pops up immediately. Yes. I’m back on the web. And I even managed to sort it out myself. Albeit on a keep trying random shit until something works basis. Standard IT practice, that.

The event is being held at another hotel. The one where we stayed last year. It’s directly on the beach, unlike ours, which is 200 metres back.

Along the beach is the only sensible route. So that’s the route I take. One road would lead pretty much directly there. Except it comes to a dead end. Then continues again after 50 metres. Great town planning there.

It’s not a particularly long walk. Past the pirate ship pier and the two bars. It’s a beautiful beach with near-white sand. Very fine sand that does a really good job of invading your shoes. The first part is pretty busy, it being a Sunday. Though it thins out further on.

Things are supposed to kick off at 4 pm. There’s no fucker there when I turn up at ten past. When I finally find someone from the organisation, he says it's been delayed until 7pm. I really should have looked at the WhatsApp group earlier.

With black clouds all around, I fear I’m going to get drenched on the walk back to my hotel. Somehow the clouds magically split and wrap around instead of over me. Only a few drops come my way.

I bump into Dick Cantwell outside the hotel. He tells me that the event has been delayed until 6 pm.

“Someone just told me it’s seven.”

“The WhatsApp group says six.” Dick says.

My money is on nothing happening until 19:30. At the very earliest.

I get back to the other hotel at 18:30. Obviously, fuck all is happening. We are in Brazil, after all. I spot Gordon and we idle up to the bar

We get stuck into cocktails. I go for the safe Caipirinha option. While Gordon's G&T comes out orange. With star fruit in it. Bit of miscommunication at the bar, I think.

We move out to a gazebo in the garden. The food will be served here. I'd expected to recognise more of the judges. It's only a couple: Dick Cantwell, Gordon Strong. And, of course, organiser Amanda.

Here's a confession. I've been in Brazil three days and haven't drunk a single beer. I haven't been anywhere with tempting options. A caipirinha suits every occasion. And is universally available.

Did I mention that I love Brazil? I probably did. If I didn’t: I love Brazil. The beer is sometimes a bit dodgy, offset with some really good stuff. Like Catharina Sour. A good one of those is a belter summer drink.

Not a meal as such tonight. Bits of food are brought around. OK for me. My tummy is a bit gippy. I do have a very nice oyster. And some fried cod bits. A few bits are all I need.

When I‘m on the road, people must wonder how I can be such a fat bastard when I eat so little. Only when I travel does my appetite sink to that of an anorexic teenage budgie. At home I stuff myself stupid. Hence my waistline.

Rain, rain doesn't really come. Until I'm fetching cocktails from the bar, when it's stair rods. Just as well it's only a few dozen metres. I still get pretty wet. Worth it, mind, for the caipirinha.

I get Gordon a G & T that’s the right colour. And has lemon in it, not star fruit. The wonders of pointing at a menu. An essential skill for any traveller. One of the first I learnt.

One of the Brazilians asks if we want to dance samba. Neither of us is keen. My dancing shoes have been long retired, ever since that incident. I won't repeat the full horror. My arse will never be the same again. That's all I'll say.

I walk back across the beach with Gordon. Now all the people have fucked off, birds have taken control, hunched over the sand. It looks very exotic. I wonder what the hell type of birds they are? If only Will (my birdwatcher mate) were here. He’d know for sure.

I go straight to bed. While Gordon hangs out some more. Be interested if he makes it for the judging at 8 am. Or at all, for that matter.

Jura is still my bestest night-time chum.
 

 

Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

Rio for a few hours

I don't get up that early. Around nine. And troll downstairs for breakfast. It’s what I do every day when I’m on holiday. At home I don’t usually bother with breakfast.

It's a proper cafe, with a menu and everything. Lots of waiting stuff scurrying around. When I catch the attention of one of them, I order an omelette. Which is pretty tasty. And about as exactly as much as I feel like eating. That is: not a huge amount.

It’s quite lively. Obviously, far more than just hotel guests eating. I forgot to relate that I also ordered orange juice. It’s dead good. Way better than the muck served in many hotels.

After breakfast, I wander down to the beach. Did I mention that I’m staying in Ipanema? As I’m not going to be here long, I thought I might as well stay close to the beach. With the few hours that I’m here, there’s not a whole lot I can do. Other than cocktails on the beach. It seems a pretty Rio sort of thing to do.

It’s Saturday, but, despite being only 10 AM, quite a few people are knocking around. Some are already getting stuck into beer. The happy ones.

A few hundred metres is walking enough for me under this sun. I pick myself a beach bar. Totally randomly. Order a caipirinha and get a seat in the shade. It's very relaxing. Not too hot, a pleasant sea breeze and a beautiful view. I take a few snaps just to annoy my friends stuck in Europe.

Gleaming sand, turquoise sea studded with green islands framed between two rocky outcrops. I can see why people go on about it. And here I am getting to enjoy it while sipping my favourite cocktail. (Yes, I rate it above piso sour.) Life can be good.

Time for a second caipirinha. I’m not in any rush. I’ve an hour or two before I need to get to the airport. This is my second time in Rio. Both times combined only add up to about 40 hours. Almost half of which I was asleep.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. I’m not that stupid. Not quite. The plan was to fly in on Friday, stay two nights in Rio then continue on to Florianopolis on Sunday. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a flight that would get me to Florianopolis in time for the judges’ reception on Sunday afternoon. Just one night in Rio, then. Leaving me a laughable length of time in the city.

I wend my way back to the hotel. It isn’t far. I still can’t get the fucking internet to work. Bags packed back up and checked out, I sit in the café downstairs. Where I order a caipirinha. Just to pass the time until I need to go to the airport. It’s impolite to sit without a drink. And I am in Brazil.

My flight to Florianopolis is at 16:50. Luckily, I can connect my phone to wifi and order an Uber to take me to the airport.

Rio's domestic airport. Smaller, quieter and closer to town than the other one. Only a 20-minute ride around the coast away from Ipanema. I’m getting to see a little of Rio, if only accidentally. Arriving at night, I didn’t see much other than a dirty great tunnel on the way in.

It takes no time to check in. Then I treat myself to a couple of caipirinhas. I am in Brazil, after all. 24/7 caipirinha availability is one of the country’s most attractive features. Reasonably priced, too.

The flight is full. But not too long. And at least we’re served something – a snack and a soft drink. Plus, being a KLM partner, this counts to my frequent flyer status. We land at dusk.

Florianopolis airport is compact. My bag pops out quickly on the carousel. It’s just a short walk to the taxi rank. Before you can say “Mine’s a caipirinha”, I’m in a cab headed for the town centre. Even in the gathering gloom, the island looks stunning. Soon I’m at my hotel.

I still can’t get the internet to work. I message Dolores from my phone to troubleshoot. No luck, no matter what I try. Bugger.

I'm feeling a bit knacked. I only venture out to buy a sarnie at the tiny corner shop I know from last year. Need to eat something.

I drink some Jura and watch the rest of Pistol. Pretty good. I'm dead impressed by the musical parts. Odd thinking that I was sort of part of it. Having seen The Pistols in 1976.

Jura is my sleepy-time companion.


Ipanema Inn
R. Maria Quitéria, 27
Ipanema,
Rio de Janeiro - RJ,
22410-040. 

Brasil Beer Cup paid for my accommodation during the judging, as well as some food and drink.

Back from Brazil again

I just got back from Brazil. Yes, I've been there again. Judging and generally hanging around with fellow beer-obsessives. Lots of fun, but totally knackering

I didn't do a whole load of travelling around. One night in Rio, the rest in Florianopolis. Home to some stunningly beautiful beaches.

Too knacked to write much, you'll have to make do with some photos. For now. 

Exciting, eh?  Yum. Just the sort of breakfast to kick its foot right up your arse to start your day.

Have you sensed any sort of theme yet? I'll soon be beating you over the head with it in another interminable series of travel blog post. Where you'll learn the details of every single breakfast I nibbled at apathetically, while reminding myself I needed vitamins and sugar for the gruelling day ahead. Though I need eat much the same before days of lounging around.

My only regret is not snapping every breakfast so I could truly share them with you. Well, not in the sense of eating along, that would be impossible.