My Brazil isn’t football. It’s not icy-cold beer and girls in tiny bikinis on a sweltering beach in Rio. It’s not tropical rainforests or daredevil adventures on the Rio Grande.
My Brazil is Sao Paulo’s looming skyscrapers, kamikaze traffic and dense smog.
My Brazil is Sao Paulo’s looming skyscrapers, kamikaze traffic and dense smog.
My Brazil is a jet lag-enveloped fog, chased away only with sweetcorn cake and coffee.
It’s deserted beaches in winter, never cold, often wet, but always stunning.
My Brazil is flowers, flowers, flowers. Never have you seen a “winter” so colourful and luscious.
It’s a retro-lover’s paradise: turquoise VW Beetles, big yellow fridges, and an Olivetti typewriter in the ladies’ room, in a bar. Where else?
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It’s watching a toddler take all the travels into his stride, find toys in the most unlikely places, and leave behind any last traces of babyhood. We now talk of BIG sand, BIG water, BIG airplanes and tiny-tiny p’wenta (polenta) fritters.
Above all, my Brazil is family: huge, thrilled, bustling.
Until next time.
Until next time.
