A relatively quiet week in Saint Paulo, as we press our noses to the grindstone once more and watch an unhealthy amount of Breaking Bad, while hormonal cats do battle on our knees. That said, on Sunday we made a quite inspired detour to O Velhão, the ancient and seemingly never-ending network of buffet tables laid out in an old townhouse in the mountains - I understand you went there last year while I was off on our honeymoon, missing a trick.
What a place! Like Gormenghast's decrepit banqueting halls airlifted into the Brazilian forest, but with bicycles hanging precariously from the ceiling and an old man singing "Guantanamera" by the bar/upturned bathtub. And the food! Oh such food. I spent the afternoon wandering pie-eyed from buffet to buffet, sampling various meats, pastas, salads and cheeses, rounded off with a stack of cakes and barrels of flavoured cachaça on tap in the cellar. Having explored the neighbouring shops and cafés I had to be more or less carried home, for some serious hammock time.
That was the definite highlight of the week - elsewhere we had Gaby's girlfriends over for crisis talks after one of them broke up with her boyfriend (who I was going to jam with; oh well...); I just made everyone tea and foccaccia, and otherwise stayed the hell out of the way, but ended up serenading everyone with "Kiss", as you do. Got to keep morale up, after all. Elsewhere we've been looking into New Years' plans, and planning my jolly to Europe in early December - watch this space...
Today's titular expression means "it's not my beach", a wonderfully appealing and geographically appropriate way of saying that something isn't your cup of tea. Maybe Metallica were just trying to tip their hat to Brazilian slang after all. That's yer lot for now, but we shall speak tomorrow, no doubt. Suerte!
Fred
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