Cologne Christmas Special

So... we're back.

Whilst there was an ever-so-slim chance of this blog continuing after the South American adventure had finished, the bleak reality of hangovers, lectures and grey British skies soon put an end to that. As the blog was showered with a mixture of praise and piss-taking comments on Nottingham's finest nights out, I couldn't help but feel a sense of vacancy without it in my life. I mean, it was nice to verbally share life thoughts with actual English humans instead of a non-responsive blogging site, but the writing was something I missed.

I couldn't just start again though - there was no chance that I was going to illustrate a night in Ocean as an opener to the comeback tour - and I needed a reason to write. With that in mind, a pre-Christmas trip to Cologne in Germany was the ideal opportunity to soak in some blog magic and ensure that Time to Make Some Mates could make a suitably stunning return to the spotlight. It was the Robbie to my Take That.

The glamour of the comeback was quickly brought back down to Earth as a 5am start at Manchester airport somberly drizzled all over my parade (this ego-driven stance may or may not continue but for now I'm enjoying it). I flew out to Germany with my girlfriend Coralie, yet the Scrooges at RyanAir made sure that our £20 fare would not allow us to sit together and we were promptly separated. We weren't the only ones and a variety of puzzled families and couples went their separate ways to find their cramped individual seats on Michael O'Leary's capital-sucking sleigh. Talk about the charm of the Irish...

The YAftas

  327 days ago, I sat in Heathrow airport. I had a beer and a fancy pie in front of me, and was just tucking in as Ian Wright and Glenn Hoddle walked in and took a seat on the table next to me. I was almost too engrossed in my own mind to really take into account how random it was at the time; I was suddenly facing a year of living in South America ahead of me, after all. Yet as I look back on this adventure, per say, that moment set the tone.

Predictably, this last 11 months have been the best of my life. In reality, who would go and live on the other side of the world and come back saying otherwise? It is true though. Everyone always tells you that this will be the case, but you're too worried to accept this gleam of positivity in the mist of the worrying and over-thinking. The prospects of being kidnapped by a cartel or of not being able to get 3G on your phone are far more realistic than actually having a good time.

 Low and behold I actually have had a rather good time, bar the odd barbarity or bump in the road, and I am glad that I decided to type it all out on this blog. Even a quick glance back at some articles triggers the recollection of some small peculiarities that I had already forgotten. Whilst I never wrote this for views, so not to raise my hopes, the feedback has been unreal. I set a very broad target of 10,000 views back in August, and as we now sit on over 11,000 it is safe to say this has been a nice success. A big thank you to everyone and anyone that's ever read or shared the page!

It's not about the blog though. It's time to honour those who made this year what it's been. Whether a thing, a moment or a person, they deserve to be commended for affecting my life in the best/worst/most bonkers way possible. This is what it's all been leading up to (you just haven't known it until now).... welcome to the YAftas*.

A Ginger Bloke With His Guitar

  I sat in the upper tier of the Allianz Parque last night, observing a fellow Brit bring the house down. There he was, with messy ginger hair and a baggy t-shirt, strumming a guitar as 50,000 Brazilians hung onto his every word. To be fair, he actually looked like a generic speck to me, considering the position of my seat, but I assume he's still ginger and still plays a guitar. I never really expected to write a 'review' of a music concert, and this isn't really that, but the experience was pretty thought-provoking and warranted a bit of blog space.

  In terms of me, I was not really in any fit state to go to a gig. Saturday night involved a heavy electronic night that resulted in me walking through the door at 9am on Sunday morning. I gave a very meek 'bom dia' to my housemate as he was cooking his breakfast and retreated into my cave. I slept until about 3pm and woke up feeling more fragile than Victor Moses' reputation after the cup final*. I only had a bit of time before I needed to leave, and the thought of listening to a bunch of songs about love for two hours nearly pushed the nausea over the edge.

  It was the first concert I'd ever been to on my own. I always considered that a bit of a sad thing to do, but an article on Buzzfeed said it's in their '12 Things Everyone Should Do Alone At Least Once' list. That was all the evidence I needed that it probably was sad, but I wasn't missing out on Ed Sheeran because of this so screw my social precautions. Saying that, the dark bags under my eyes and slightly paler skin tone I was wearing made it all look more tragic than it already was. I would say it put me out of the general audience demographic, but the possession of male genitalia and being northwards of 20 years old already did that job.

The Lone Wolf

  The year abroad is one of the most complex life experiences that someone in their early twenties could go through. Packing a bag and heading into the world at a time of your life when your biggest decisions are what colour VK to get on a Friday night and what pizza topping you will order to cure the resulting hangover. Whether heading to the other side of the world or hopping to the other-side of the Channel, the adventure and it's respective challenges are the same. You have a new language, a new environment, new people to meet and new parts of your own personality that you have to get to know.

  There's many layers to the whole thing that people on their year abroad go through, and 95% of it isn't what people post on Instagram (or what people write in blogs). It's going down to the shops for some bread, sitting in a group of natives joking around and adapting to life in a new country with all of the routinely quirks that it brings. Some of it is great, some of it is less great, but all in all you know for sure that when you leave your respective English airport you're diving into the deep end.

Grab your goggles. 

  Personally, one of the biggest parts of this year has been the independence. When I went to Argentina there was no familiar faces waiting on the other side, and Brazil has been the same. I've been lucky to meet some great people along the way, but I've embarked on this experience as a lone wolf. It's never the thing you preempt when worrying about stuff pre-year abroad - that's reserved for Visas, accommodation and what the word for 3G internet is - but I would say it's definitely been the biggest challenge for me so far.

Gringo Survival Guide

  Once more, I write this blog in a state of unholy fragility. I've spent the whole day lying around like a mess, in and out of consciousness and feeling like the world is, finally, coming to an end. When you go to a BBQ at 2pm on a Saturday afternoon, there is often little evidence to precede such a hangover but, alas, it's happened again. I suspect this may be karma for spending my Friday night laughing at Tottenham Hotspur for a similar sentiment; whatever lessons that past failures have engrained in you, sometimes it's just destined to happen again.

'Bald-head pecking' levels of friendship
can be achieved HERE

  What I want to write about today is life as a solo 'gringo' in a foreign country and city. When I arrived in Brazil - after my two friends had left - I knew nobody. The same can be said about Argentina. I was a young English bloke with no pre-determined platform, just trying to make some mates and have a good time. It's been 300 days since I arrived in Buenos Aires back in July, at which point I was without family, friends and belongings (Air Canada ladies and gentlemen...), but I feel like I've done okay. Many new friends have been made from all corners of the globe and of all social groups and ages.

  Along the way though, I think it's fair to say that I've had to take myself out of my comfort zone. I've had to do some weird stuff, and expand my personality out to lengths that it previously hasn't required or experienced. Before this vague description starts to create mis-leading images in your heads, I'm going to go through a few things that I've been through to give a a taste of life as a gringo in a foreign land.

Let's Have a Moan...

  At the time of starting this article, the time since leaving English soil is 112 days, 23 hours and 14 minutes. I left behind a traditionally frosty gloominess, as the Christmas and New Year celebrations had quickly turned into a new working year. It was grey, drizzly and as British as a Yorkshire Pudding. What awaited me was a different stratosphere; the white sands of Copacabana and the postcard images of Rio de Janeiro in the height of summer. As I went through the routinely processes of Heathrow Airport, I felt like I was trading in a Ford Focus for a Lamborghini.

An initial warning to myself...

  Nearly four months later and I'd find it hard to argue that I was wrong. At times, my time in Brazil has felt like a tour around Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory - not just for the oompa-loompa tans of Rio's beaches - with an array of incredible experiences around every corner, and an infusion of the odd dark surprise to offer a bit of life perspective. I've had the time of my life and there's very little that I can complain about. Then again, I am British... 

  Would I even be a member of our proud (ha.) country if I didn't have a daily gripe or two. An example of this? Well for a start, that Yorkshire Pudding reference earlier would have been wasted on any Latin American readers of this piece. Further over their heads then an expletive fired towards Nigel Farage (there's another one...). I'll go further into my humour based niggle a bit later... 

  I've compiled a list of things that I come across on a daily basis over here in the land of samba and joga bonito. These are the most serious aspects of living abroad. The things that bring a dark cloud of longing to be back on the tarmac of Hitchin. Forget family and friends, it's these things that really pull at those homely heart strings. So, for anyone else currently abroad, get the tissues out, put a bit of James Blunt on and take a gaze at an old £5 note - we're going on a nostalgic ride.... 

Flares, Paint and Ayrton Senna: My Brazilian Easter

  I was stood on the the streets of central São Paulo staring up at a sporting icon. It was the middle of the afternoon, yet I was a number of beers down and grasping at a bottle of catuaba (a.k.a. liquid gold). I knew I was feeling a bit tipsy, yet I started to question just how much so when I realised that I was listening to a Brazilian questioning why this sporting icon was so important. A Brazilian questioning the greatness of Ayrton Senna? Maybe I'd missed the hallucinations warning on the side of this bottle. The motoring legend stared at us, judgingly, from a vibrantly coloured mural that covered the side of a nearby building. What he was witnessing was a group 50+ charity workers wetting the head of another successful project. It was an authentically Good Friday, just as Jesus intended... minus the beer.

  When I was made aware of the upcoming bank holiday - Easter is not naturally engrained in my mental calendar - I envisaged a day of sleep, Netflix and maybe, at a push, a cheeky shower. Oh how wrong I was. Waking up to the sight of 11:00am on my phone quickly morphed into standing, awake, on the metro platform at 6:30am. I gave myself a slap but it was reality alright. Now why the f**k was I awake at such an hour on a bank holiday Friday? Not even a Monday, a FRIDAY. Well, it turns out the spirit of Easter is contagious. Not giving up anything for lent and claiming to be an atheist at any mentioning of religion is not enough to avoid the big man's powers, apparently.

Work Hard, Play Hard(er)

  So when I last left this blog, I was giving it all that about how the fun is over, I was buckling down and that work was the new focus of my life. Technically I wasn't lying... I've worked my shifts, done some decent work and am settling into becoming a productive member of the team. As any one that works a standard weekly job knows, you've got to use your time off well. If you stare at computer screens, documents and emails for too long your mind will slowly wipe itself of any hope. This blog has never claimed to be scientific, but in this case the science of common sense prevails. Anyway, the last week has been the epitome of using my free time to the max, with the aid of some good friends of mine: Neymar and The Weeknd.

  The weekend (the two days at the end of the week, not the singer) began with a spontaneous night out. That Friday ecstasy was rolling and I met some friends for a few homemade caipirinhas as the sun set over the highrise in front of us. We headed to my favourite neighbourhood in São Paulo, Vila Madalena, and to my even more favourite burger bar which loudly promotes its 'Cold Fucking Beer' on the hilly, cobbly streets of the bohemian area. We got some burgers - served on fancy wooden trays so tables aren't needed - and some of the local beers which were suggested by a waiter that had taken an interest in our foreignness on a previous trip and even reads this blog (shoutout Victor!).

  The beauty of Vila Madalena is that every bar offers something different, from live music, unique beers, quirky decoration and just generally positive vibes. The night carried us to a couple more bars, via a mini photo shoot of us four gringos drinking a bar's speciality beer, and led us onto the streets where a group of old geezers were playing some samba. By this point, we were pretty wasted and did not hold back in joining the maturer local audience in dancing along to the samba beats that created a mini Carnival bloco. Unsurprisingly, four foreigners dancing to some local music with some beers on a warm Friday night went down well and we were popular with the crowd of people around us.

  Fast forward 24 hours. The scene was different, the people were different, but the essence was identical. I was at a house party that I had been invited to by a guy at work. Me and fellow intern Tom, from Wales, were making the caipirinhas for the Brazilians (how that works I will never know) and once again we were causing a nice stir. As has tended to be throughout this year so far, natives immediately take a shine to you if you oblige with their request to say a word or do a dance move from their cultures. It's an easy way to make some quick mates and it worked a treat at this particular party. A night that I thought was going to be a few chilled beers turned into a 10 hour party, yet I got back home at 6:30am with my real plans still ahead of me.

São Paulo: The Guide of a New Paulista

  So I'm back. It's been a while since I've written one of these and I'm sure the absence of my blog has left a deep, deep void of sadness in your lives. A couple of weeks have passed and the sarcasm has increased, but I'm back on the grind now and here to give you an idea about my new home. São Paulo is widely regarded to as the grey jungle of Brazil. The tourism agencies tend to gloss their promo videos with panoramic shots of Rio de Janeiro, the Amazon and the range of paradise beaches that are plentiful in this eyelash fluttering country. To compound this further, most Brazilians from outside the state of São Paulo will goad the place and probably even mock you personally for even wanting to visit. So initially, the idea of spending three months in the third biggest city in the world did not strike me with any sense of fortune.

  The reason I left the glamorous shores of Copacabana in Rio de Janeiro for the stone high-rise of São Paulo? Work. What else would it be? The party times are over - from Monday 8am to Friday 2pm at least - and the time has come to stop pretending like the world is merely here to be enjoyed and to get a job. I actually got this job from my university bedroom in November 2015, as I scrawled through the internet for Brazilian work placements for English students. As I previously mentioned, the idea of Carnival had put me in a daze of green and gold, and I was determined to cross the Atlantic for a few caipirinhas and a bit of samba on the streets of Rio de Janeiro. I was lucky and found an internship at a translation company called Global Translations.BR, based in São Paulo.

  It was put to one side, with Argentina and a bit of time in Rio de Janeiro to come up beforehand, and so my 2nd March start date crept up on me somewhat. The fact this was one day after arriving in São Paulo, after Carnival, made it trickier to get myself into 'work-mode'. However we're nearly three weeks down the line and I'm heavily set into my new routine. I work an 8am-2pm shift from Monday to Friday so it's fairly chilled out, and the work is fresh and a good learning experience. I'm not here to talk about my new job though. Who wants to know about that? I'm here to talk about São Paulo and how I've found this 'ugly', 'boring' and 'solely work-driven' city.

Carnival: The Party to End All Parties

  As I checked out of 021 hostel at 8:30am on Wednesday, I was momentarily frozen in a parallel universe. I was digging my pockets for some cash to pay for my bar tab, constructed by empty cans of local beer, and pulled out an assortment of items. The first thing I pulled out was a pirate's eye patch. The next was a strip of street-given unused sex protection covered with colourful warnings of AIDS. The third was a small tube of golden glitter. As I handed over a sparkly few notes to the hostel receptionist, a third-person realisation slapped me in the face. I'd just risen from the depths of the world famous Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, and it was un-bloody-believable.

Representing my country of birth...
Brazil.

  The Carnival dream started in a snoozy Portuguese class last year. Our teacher was showing us more 'culture' and I wanted to commit a self-crime. That was until an array of videos popped up and we were greeted to a montage of a colourful, vibrant party. Our teacher, a Brazilian, was visibly animated by the images of his homeland and his excitement transferred straight over to me. I was immensely impressed by the footage, and an instant need to transport myself into the physical experience of the party overcame me. It felt like a drug. When I got home that day I started looking online for jobs in Brazil, I got lucky to be hired by a translation firm in São Paulo and the rest is... to be told in the rest of this blog (you lucky devils).

  So there I was on Wednesday, on a 6 hour bus from the financial capital of Brazil to the party capital. Everything went smoothly and there was a nice buzz in the air. Even the 2 hour traffic jam didn't bring me down (no thanks to Football Manager after I was sacked by Eastleigh FC, the b******s) and, on arrival, the terminal was a buzzing honeypot of wide eyed tourists and experienced natives who were on a Serengeti-like migration from normal life to Carnival. I hopped in an Uber and ended up spending 40 minutes directing the driver who couldn't read the map on my phone (his died). Somehow he thought Google Maps was as useful as a scribble on a page, but you know what? I still gave him 5 stars. CARNIVAL.

My Favela Experience

  So my time in Rio de Janeiro has temporarily come to an end. My 6 weeks in the Cidade Maravilhosa were memorable for a number of reasons. The heat averaging out at 35C+, the iconic beaches stretching along the coast and the postcard perfect Christ the Redeemer peering down and observing his city. There were some more edgy memories that also stick in the mind; not least seeing a 20 on 1 fight on Copacabana beach that left the victim with a new face, and the regular tirades of gunshots that I could hear from my bedroom. It's certainly safe to say I've never visited a place quite like it, with its obvious natural beauty being chipped away relentlessly by its ugly, bludgeoning acts of crime.

  One of the most interesting elements of Rio de Janeiro's identity is the favela communities that are scattered both in the centre and the outskirts of the city. The favelas house an estimated 22% of the city's population (approx. 6.3 million) and, rightly or wrongly, present a strong stereotype for tourists coming over here from abroad. Films such as City of God have painted an incredibly strong vision of what a favela is and have attached a number of leeching toxicants to the word. I asked a few of my English friends and family about words that come to mind when they hear the word favela:

"Poor. Dangerous. Drugs."

"Slum. Poverty. Crowded."

"Drugs. Slum. Community"

"Crime. Poverty. Colour."  

"Brazil. Cardboard. Football." (You know who you are...) 

"Crime. Colourful. Disco." (Interesting last choice Louise...)  

  So you get the point, not the place you'd want to settle down and have kids. Since arriving in Rio, something about these favela communities has fascinated me. Their raw, jagged appearance makes for aesthetic gold (in my opinion) and something about them made it very hard for me to take my eyes off them. In my second week in the city I visited the Donna Marta favela, which was made famous by Michael Jackson in his video for They Don't Care About Us. It was an intriguing, passing visit for me and my mates, with a tourist-less experience sucking us into the true nature of the community's homecoming rush-hour. Whilst valuable, it was more of an immersion experience than an informing one. So when the opportunity arose to continue my education by visiting a favela with a local guide, there was no way I was turning it down.

Livin' La Vida Carioca

  From doing this blog I've realised that it's impossible to do everything in the same style. Before starting it, I thought it would be like a simple equation: I do something or visit somewhere, I write about it, I post it. A very review-orientated travel blog. Yet then came South America and it's numerous imperfections, sparks and quirks. Not a day goes by here where I don't see or hear something bizarre or experience something that just wouldn't happen at home. These things don't merit their own article like an Iguazu Falls or Boca Juniors match (the show-offs), yet they combine to offer their own unique kinks to this Year Abroad armour.

What a nice weekend this looks so far...

  Occasionally enough of these weird or amusing things occur in a short period of time and I just can't help myself. This weekend was exactly one of these honeypots of material. There were highs and lows (more of the latter) and it was a bit of a rollercoaster. Come the end of Sunday, I stopped and had a little think to myself. I was still broken from a monster hangover, slightly embarrassed from some goings-on and, inevitably, tipsy once more. The Brazilians are re-knowned for their natural gravitation towards chaos - and this weekend I got a taste of the action.

  It all started on Thursday, where every good weekend starts right? I'd finished my classes for the day and I was feeling daring. Well, not daring enough for where I was going to be a thing of impulse, but daring enough to take the plunge. I got myself onto the metro and headed from Copacabana to Ipanema. I got off the metro to scorching 37+C heat, and set off en-route to my destination. Like every single damn time I've gone in search of a place in South America, it took longer than anticipated due to awkward street organisation, but finally I found King 7 Tattoos tucked away at the back of a building. I paused, contemplated my imminent life decision, and walked in.

Football Unites For Chapecoense

  I remember watching the Joga Bonito Nike adverts as a kid. Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo, Adriano and headliner Ronaldinho toying with a ball in a dressing room like a group of mates on a street corner. They oozed something we didn't have - and still don't - in England. A playful, cheeky and very likeable arrogance. The ball was their toy and they were only interested in entertaining. The Harlem Globetrotters of football. This Brazilian culture has always acted on the cherry on top of the football cake, as they paint the beautiful game with their own attitude to life. We're here to enjoy life so let's have fun and do it with a smile.

  Any true football fan has a soft spot for the Brazilians. Whether we grew up with Pelé, Zico, Romario, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Kaka or Neymar, they winked at us as we mesmerised at their creative flair. It's always been a dream to see the Seleção play in their home country. I remember seeing them play a friendly against Scotland at the Emirates Stadium in 2011, and the vibrant yellow and green support was a joy to behold. The bellowing, passionate support throughout both the World Cup (until their 7-1 spanking) and the Olympics strengthened this respect further. I wanted to be a part of it.

  With this in mind, I was hot on the case when I saw tickets still available for a friendly between Brazil v Colombia. The match was a tribute match for those that tragically lost their lives a matter of weeks ago in the Chapecoense disaster in Colombia. 71 people died in the crash, including all-but-3 of the playing squad. It's not something thats magnitude will decline over time, and is one of the saddest incidents that the sporting world has ever seen. It brought football together as one, united body and the nature of this friendly highlighted that with all proceeds going to the families of those that lost their lives. My ticket only cost £11, but it was an honour to be part of the supporting fund.

A Cidade Maravilhosa

  I promise not all of my titles will be in Portuguese. Although keeping a travel blog on my Year Abroad might seem pretentious, I'm not that bad. Yet sometimes the natural linguistic form is the only viable path of description, and this is very much the case for the city of Rio de Janeiro. Translating to 'The Marvellous City', the native pet-name for Rio, certainly builds up a level of expectation, and crafts a paradisiacal mirage in your head of what awaits once that plane door opens*. Just the thought of that name infused me with a positive buzz when I was feeling slightly more sombre, having said goodbye to everyone at home again for another 6 months. Brazil awaited with open arms, with its biggest gem ready to welcome me to my new home.

Couldn't help myself...

  Also awaiting me were two of my best mates, Adam and Dan, who I previously explained had admirably flown out to Brazil in the midst of busy exam and work periods. Not a bad place to get away from it all, I'm sure they'd reassure you. We were staying in a lively hostel in Copacabana and, from the moment I saw the road signs, Barry Manilow's classic took a permanent residence in my head. There was no Lola and no showgirl though, unfortunately.

  We decided to hit the big dog on day three of the trip and went in search of the real JC. That's right, that guy in all the pictures. The attention seeker with his arms out all wide. There's two ways to reach Christ the Redeemer: bus or walk. Who would be stupid enough to walk in 40C heat? Three English blokes on a budget, that's who.

Bem Vindo Ao Brasil

  I'm currently sitting in a room that must be just under 3 metres long by 1.5 metres wide. It's about 30 degrees celcius and the time has just passed 10pm. I have a lovely layer of perspiration surrounding my body, squeezed out of me by the bullying heat. The open window is a speaker to the natural sounds of the local area - shouts, cars, the occasional bang. The location is Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro, and I am 11 days into the second half of my year abroad adventure. Guess who's back to join the fun? Oh yes. Everyone's favourite social-media spamming, shoved down your throat a million times, over-rated travel blog.

  Time to Make Some Mates is BACK people.

    Firstly I have a few apologies to make. Number one, to the country and people of Argentina. I left your wonderful land without writing a tribute post. I could've written a book gushing about the country and experiences it gave me, and an even bigger one of the people that put up with me for 6 months. You're all fantastic and I'm honoured to call Argentina my 'latino home'. The truth of the matter was that my planned time to write that piece was at the airport whilst awaiting for my departure. Unfortunately, in that exact moment, I was fighting the effects of a 30 hour all-nighter that was still very much ongoing (what a legend, I know), and therefore no writing was physically possible. But i love you all and I'll be back soon don't you worry. 

  Secondly, I apologise to all of those that I told I probably wouldn't be doing this for Brazil. I really didn't plan to... but at the end of the day when you're in a place like this too much weird s**t happens to ignore and my impulses to put it into words was prodded too many times by this new, Brazilian stick. I've also kinda realised that I should go back to pursuing my dream job, as a journalist. So if I ditched the blog now, it would look really very terrible to any future inquirers of my passion for the field. After many years, I'm finally thinking of my future - look at me go Mum & Dad (shoutout alert).