30.08.16 - Amarrar o cachorro com linguiça

Hallooo,

Hope all well mit du. Not much to report here ahead of our whirlwind trip to Foz do Iguaçu this weekend, so I will be brief.   The past week was spent checking out our new gym, which is nearer and shinier than the last one, while balancing soon-to-be-phased-out Pilates, work, driving (got my first fine yesterday, for loitering on the wrong side of the street. They grow up so fast...) and a career-best outing at the football where I literally could not stop scoring - this has become my theme song as a result.

On Saturday night we went back to our usual karaoke bar in Liberdade, now with a rather ominous "vomit tax - R$40" sign hung near the entrance, for an evening of mild frivolity and tempura.  Still find it a bit weird when a whole room of people my age start singing along knowingly yet affectionately to terrible songs they grew up with, but which I've literally never heard of, like some uncanny valley version of "Wannabe" or "Mmm-Bop"; I just took to the stage in my socks and sang "Let's Dance" with minimal fanfare, as you do.

Yesterday the freelance PR consultants' union managed to wrangle us a bank holiday, so I drove Gaby in to school, wandered around the chicken-strewn Parque da Água Branca, read Bob Dylan's Chronicles and worked on my tan.  I have also devised a fiendish Youtube compilation, and would recommend the new BBC Essential Mix by the Avalanches while we're at it.  And finally, my phrase of the week harks back to a simpler, more innocent time when you could "tie up your dog with a string of sausages".

'Til next we speak, probably next to a ruddy great waterfall,

Wanted Fred or Alive

23.08.16 - Pé frio

Hello Berlin! May your stay be full of flughäfen, kummerspeck and vergangenheitsbewältigung.  

It's still bloody cold here in Sankt Paul, not that that's stopped us painting the town red, so to speak.  On Thursday I struck out on my first genuine solo drive, to drop off and pick up Gaby for her research at the psych hospital in the centre of town. No one died... And on Saturday I drove to the Zona Leste as an encore, to check out an impossibly twee but fairly awesome café (pictured here, with a table full of cake) where we gorged on pork-rib risotto and white chocolate financier.

This was followed by an afternoon sprawled on the sofa watching Brazil win Olympic gold in the footy; 'twas genuinely heartwarming to see Neymar et al redeem the entire nation following his death and the subsequent, traumatic drubbing at the World Cup, and by beating Germany in a penalty shoot-out no less.  Amazingly, that wasn't even the best thing to happen in the Olympics this weekend, before the whole thing drew to a conclusion.

But the highlight of the week was undoubtedly the Prince tribute gig we went to on Friday night, featuring some ex-New Power Generation musicians and a frontman who, although looking and sounding absolutely nothing like Prince (he didn't even go falsetto, for God's sake), did his best with an impossible task and reeled off hit after hit, opening with Musicology, bringing the house down with Nothing Compares 2 U and wrapping things up with Kiss, Sometimes It Snows in April and Purple Rain. I just wish they'd had the foresight to invite me up for a few songs, but you can't have everything...

My phrase of the day - "cold foot" - refers to someone who brings bad luck; conversely, a "hot foot" is something of a good luck charm. Also: new mix! What a time to be alive...

Have a currywurst for me, and speak to you soon,

Fredlock Holiday

PS: as an aspiring foodie, I can highly recommend this article about a five-star restaurant run by just one guy/Coen Brothers character/Keyser Soze: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/08/29/damon-baehrel-the-most-exclusive-restaurant-in-america

16.08.16 - Para inglês ver

What ho,

Hope all well in Isleham and/or the South of France.  The bleak Brazilian winter continues to batter us into submission and we are forced to don light sweaters just to live to see the next day; but there is light at the end of the tunnel, and we are officially ON for Foz do Iguaçu in September, which should be most fun.

Not much to report in the past week - on Wednesday we went to Garrafas Bar for another open mic night and fantastic headlining show by Bob the Organiser, who has since jetted off to New York for a tour and Andy McKee tutorial.  And on Sunday we took Ridaut out for Father's Day, to the all-you-can-eat idyll of Benedetta's followed by afternoon tea at Teakettle (pictured); I also made a solo drive around the block to pick up some fancy beers for him, without mowing anyone down, which I was quite pleased about.

Last night there was a neighbourhood-wide power cut, so I made the most of it by seeing if I could hack it as a semi-blind person - making dinner in the dark, stumbling around the living room, that kind of thing. It wasn't so bad...

No compilation this week - you just can't get the staff these days - but I received a whole page of Brazilian-isms from our work translation company to coincide with the Olympics; my favourite is "para inglês ver" ("for the English to see") which means doing just enough to pass cursory inspection by visitors, and dates back to the slave trade era. Another version of the phrase is "onde o pastor passar", or "wherever the pastor passes by" - often used to describe my lacklustre approach to cleaning the house, in the most immediately visible places only.

That'll do, pig.

Fred

09.08.16 - Rio dos Camarões

Greetings from Brazil, already in the throes of Olympic fever after an opening ceremony already being described as "quite good, actually".  The only fly in the ointment so far is the men's football team drawing their first two games against South Africa and Iraq, displaying almost England-esque levels of haplessness; but I'm sure they'll get it together against Denmark tomorrow.

One of the factlets I learnt during the athletes' entrance on Friday night is that Cameroon is called "Camarões" (or "Shrimp") in Portuguese - it turns out Portuguese settlers got there first and named the country after the "River of Shrimp" that ran through it.  So there's that.

Back in São Paulo, we went for a whistlestop tour of the city on Friday afternoon with a friend of Gaby's from Maceió (although they met in London) - we took in a huge pastel at the Mercadão and red velvet cake in Vila Madalena, prior to a gridlocked shuffle down the Avenida Paulista just as some anti-Olympic protesters got going.

Then on Saturday Ridaut and I dusted off some bikes and went for a ride around the Campo de Marte airfield, on the much-maligned but actually quite nifty cycle lanes; on Sunday the city had laid on more temporary lanes, so we went for a cycle around the Parque da Juventude, former penitentiary grounds which have been transformed into a rather nice park. We also found time to take in an all-you-can-eat ice cream festival in Pinheiros, which wasn't all that great, but the surrounding flea market was pretty cool.

This week I'll be working on my driving, watching vast swathes of televised sport, applying for reviewing jobs, and trying to breathe some life into this seemingly DOA event we're organising in October; in the meantime I've cooked up another pukka mix for your listening delight.

Hope all well, and let's speak soon-ish.

I'm A Fred of Americans

02.08.16 - Não aguenta, bebe leite

Halloooo,

Hope all is well re: your assorted holiday frolics. A quiet week here in St. Paul, although we took in a typically awesome open mic night at Garrafas with Taynah and Rafael, and had Gaby's masters chums round on Sunday afternoon for a get-together before class resumed the next day. There was a lot of bluff behaviourist talk which went over my head somewhat, but plenty of food (we'll be living off the leftover bruschetta and lime pie for days to come) and good cheer. 

I also discovered a cool café near the hospital where Gaby has her weekly psych ward networking meetings (as a participant, rather than a subject), and passed a minor milestone on Sunday by driving on my own for the first time, to the shops at the end of the road and back again, without totalling the car. Plans are afoot for a longer solo voyage later this week...

My phrase of the week means "if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen", or in this case, "... drink milk" - no doubt doubling as a dig at people who can't handle their liquor. I've also made a rather sedate compilation, with a more unhinged offering in the works for next week. Do with it what you will.

That's all for the noo, send my regards to the folks in Galway if that's where you (still) are, and let's Skype soon!

Talking Freds