I know his birthdate, the names of his kids, his mum’s maiden name and exactly how much he loves her, and the day his grandfather died, the make of his car, and the fact that he is Catholic.

I’m only missing his CPF, and I’ve learned all this by just glancing at the guy.

Maybe if I stand up and check behind his neck… Nope. I’m sure he has it somewhere—but where the hell is it?

Brazilians don’t seem to be scared of identity theft—they have their entire lives tattooed all over their bodies. It’s crazy. Absolutely everybody has tattoos, plural times ten, many of them names and dates in big, bold letters, rather than the classic “hey, look at the tiny dolphin on my ankle, yes, yes, it hurt a lot.”

Argentinians don’t have as many tattoos, and yes, I know they are Argentinians because they carry their damn mate with them everywhere, cup, bombilla, thermos, and yerba.

Okay, a few tourists may be Uruguayans. It’s hard to tell them apart. But definitely not Chileans, because Chileans say “sipo!” every two seconds and don’t drink mate at all.

We go to a different beach every day on Santa Catarina Island. Half of the fun is the lively atmosphere and the people-watching that goes with it.

It’s thanks to Brazilian beaches that I no longer give a fuck about my swimsuit body, because after seeing millions of an endless parade of thong bikinis, I realized that nobody is perfect and everybody has their own unique body.

It’s also thanks to Brazilian beaches that I realized just how diverse the country really is—very white, very black, and everything in between, from blond, German-looking Brazilians to Brazilians of Japanese descent.

Brazilian beaches also taught me how much Brazilians love shrimp—you have to be truly desperate for shrimp to buy skewers from beach vendors when it’s 40°C…—, barbecue meat, grilled cheese—an unlikely beach snack, this one—corn, and booze of all kinds.

Come and join me. You’ll see. Brazilian beaches are something else.

The less awesome part is getting there, especially in summer. Yes, it’s summer here, and the roads are hopelessly jammed, unless you’re one of those motorcycle daredevils. From Florianópolis, it can take anywhere between 20 minutes and two hours to drive the 20 kilometres to our favourite spots.

There are very few rules on the beach. It’s a self-organized society, and somehow it works surprisingly well. People drink, eat, play, sometimes less than a meter from each other, and I have yet to see an argument over a ball landing on a towel or barbecue smoke ruining a nap. Everybody claps their hands when a kid gets lost, people socialize, help each other with beach gear, and from babies to grandmas, everyone is welcome.

Now, on the road, Brazilians turn into monsters. They cut right in front of you, barely slow down for pedestrians, and will happily take the emergency lane to pass you on the right if they feel like it. This only creates bigger traffic jams, because nobody knows how to fucking merge like a responsible adult.

Weird. I guess we should just… stay on the beach?

Here are the people of Santa Catarina Island—beach edition, 2025!