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.

  It was all a bit of an anti-climax on Thursday. I kind of (naively) expected to walk in to the place, hand them the design I'd spent a fair few hours working out, sit in the chair and get inked straight away. Instead I was asked why I was there. I mumbled back in Portuguese that I wanted a tattoo (why else would I be there..?) and was then made to wait whilst they found someone that spoke English. This wasn't a time to practice my language. Instead of a tattoo I was given an appointment for the next day and that was that. I instead decided to go and get a haircut, and visited the happy (slightly gormless) barber that had given me and my mate a trim a few weeks before.

Did I do a Year Abroad? 

  So another night and half-day passed with the tattoo looming over me. It was definitely happening now and there was no backing out. I was actually excited to get it, just nervous for any potential mis-hap or negative reactions from family and friends. The quote I had chosen was a Spanish one from the famed Don Quixote: 'El que lee mucho y anda mucho, ve mucho y sabe mucho.' (He who reads a lot and walks a lot, sees a lot and knows a lot). I felt it summed up my life attitude at the moment and I liked it.

  I sat through my classes, slightly distracted by what was coming later, and as the clock hit 1pm I bolted back to Ipanema and the tattoo studio. I'm gonna come out and say it now - a tattoo studio is not my natural habitat. As I was led into their workshop, I was eyed up and down by the various Brazilians who all seemed like they'd lived half their lives in this place. I looked gringo as hell but I was here now so I tried to embrace my environment. After about 20 minutes of 'preparation', I was sat over a chair and getting a needle jammed into my back. I played some mind games to take my mind off the pain - which largely worked - and after about 25 minutes I was officially inked for life.

Don't remember this...

  So that's how the weekend started, with a tattoo. It looked good and I was happy (except for the fact it required protection from sun and sea-water for 2 weeks, in the beach capital of the world...). The night ahead included a trip to Pedra do Sal, a well-known samba street party in the city. I invited along my mate Jamie, who I'd met in Argentina and who was on a passing visit to Rio de Janeiro. We headed off with a big group from my Portuguese language school and were ready for a big night.

  Erm, not this big...

  For maximum effect and more realism of my mental recollection, I will skip immediately ahead to Saturday morning. I woke up, steaming hot, with puffy eyes and seemingly stuck to a tiled floor. I slowly lifted the bag of rocks that was my head and realised I was in my en-suite (probably an over-glamourous term considering the size of the thing). I was curled up like a pretty hungover and very naked dog. I had a bloody tattoo on my back! Oh wait, that was meant to be there... Yet any questioning of why I was where I was was quickly justified by a glance in the loo. How much did I even drink?

... Do remember this (my bed
for the night)

  As the day progressed at a rate of 5mph, my state deteriorated until I was in the most coma-like situation that a hangover had ever put me in. Nothing fancied hanging around in my stomach and made a quick dash back out the entrance. My head felt like it had more drummers inside than at Glastonbury Festival and they weren't holding back. I tried to get the bottom of what had screwed me over so badly and soon found the answer. The Brazilians I spoke to baulked at the fact I'd had 5 large caipirinhas from the street venders. Apparently that was asking for trouble. Well the trouble certainly responded to my call...

  It's safe to day Saturday was one of the worst days of my life. However good Friday had been, nothing (and I mean NOTHING) was worth that hangover. I was tragic beyond belief and I am not looking to return to that mess anytime soon. I was still feeling the bloody thing on Sunday morning but I refused to hang around in my 'quaint' sauna of a bedroom. Instead I decided I wanted to go and find ex-footballer and Ballon D'or winner Romario. Yes you read that right.

Me and Romario (AKA Felipe, another
player completely unlike Romario) 

  I'd been tipped off by an Italian friend that 'O Rei do Gol' (King of the Goal) played foot-volleyball on Sundays, in the Barra de Tijuca neighbourhood at the end of the metro line. I got my beach gear on (two days after being told not to go to the beach for 2 weeks) and headed out of the city. On arrival I was greeted with a genuinely massive, rasping beach, and realised finding a 5'6 man might be tricky. I wandered along the beach and found a high-quality game of foot-volleyball to stop and observe.

  Having watched a good 10 minutes, I realised that firstly I didn't know exactly what Romario looked like nowadays and secondly I was too embarrassed to approach any potential-Romarios in case I was wrong. As I was walking away, I saw a local couple approach a man sitting down under a parasol and ask for a picture. It must be Romario. I ran up to them and asked if it was him. They confusedly nodded and pointed to the man so I took the plunge. I went up to the bloke and asked for a photo of my own. He twitched his head into a nod, sort of, and I achieved my goal. I was BUZZING.

This is what Romario actually
looks like.....

  I walked away giddy as anything and proceeded to send the picture to some friends and family without really looking at it. The responses quickly popped my bubble and were along the lines of 'yeah, that's not Romario'. As I went back to observe the photo for myself, I realised that it really wasn't Romario and in fact a random bloke*. It didn't even look like him. Jesus Christ. I proceeded to meet some friends and drink a number of beers, going against all advice to avoid alcohol after my horrendous Saturday. Sometimes it's just needed.

  So that was my weekend. A couple of ups, but mostly downs. For me, the tone of my weekend was summed up at midnight on Sunday as I sat outside a bar on a rock. I was minding my own business when I felt a bullet thump into my private areas. With Rio's gun-crime, I'd known this was coming. As my manhood throbbed, I realised it was a baby guava that had fallen at lightening speed from the tree above. If that doesn't give you a true sense of my luck last weekend, I don't know what will.

Hope you've enjoyed and thanks for reading!

The sun sets on this crazy weekend... 

*The 'bloke' in question was in fact Felipe, an ex-player who has won everything there is to win in South America. He played for Vasco de Gama, Galatasaray, Flamengo and even the Brazilian National Team. So basically Romario.