30.01.18 - Pular cerca

Hope all well, etc.

Aaand we're back, after a thoroughly relaxing week loafing around on the beach.  After three straight days wallowing in Maresias we upped sticks to Ilhabela for the day, to meet up with some of Gaby's Minas-based family and visit our favourite haunts before ferrying back to the mainland.  Still the best beaches on the North coast, if you ask me.

We got to know a few people through the globetrotting Airbnb owner and went to theirs for pizza one night, plus we almost adopted a street cat which hurled itself at us bodily from a nearby wall and started licking us furiously, but settled for leaving it with the Airbnb folks. It then rained for a few days, which was probably for the best as work picked up and we were coming down with beach fatigue, before we stopped off in Guaruja where the rest of the family were hanging out, for more seafood and ice cream.  

On Sunday we went to Coco Bambu for cauldrons of sundried meat and rice before our New Years fitness regime resumes, and yesterday I went to see the coolest person in the hospital (the ultrasound guy, hahahaha) for more probing and tests (it's a boy!).  Plus a trip to the dentists to have my incisors covered in cement, which I can't say I'm a fan of so far.

I have made two new compilations, and while last week's phrase would have fit perfectly with our fleeting feline affair on the coast, "pular cerca" kind of works as well, meaning "to jump the fence" or cheat on your other half (or cat).

That's all for the noo, speak soon!

Prole Art Fred

23.01.18 - Amor de praia não sobe serra

Ahoy hoy,

I write to you from the balmy climes of Maresias, where we've been mainly lounging by the sea (or preferably in it) and getting to know the various ice cream parlours and stray cats in town.  The plan is to do as little as possible all week, although I'm still on the clock so we'll see how that goes.

Before that I went to check out a blues jam in Vila Madalena on Thursday night, restrung electric guitar in hand, which was rather fun - I ended up drumming along to Amy Winehouse (a cover, not the actual Amy Winehouse) and Jimi Hendrix (the actual Jimi Hendrix!).

I've made another compilation, and my phrase of the day means "beach love doesn't make it up over the mountains" - a common refrain what with Carnaval coming up, or so I hear. Quite location- and demographic-specific, that one.

Speak soon,

Presuming Fred

16.01.18 - Cama de viúva

Halloooo,

A quiet week here, with more home improvement, fixing of cars, restringing of guitars and painting of walls... I gingerly returned to the football circuit on Thursday night, which went OK, but I've got a full battery of doctor's appointments, ultrasounds and tests to go before I'm in the clear. 

During our extensive homemaking research I discovered something called a "cama de viúva", or "widow's bed" - the industry term for a bed that's slightly larger than a single, the thinking presumably being that a widow doesn't need a king/queen-size bed but doesn't want to scale all the way back. Seems quite a morbid term for it, but there you go.  I also made another two compilations, so I hope you're done with the two from last week...

Speak soon, Monsoon Moon,

MindFred 

09.01.18 - Gatos pingados

Hallooo!

We're settled in here and taking it pretty bloody easy after our European excursions.  We met up with Bruna and Andrew for a spirited karaoke session and a catch-up, then went to see "The Last Jedi" again on Saturday (Gaby's main takeaway was that the "gold English robot" reminded her of me, which was a dagger through the heart...), and yesterday we went on a mad redecorating spree, but otherwise we've been flopping about, stocking up on supplies and catching up on TV, washing and sleep.

To that end, today's phrase ("splattered cats") is the Brazilian equivalent of "dead bumblebees", a way of describing, say, a subpar turnout at a party or a lackluster crowd at a TED talk.  Quite evocative, I thought.  I have also made not one but two compilations to ring in the New Year, so have fun with those.  Looking forward to hearing about the Icelandic pixies over Skype.

Ciao for now,

Presuming Fred

02.01.18 - Me pegou de calças curtas

Hallloooo,

It is back to Brazil with us, and back to the weird round-robin/kind-of blog format we all know and love.

Yesterday I sat on a plane for eleven hours being fed and watching endless films, which I quite enjoyed and which ended too soon if anything, but before that we were in gay Pareee for the end of 2017. After a goodbye scone at the Ely tea house we struck out to London and got the Eurostar to our ridiculously posh Airbnb, a huge Haussmannian pile near Montparnasse. I was particularly chuffed as it was right underneath the tiny chambres de bonne on the sixth floor, the likes of which I used to frequent.

We eventually dragged ourselves away the next morning, heading straight to the good stuff at the Eiffel Tower and the Pont des Invalides before wandering around the War Museum ("you can't fight here!", etc) and on to Notre Dame for a crepe and ice cream on the Île St-Louis (as is tradition, no matter how cold it actually is).

 

Friday was very grey so we stuck to the Louvre, but not before heading down the Champs-Elysées and getting caught in the pouring rain in the Tuileries - we eventually dried out though and Gaby's grandma used her senior skills to get us to the front of the security-check queue, which went on for several miles. The Louvre is still pretty great, FYI.  We then achieved peak Frenchness with onion soup on the Rue de Rivoli, followed by more soup at home.

The next day we went to the establishment of Ridaut's boulanger friend, although he wasn't in so we drifted down to Notre Dame again for a look inside, then up to Opera and the Galeries Lafayette rooftop, and finally to Montmartre, for a singing-nun concert in Sacré Cœur and a waistline-expanding medley of fondues at our favourite fondue place. Then after a quick excursion to the Moulin Rouge we headed for home.

By this point we'd basically covered everything so we took it easy the next day, went to the boulangerie for endless pastries and a galette du roi, made a sumptuous New Years Eve meal of cordon bleu and chocolate mousse and piled on the tube to the Eiffel Tower to see in 2018, which was followed by a desperate few hours trying to get back to the flat in the midst of huge crowds, shouting policeman and a non-existent metro.  Eventually we got in our red-eye cab to Roissy and now here we are, back across the Atlantic. 

Lovely to see you again, and hope you had fun over the réveillon... Regrettably I have no compilation for you this week, but hopefully today's expression - "it caught me short-trousered" (i.e. off-guard) - should make up for it.

Auld Lang Syne, etc,

Fred Funk