My alarm woke me up at 8 a.m.

I immediately jerked awake because I knew I had an actual reason to get up.

Bus, train, plane—what again?

Oh, right.

And just like that, I rolled out of bed and wrestled myself into my silver latex top—not exactly my typical Saturday morning routine, but in Rome… I mean, in São Paulo, Brazil, that’s how it goes on pré-Carnaval weekend.

Saturday bloco – Quem Pede, Pede” with Ivete Sangalo

I was dead set on Ivete Sangalo’s bloco, Que Pede, Pede. I love Ivete Sangalo—and yes, I realize that if you don’t have any ties to Brazil, you’ve probably never heard of her. But for me, Ivete epitomizes Salvador, Bahia, and Carnaval. I can’t Carnaval in Salvador because it’s just impossible to find an affordable Airbnb. But lucky me, Ivete was coming to São Paulo for pré-Carnaval, and I was excited to join the fun.

So excited, in fact, that I didn’t mind joining an 8 a.m. megabloco at Parque Ibirapuera, about 40 minutes from my Airbnb near Paulista.

Blocos, i.e. organized yet informal Carnival parties, can start very early and last for hours, which is why a bunch of energy drinks sponsor Carnaval. You can either forget about sleep and go from bloco to bloco, or just wake up, put glitter on, and go to Carnaval as if you were going to work.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. I wasn’t in Carnaval mode yet, and for a block or two, I felt very underdressed on Paulista. Not that anyone would have judged me—this is São Paulo, anything goes, from super-grungy teens to very gender-fluid Carrefour cashiers.

I started to see pink tutus and butterfly wings around the neighbourhood of Jardims—no, I wasn’t hallucinating, half of the city was also walking to the park in full Carnaval gear.

Then chaos started. All in all, 1.5 million people showed up, so let’s just say that I made it to the park and enjoyed the music and atmosphere, but I didn’t exactly spot Ivete.

It’s okay—it was fun, sweaty, stormy, and completely insane—in short, very São Paulo.

Sunday bloco – Calvin Harris on Consolação

The Sunday bloco, Calvin Harris, was an interesting challenge because it turned out that my building on Consolação was right in the middle of it. I had accidentally booked the best possible viewpoint—but it came with challenges, as I soon learned.

I heard them setting up all night. When I woke up, the avenue below was mostly yellow, full of SKOL beer sellers waiting for the party to start around 11 a.m.

I briefly wondered about the logistics of getting out of my building—and back in—but at 10 a.m., I was able to leave fairly easily.

Mind you, I was walking against the crowd.

Because this is what a bloco looks like at first—static booze sellers, rows and rows of portable toilets, and tons and tons of people arriving from everywhere, all walking in the same direction.

I hung out on Paulista and Rua Augusta, where the party had spilled out. It was definitely a megabloco—just how many people could possibly fit on this avenue?

Then finally, around 4 p.m., I decided to stop by my apartment. The party was going to last until around 9 p.m. I needed a break and a quick shower.

I asked the police if there was another way to reach my building.

Nope.

The only way was through the bloco, i.e. hundreds of thousands of people drinking and dancing.

It’s okay. I’m not scared of crowds, and I have plenty of bloco experience under my belt.

I started to cut through the crowd, then push my way through—literally. But I’m not Jesus, I can’t part the crowd, and I got hopelessly stuck.

In fact, everyone was stuck, and people were passing out around me. Two women were carried overhead toward the police, who managed to clear barely a square meter of space so they could breathe. Meanwhile, beer sellers were passing their carts overhead too—there was nowhere to go, and people were getting trampled.

I got soaked in beer.

But mostly, I was scared.

I forced myself to take deep breaths. I could see my building, two blocks away. I just had to make it.

Let’s just say it was a very terrifying half hour, and that’s how long it took me to reach my place.

Later, I learned in the news that 1.6 million people showed up on a street definitely not designed for such a large crowd. There were many incidents—nothing too serious—because it was superlotado, i.e. overcrowded.

I went out again, teaming up with another building resident—the two of us managed our way through the crowd better this time.

Consolação cleared out at night, and the party moved to Augusta—as far as I know, it didn’t stop until dawn.

But I was already mentally elsewhere, busy packing and washing off the beer—I had a plane to catch.

I won’t be spending Carnaval in São Paulo.

This time, I have other plans—far across the country.