Good thing there is a thermos of hot, black coffee in the hotel lobby. I pour myself a cup, then another one. It’s early, way too early.
We reached a geographical and metaphorical plateau, far from the beach, for once.
I don’t know if Brazil is dangerous. What I do know is that I feel safe enough to enjoy the country.
Brazilians are fairly litteral: when they nickname a museum the “Museu do Olho”—the “Eye Museum”—it actually looks like a giant eye.
I took the laptop out of backpack and turned it on. Just for a minute, to see if I could actually get a signal.
Someone, somewhere, really got addicted to SimCity and decided to play the game in real life. Click, add building. Click, add tower.
In an ideal world, I’d eat Brazilian food on an Argentinian schedule.
At street level, Florianópolis Centro doesn’t look so spread out. But the skyline from the top of any building proves you wrong.
It was loud, colourful and fun. And Carnival hasn’t even started yet.
It was a lucky day. Perfect beach, perfect weather.
I’m pretty convinced that 75% of the Brazilian textile and fashion industry is dedicated to bikinis.
Praia de Moçambique had it all: beach bums, some fun, then a long, deserted stretch of sand.
Take a dip in your water to show off your new bikini. Take a buttie—a selfie of your butt.
I made a Brazilian man laugh, yesterday night. It was completely unintentional.
We are five hours into the bus trip. Mark is watching The Secret Life of Pets and after miles and miles of green fields and palm trees, we’ve just crossed the Lagoa do Imaruí.
When I typed the caption, “homeless man in Porto Alegre,” a thought crossed my mind: it was probably the first time someone was taking his picture.
“We probably aren’t supposed to be here,” I thought. “I can’t die now. My mom would kill me.”
In the rest of Latin America I can operate fairly instinctively. Not in Brazil.
We didn’t have any info, good or bad, about Pelotas. At this stage, after rural Uruguay and Chuí, we were hoping for a small city with a few conveniences.
“I found a hotel in Chuí.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Why the fuck would we stay overnight in Chuí?”
There is one place where we had sworn we would never go back: Chuy-Chuí, the border between Uruguay and Brazil.
My final verdict on Brazil? As a backpacker, I love the country. But I don’t think I would live here.
Christ, this was harder than it should have been! Guess what: Jesus is a popular dude. Ah. Who would have known.