On Sunday night, we had one big question—jeans or shorts?

“I’m not wearing jeans,” I asserted. “I washed them yesterday, and I packed them already.”

“It’s going to be too hot for jeans in Santiago,” Feng agreed. “But airports are cold… and it’s a 3.5-hour flight as well. Okay, I’m wearing jeans.”

I almost changed my mind. I’m cold all the time, so if Feng, who isn’t cold all the time, was wearing jeans…

“Do you have a throw I can borrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Then I’m wearing shorts and stealing a sweater and a throw from you, if needed.”

We packed and organised everything until way too late at night, and I was only half awake the next day when I logged into Uber to find our ride to the airport.

It turned out to be harder than planned—the first Uber cancelled the trip, the taxi we hailed on the street didn’t want to go to the airport, and the third Uber showed up 20 minutes later after crossing half the city.

Still, we were early enough. We spent our last Chilean pesos on coffee and Inca Cola.

Chile had been a lovely way to ease into South America, but it wasn’t our main destination—I’m neither into Arica (desert) nor Patagonia (windy and cold, been there, done that).

I’m addicted to Brazil, and so is Feng. We’re spending the holidays in Florianópolis, our happy place.

I fell asleep after crossing the magnificent Andes. Bumpy, but amazing.

I was nervous about landing in Florianópolis. The Polícia Federal is probably more used to Chilean and Argentinian travellers than Canadian passport holders who don’t really look Canadian, plus it was our first time landing with the new e-visa.

Everything went smoothly though, although I almost said “gracias.”

“Obrigada.”

It’s hot, humid, stormy, and I’m so happy to be in Brazil again.

Brazil, I love you.