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.
 

Japantown

I awake to a coughing fit around 3 AM. Other than that little interruption, I have a pretty good night's sleep. Rising at 8.

Alexei knocks on my door, as arranged, at 9. No Andrew, of course. He isn't really a breakfast person. Or a before midday person.

The breakfast room is large and busy. I have scrambled egg and cheese for my main. Fruit for pudding. Washed down with buckets of coffee and orange juice.

There’s no bacon. Just those weird slices of sausage floating in some red stuff. Alexei gives that a go, but isn’t too impressed.

“What’s the red stuff, dad?”

“No idea.” Not sure I want to know, really. “I steer well clear of it.”

“Dad, would you watch Young Sheldon?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For obvious reasons.”

“Which are?”

“That it’s total shite.”

“And?”

“I’m not an idiot. That enough reasons?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re enough for me.”

After a little chilling in my room, we venture to the metro. The closest stop isn't far. While we're trying to work out how to get tickets, I nice security guard comes up to us and explains how it works in pretty much perfect English. We just need to get paper tickets from the counter. It's a pretty simple process. And pay in cash, weirdly.

It’s very spacious here. Which implies they have masses of people passing through.

We're only going two stops. To the cathedral.

“Look, they have the Spanish system.” Andrew remarks, as the doors open on both sides. One side to get on, the other to get off. That also implies that it gets very busy.

“They have that in the centre of Munich, too.” I respond.

The cathedral is pretty impressive. Not so much in the area it covers, as in its height. Some lovely stained glass, too.

There’s a very strong police presence around the cathedral. Should that reassure or worry me?

Next stop is Japan Town. We could take the metro for one stop. But that seems a waste. Instead, we walk. It isn't that far. On the way, we pas a shop with a very impressive display of meat. So impressive, I take a photo.

It's very busy. I suppose it is Saturday. We're looking for a restaurant. I expected there to be loads. There aren't.

Eventually we find one, Banri. It's pretty full. We have to wait a while for a table. Then things start going wrong.

We try to order drinks. But there's some problem. We get the help of a waiter. But they can’t fix it, either. It seems that they're out of the beer the kids wanted.  Great. It takes around 10 minutes to fix.

We order spring rolls and gyozas. You can never go wrong with gyozas. And more drinks. Caipirinha for me, Heineken for the kids.

Some of the menu items – like chop suey – aren’t exactly Japanese. Not even authentic Chinese.

“Dad, would you live in the USA?”

“I did live there. Surely you know that?”

“I mean would you live there again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Lack of a safety net.”

“What do you mean?”

“One accident, and you’re fucked. I had two. My pair of broken ankles would have cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“Wouldn’t your insurance pay?”

“Hahaha . . .” I laugh so hard I have a coughing fit.

After a few minutes of coughing: “No.”

We finish with a plate of sushi and gyozas all around. Then it's a walk back to the cathedral and the metro.

On the way from the metro to our hotel, we drop by a supermarket. For sandwich makings. And some drinks, of course. We get a bottle of 51 cachaca. It's just 11 reals something. About 2 euros. For almost a litre. Obviously, this being Brazil it comes in a weird measure: 965 mil.

We eat drink and watch YouTube. Before turning in pretty early. We fly back tomorrow.



Restaurante Banri
R. Galvão Bueno, 160
Liberdade,
São Paulo
SP, 01506-000.

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.

Going Home

I rise a little before 7:00. Yet a-fucking-gain. Only because I really have to. I've booked an Uber for 8:00. Which will get me to Navegantes about 2 hours before my flight to Sao Paolo departs. I like to leave extra time, in case something goes wrong. Which it often does.

Avoiding stress wherever possible. That's my health plan. Having to rush and worry does my head in. Much preferable is maybe having to hang around somewhere for a few hours. So what? I've every episode of Peep Show on my laptop.

The drive to Navegantes is uneventful. As is the checkin process. There are huge queues at gate 4, from which my flight will depart. But for the earlier flight. I've still got some time.

There isn't much it the way of shopping. Long dresses and hats. Some sort of healthy-sounding food. And a bakery selling draught beer. Brahma. 18 reals (about 3 euros) for a half-litre plastic cup. I drink quickly, before it warms up. I wouldn't want to taste it properly. I get another. This is rather relaxing. Though I haven't relaxed by beer-drinking pace.

Do I have time for a third? I can see the gate and they are clearly not ready to board. Beer number 2, I accompany with a meat pasty. We had mini ones as snacks during judging. It doesn't disappoint. I finish my beer in a few gulps when I see the queues moving at the gate. 

They're just doing priority boarding. I notice that the icons of those given preferential treatment includes someone with a walking stick. Presumably meaning old person. Surely I count as that at my age?

It seems the airline staff do. As I waltz confidently through. Maybe getting old isn't 100% bad?

The flight to Sao Paolo isn't long. A bit over an hour. I pick up my bag and start the long trek to terminal 3. At least they have free baggage carts. Unlike in annoying US airports where they'll charge you $10 to use one. 

Some of the airport layout is weird. Starting at terminal 2 departures (first floor) you can't get to the terminal 3 equivalent without going up a floor. The first floor stops in a dead end.

There's a huge queue at the Air France/KLM checkin. Luckily, not for Sky Priority. There are only a couple of blokes in front of me. Everyone else is catching an Air France flight. It's almost seven hours until mine.

I'm wearing long kecks. In anticipation of arrival in Amsterdam. They're rather loose around my waist. Once the belt is off, it's hard to stop then falling to my knees. Making the security check a nightmare. I manage to retain by dignity, just about. I must remember never to wear this pair for travelling again.

The very friendly man who checked me in pointed me in the direction of the relevant lounge: American Express. I was here just a few months ago. Not bad, if I remember correctly.

A reasonable variety of food and generous servings of whisky. I get one of the latter. Without ice. Then grab some cheese and stuff. Things I can nibble on over the long hours of Peep Show I have planned. Because I'm going to be here a long time.

Being very nervous when changing planes, I leave a long time between them. At least 4 hours when one is intercontinental. Today is an extreme example at 7 hours. I need to pace myelf. No more than four whiskies per hour. I wouldn't want to get too relaxed before my flight.

I fire down Peep Show when the monitor says "go to gate". It's still quite a walk. Through the shops and right down to the end of the pier. Ten minutes for a fit man. Maybe less than that. Closer to twenty for me. Broken old thing that I am.

I've timed boarding perfectly this trip. Not one minute of waiting around at the gate.

One reason I stocked my belly in the lounge was a worry about what sort of meal KLM would serve. Those horrible fucking meatballs on the way out. Yet again. No, this time it's sliced beer in gravy. Much better. I eat most of it.

The lights going out is an unsubtle hint that it's time to sleep. Down goes my head. And out go my thoughts.

Not a bad kip at all. A good few hours fully out.

There's a big queue at the non-EU passport lane. A lot of English young blokes on stag dos. I'm so looking forward to getting my Dutch passport.

My taxi home is a Tesla.

Sao Paulo to Blumenau

I rise at 8:30. Mostly to allow time to type up yesterday. I'm very diligent now with my travel reports.

At 11:00 I go downstairs and check out. And ask them to call a taxi for me. Soon I'm bouncing down Sao Paolo's streets.

I know it's going to be a long journey. To the airport, I mean. I remember how long it took to get into town from the airport. And I checked on Google Maps: 1 hour 15 minutes, it reckoned.

The roads are busy. Very busy. We come to a stop several times. That's by no means the worst bit. Many of the lorries seem to be driven by lunatics on speed. One pulls out right in front of us and only misses us by a metre or two, This while we're going 80 kph. I try not to look at the road to much. I wouldn't like to sit on the plane in soiled underwear.

I look the other way instead. The road is following the River Tiete. It's not very scenic. There's a motorway on both sides of it. The banks are concrete and every 50 metres or so there are what seem to be drains emptying into it. Some of the water coming from them looks filthy.

We're in the outside lane. Suddenly there a bloke walking in the opposite direction between us and the next lane pushing a cart. He's selling drinks and snacks. Seems like a fairly suicidal occupation. we're not going full tilt, but at least 50 kph.

It's almost 13:00 when I'm dropped off. It says 140 reals on the taximeter, but I'm charged 106 reals. Seems like a bargain for 75 minutes travel.

I've over four hours until my flight so I'm in no rush. I drop off my bag and head airside. What I need now is a bar. I wander around a bit, but it's just shops and the odd little food place. I stop at one, Doog, and get myself a hot dog. Sem mostarda. Mustard is one of the few things I really don't like. It's not great. Dry, sweetish bread and a bland sausage.

I wander some more. Surely there must be a bar here somewhere? I'm almost at the end of the pier when I spot somewhere with spirit bottles: Gendai. A Japanese place. This'll do. I order one of those seaweed ice cream cones filled with salmon. And an Eisenbahn Pilsen. And a cachaca.

It seems they have a choice of two cachacas. The friendly waiter brings over the bottles so I can decide which one I want. I go for Selecta, as it's slightly coloured rather than pale.

Occasionally nibbling at my sushi, I vaguely watch the TV. there's football on. There always seems to be football one one channel or another. I sip my cachaca, too. And order another one. And another. Not that I'm rushing. I've still got a couple of hours until my flight. I order another ice cream cone. This is my main meal of the day.

About an hour before my flight is due to leave, I pay up and check which gate it is. Luckily it's right by where I am. There are only a few seats at the gate. One is empty. Just before I get to it a bloke asks the woman sat next to it if it's free, then dumps his bag on it. What the fuck? He doesn't even want to use it. What a twat.

I'm not going to stand until boarding. I look for somewhere else to sit. Oh look, there's a TGI Friday. Time for a traditional Jack Daniels send off.

It's brilliant. I can see the gate from my seat so I'll be able to see when they start boarding. The prices are much more reasonable than in the US. The whiskey is around 6 euros a pop. At that price it would be stupid to drink just the one.

When I see boarding begin, I troll over and walk straight onto the plane. This is incredibly stress-free. Just how I like to travel. One of the (many) annoying things about travelling with anti-American Mike, was that he'd insist on turning up at the airport as late as possible. We had to sprint to the gate on more than one occasion. No way I could do that now.

The flight isn't full. The seat to my left is free. Let's see, is the bloke sitting in front of me a recliner? Of course he fucking is. What sort of twat reclines their seat on a short daytime flight? Just as well there's that empty seat next to me. I fire up the laptop and watch some more Peep Show. I don't even get through two episodes before we start our descent.

I'm at the carousel only about 10 minutes after landing, but my bag is already doing the rounds. I grab it and head outside. And there's my taxi driver holding up my name.

It all happens so quickly, I forgot to go and have a piss. Fortunately, my driver stops for petrol. Here's my chance.

"Sanitarios?" There's one handy word of Portuguese I've learnt.

On the way back from the bog, I get myself a bottle of water and a bottle of beer. This is all working out perfectly.

The light is fading as we speed along the road. As darkness falls so does the rain. Not quite as bad as on my first night in Sao Paolo, but bad enough.

At 19:30 I check into my hotel. Oh, that's handy: the bar is open. That's where I head once I've dumped my bags in my room.

I get an ice cold beer and a cachaca. the latter once again served from a little cask on the bar. For once, I'm glad the beer is that cold. It doesn't improve as it warms up. A couple more cachacas help wash away the nasty taste of the beer.

I don't make a late night of it. I vaguely point my eyes at yet more football on the TV. While Laphroaig gently laps the shores of sleep. 

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

Sao Paolo

I get up around 8:30. Should I go downstairs for breakfast? As I'm not hungry, it seems rather pointless.

Instead, I hang around in my room. Writing emails and that sort of shit. I watch some Brazilian football. Cup games. One of the teams has a player called Lineker. I'm guessing that's not his real name.

My first destination is EAP Empório Alto de Pinheiros. It's been highly recommended and is supposedly Sao Paolo's best beer bar. I plan getting there a little after it's opening time of 11:00. I have two options for getting there: up the main road and turn left, or go through the backstreets. I choose the former, as it's far simpler.

It's hot outside. Over 30 C. Glad I put on that sunscreen as there's no shade. I checked the route on Streetview and know exactly where to turn off the main road. I spot a little shop and get myself a bottle of water. It's hot, as I already told you. Far too hot for someone as English as me.

I park my flabby arse at the bar. There are 40 draught beers. What to choose?

Croma Pow! Pow! 7% ABV
One of those new-fangled juicy IPAs. Looks like orange juice and tastes a bit like it. Quite refreshing, which is just as well given the 45 minutes walking I've just done.

I got the longest walk out of the way first. I have several stops planned on my way back to my hotel. I really can't be doing with too much walking in this heat.

I got here 30 minutes after opening. I'm the only customer. I don't care. I hate crowds.

Nothing at all planned today. Other than drink beer and eat food. It's good to have time to relax at the start of a trip.

Dogma Back to Basics V 8% ABV
An American IPA, which I guess means West Coast. Just a slight haze. Quite bitter and not a huge amount of fruitiness. Not as nice as the ones I had in the USA recently, but OK.

You may have noticed that I drink a lot of IPA on my travels. At home, I almost never touch the stuff. Perhaps, the odd pint down Butcher's Tears. Not sure why I suddenly become an IPA fan as soon as leave Holland. Perhaps it's because I travel to the USA so often.

Everyone is still masked up here. Even on the streets. In total contrast to the US. And Holland, for that matter.

Quite a few more punters now it's after midday. Most dining. Not quite that hungry yet myself. I'm saving myself for the next spot, Tank Brewpub.

Satelite Double Space Machine 8% ABV
Double NE IPA.I see that sludge beer has already caught on here. Beer trends spread so quickly nowadays. I guess that's the fault of the internet. The beer isn't as juicy as I would expect. Just looks like orange juice.

I forgot to mention, this is also a shop. They seem to have a pretty good selection, stocking St. Bernardus. but the slot where Abt should be is empty. What a disaster.

Tank isn't that far. When I'm almost there I walk past a little corner bar called Pratty. I have to take a photo. I walk on, then think: that would be a good place for a quick cachaca.

When I ask for one, the barmaid says something I don't understand. She gestures towards a little cask on the bar and to the bottles behind her. I realise that she's asking which one. I point at the cask. Never had draught cachaca before. It costs just 6 reals.

It's pretty quiet in Tank. I guess the last of the lunch trade is just drifting away. I sit at the bar again.

Dank the Tank 6.5%
West Coast IPA. Pretty nice. Fruit aroma, bitter, clear.

I get chatting with the barman. His English is pretty good, which makes things easier. We cover many beery topics. Pretty easy for me. I could speak about beer for months without running out of steam.

He shows me around the brewhouse, which is pretty compact. It has a 5 hl capacity.

I ask him to recommend a beer and he says:

Nao Me Helles 4.8%
It's OK. Quite lagery.

Following this up, I feel like something stronger and get

Double Trouble 8%
Double IPA. Nice and hoppy.

Hunger nibbles my innards. Just a bit. Enough that I ask for the menu. They don't have a physical one, just a QR code. That’s no use to me. Mr. I-can’t-work-my-phone. I have to look at it on the barman's mobile. I opt for fish tacos.

The tacos are pretty good. Not exactly Brazilian, but good. Battered fish and salad between crispy tacos.

My next planned stop is Cervejaria Nacional. But it doesn't open until 16:00 and it's 15:30. I decide to drop by Pratty for another draught cachaca. Earlier, it was packed here. Now I'm the only customer. I guess it is a lunch place.

Just before 16:00 I suddenly feel really tired. Totally knacked, to be honest. Not sure why. I haven't drunk that much. I decide to just head back to my hotel.

On my way out this morning, I noticed a 24-hour shop. I nip in and get a couple of sandwiches and a can of beer. And a bag of crisps.

The beer is Baden Baden IPA. It's not great. It tastes very pasteurised. I notice that it's fruited with maracuja. What is it with all these German beer names?

I lie in bed and watch some footie. One channel seems to be non-stop football.

Mmm. Feeling hungry again. I could get a sandwich downstairs. But the shop isn't far. I head there instead and get another sandwich and a bag of crisps. That's enough for today.

Laphroaig lifts me to my dreams.

Sao Paolo here I come (again)

I have to get up earlier than usual: 7:00. My flight is at 9:55. Wouldn't want to mis it.

A 15 bus pulls away just as I get to the end of the street. That's a bit annoying. Still, I've plenty of time. I'm luckier with the 397. One pulls up a minute or two after I get to Haarlemmermeer station.

The airport is a bit more crowded than my last visit. Still well short of normal times. Itdoesn't take long before I'm at passport control. I hand them my verblijsvergunning as well as my passport. To avoid this exchange:

"How long have you been in the Netherlands?"

"I live here."

"Can I see your verblijsvergunning?"

No point wasting any time. I won't be going through this crap much longer, now that I'm Dutch. Once I get my Dutch passport, I'll be able to sail through.

Great news in the duty free. There's an offer on Laphroiag Four Oak. Just 50 euros. I'll be having one of those.

I've not much time in the lounge so I try to make the most of it. I get a sort of mini breakfast- a couple of sausages, scrambled egg and mushrooms. A few whiskies, too. It's much more crowded here. But nothing too crazy.

It's not far to my gate. I get there at the perfect time - at the tail end of priority boarding.

This time the person in front of me doesn't recline their seat before the seat belt sign goes off. They wait until 2 minutes afterwards. Brilliant. Luckily the seat to my left is vacant and I can use that space for my laptop.

Dolores loaded up all nine series of Peep Show to my laptop. I start with series 1, episode 1. I'd forgotten that Johnson turns up so early. Not that I'm complaining. He's a great character.

After watching all six episodes of season 1, I switch to the inflight entertainment for a while I watch Venom 3, despite it being pretty crap. And so dark it's hard to make out some of the action. Back to Peep Show.

There's a two or three-month old baby on the row behind. Not that you'd notice. It spends pretty much all the flight asleep on one or other of the parents.

No Time to Die is the next film. (A surprising title, given the film’s ending.) It's long, which is good. I keep dozing off in the middle section. Don't think I missed much as I can still follow the plot.

The last 90 minutes of the flight I watch one of the comedy series on the inflight entertainment: Nobodies. It passes the time. In a challenge to the traditional sitcom dogma, it does completely away with jokes.

This time they do want to see all my Covid documentation at the border. Not that they look at it that closely.

When I'm just about to walk through customs, a bloke in his forties asks me how I'm getting into town. I think he recognised that I was on the same flight by my Schiphol duty free bag.

"Are you getting the train?" he asks.

"No, I'm getting a taxi. I can't be arsed with the train."

"Could we share the taxi?"

"Of course."

Great. This is going to save me some dosh.

It turns out he's on his way to Blumenau, too. To visit relatives. He's German, by the way.

Getting money from the cash machine turns out to be problematic. Until I use my visa card. That's a relief, having some Brazilian dosh in my pocket.

The taxis from Sao Paolo airport are pretty good. They're run by a cooperative of drivers, which has a monopoly. There are set fares to various locations in the city. My new German friend will be dropped of first, for the set fare. Then the driver will continue on the meter to drop me off.

A couple of minutes outside the airport, it starts pissing it down. Really pissing it down. Full-on tropical downpour. Soon the roads are transformed into rivers. It's all a bit scary. Doesn't seem to faze the driver. I guess he's seen it all before.

I feel sorry for the German when he reaches his destination. There's a good 10 cm of water he has to wade through.

 

As we get closer to my hotel, there are lots of little corner bars. Mostly pretty full and noisy, sometimes with music, sometimes just voices.

I'm lucky when I disembark. It's under cover and there's no standing water. It's still pissing it down.

That's why I eat in the hotel. In a deserted restaurant, save for the staff. I'm not getting drenched for no good reason.

A draught of Laphroaig hastens my dreams, the traditional Islay way.