Train

“How many photos did you take of railway stations, Dad?” Alexei asks.

“A few.”

“No wonder you were lagging so far behind us in York.”

“It was because I’m old.”

“Always that excuse.”

“It is impressive, though, York station.” 

“I suppose so.”

“Though so is the pub. Just like in Sheffield: right in the station.”

“That was handy.”

“They should try doing that in Holland.”

“They do. At least in Amsterdam Centraal.”

“But they don’t sell cask bee. They don’t count.”

“Keep moving the goalposts, Dad.”

“Thank you.”

“I bet you took loads of photos of the beer pumps.”

“Not really. Only a couple.”
 

“Did you take any photos other than pubs?”

“I took some of the station.”

“Anything else?”

“One or two of the city walls.”

“And that’s it?”

“What else is there in York?”

“I bet the pub photos are dead boring. Just all blokes sitting around”

“Not all of them.”

“Well, that one is.”

“There are only a few like that.”

“I bet the rest are all your beers.”

“Not all of them’”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“What else do you have pictures of, then?”

“The pies we ate in the Maltings.”

“You mean the stew with a lid?”

“You’ve been listening to Andrew, haven’t you? He’s a real pie Nazi.”

“It did taste OK, I suppose.”

He’s not wrong there. It wasn’t a bad pie at all.

“Do you have any photos from the other pub?”

“A few.”

“Old blokes sitting about?”

“Only us lot: me, Dave, Henry and Paul.”

“Beer pumps?”

“Er, maybe one or two.”

“And that’s it, is it?”

“Well, there are some photos of pints, too.”

“How exciting”

“One has yours and Andrew’s pints of cider. Doesn’t that make you thirsty? It does me.”

“For cider?”

“No, for the lovely cask beer in front of it.”

“Always on about that cask crap.”

“The best beer in the world.”

“Yeah, right. Is that everything for York?”

“Just about. There are some more of the York Tap.”

“More beer pumps?”

“Not . . . “

“. . . all of them. You keep claiming that.”

“Only because it’s true.”

“Right”

“I got some nice photos of the stained-glass windows. Look.”

“More old blokes sitting around?”

“Not just old blokes. There are some younger people. Even women.”

“Photos of anything else?”

“Yes. Some trains.”

“What a surprise.”

“Do you want to see them?”

“Do I have to?”

“I bet Andrew would like to see them.”

“Then show them to him.”

“OK. I will do. Andrew!”

“Oh. It’s that type 47 at Newark Northgate.”
 

Photos

“Don’t get angry, Dolores.”

“Why?”

“When you start looking at the photos.”

“Which photos?”

“Of me and the kids in Newark.”

“I know that. Which specific ones?”

“The ones from the lounge.”

“With all the glasses of whisky. I know what you get up to in the lounge.”
 

Dolores knows me so well. Too well.

“These are boring. How many photos did you take out of the plane window?” Dolores asks.

“A few. Quite a few.”

“Can we just skip them?”

“Don’t you like looking at the English countryside?”

“Yes. The real thing. Not random murky photos.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t actually a great day for photography.”

“I did my best.”

“I know. That’s what’s so sad.”

“You can see the Humber in this one.”

“How thrilling.”

I can tell Dolores is excited, really. She’s just very good at hiding it. Excellent, in fact. Looking at her, you’d swear she was bored shitless.

“What’s this one?”

“Don’t you recognise it? The Sainsbury’s in Balderton.”

“Why did you take a photo of that?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s boring.”
 

“I’m just documenting what Balderton looks like in 2024.”

“Exactly the same as last year. Or 2000.”

“That’s not true. There’s a drive-through Starbucks now.”

“Did you go there?”

“We didn’t have a car and I hate Starbucks. So, yes.”

“That’s the chip shop, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And this is a monster pile of chips. That’s one portion. Three of us couldn’t finish them”
 

“What else did you get?”

“The last pie. And three fish, though they only charged for two. As they were about to close.”

“Did Andrew eat anything?”

“Some of the fish and some chips. You didn’t ask about Alexei.”

“I know he’d have eaten. No need to ask.”

“You didn’t ask what I had. The pie and a bit of fish. And some chips.”

“That’s fascinating, Ronald.”

Dolores is keen on knowing every detail of my life.

“I had some lurid green mushy peas, too.”

“Really?” Dolores says, pretending to suppress a yawn. She’s so good at disguising her enthusiasm.

“This is what they look like.”

“Yes, Ronald. Do you have any photos of the kids?”

“The kids?”

“Yes, the two boys you took with you.”

“Oh, should I have taken photos of them?”

Dolores makes that noise. I think it means that she’s dead impressed. Well, that’s what I want to believe.

Flying home

I have a really good kip. And rise at 8.

I do some pottering around for a while. Alexei knocks on my around 9. And downstairs we head.

It’s even more crowded than yesterday. Though we can find seats. Any guesses what I have? Scrambled egg, cheese, fruit. I’m very predictable.

We have a bit of a hole to fill today. Our flight isn’t until 21:45. Even getting to the airport early for lounging, we’ve several hours to fill after checkout.

I assume we’ll have to check out at eleven. But ask at reception, just to be sure. We actually have until noon. Cool.

Around 11:30 the kids arrive at my room with their packed bags. We trail downstairs to check out. Dumping our bags there, too.

We plan on being lazy, spending the day at the pub over the road where we ate on our first day here. It doesn’t open until 12, leaving us 15 minutes to wait.

When we get over there at 12:05, Several tables are already occupied.

“They must have been leaning on the door.” Something I remember well from my days living in the East End back in the 1970s. On Sundays, there would usually be groups of men hanging around outside the pubs, waiting for them to open at 12. Including me.

We grab an outdoor table and peruse the menu. As it’s going to be a long day, I start with a mineral water. What a sensible person I’ve become. Alexei and Andrew both have water, too. Plenty of time for drinking.

Most of the other guests are eating. Groups of middle-aged men, couples, young friends. All types of people. Which is nice.

I get an Eisenbahn Pils for my second drink, while the kids have Brahma. Served the typical Brazilian way: a long neck 600 mil bottle jammed into a cooler.

Quite a few homeless people are wandering around. One sits down just outside the pub. After a while, a waiter comes and gives him a bag of food.

Later, another homeless man walks by and speaks to some of the customers. One of then gives him their doggie bag and buys him a can of coke. That’s very compassionate.

After a couple of hours, we start feeling a bit hungry. Well, me and Alexei do.

“What about getting some appetisers?” Alexei suggests.

“Fine by me. What do you fancy?”

There’s something called pork crackling that catches our eye. And you can’t go wrong with chips.

I’ve moved onto caipirinha. Andrew joins me, though still orders a Brahma to go with it.

We hear screaming from up the street. A rather large gentleman appears running down the road, yelling crazily. Followed by a petite woman who tries to calm him down. Which she manages to do and they continue walking down the street. When they’re out of sight, the screaming starts up again.

Alexei joins us on caipirnhas.

“This will be my last chance to drink one.”

“Other than in the lounge.” I remark.

“They have them there?”

“Of course. It’s still in Brazil.”

There’s another commotion somewhere down the side street we’re on. It continues for a while. A military policeman, walking in a very determined way, walks past us headed in the direction of the noise. His right hand on his holstered pistol.

The kids discuss exactly what sort of hand gun it is. Settling on either a German pistolll or an Austrian Glock.

A few minutes later, the policeman walks back past us. We didn’t hear any gunshots. Everything must have worked out peacefully.

The caipirinhas are going down nicely.

Another homeless man appears. Shouting incoherently and pestering customers. The waiters try to get him to move on. To no avail.

It’s the first time I’ve felt uncomfortable the whole trip. He’s still hanging around when we pay up and leave. After five happy hours of boozing and snacking.

Bags picked up, we pile into and Uber and soon are speeding alongside the open sewer that passes for a river.

We check in three bags again. Despite only really having one. They don’t seem to give too much of a shit when you’re checking in Sky Priority.

There’s not much of a queue for either immigration or security. Soon we’re in the duty free, deciding which cachacas to buy. We only get two. And they aren’t even litres. $18 and $25.

It’s the W lounge, again. Which is quite a way down one pier, by gate 327. I remember this. There are moving walkways. But only in one direction. Hopefully our gate isn’t in the other direction. Like happened to me last time.

“Why do the walkways only go one way?” Andrew asks.

“Probably because they were being cheapskates.”

The staff warn us: “It’s quite busy upstairs.”

We sit in the smaller downstairs. At a large table intended for laptop users.

While the kids get me a whisky, I try to log into the wifi. I can connect, but can’t get internet access. Like a true IT professional, I get angry.

“It’s probably the fucking VPN again.”

“You’re very grumpy, Dad,” Andrew says.

“No, I’m fucking not. Get me another whisky.”

Which Andrew does.

Andrew can’t log into the lounge wifi, either.

“Try the airport wifi. That works.”

Which is what I do. Firing up the VPN so I can watch the cricket highlights on Ziggo.

I nibble on a few bits of food and sip some whisky. Watching the cricket is very calming.

“Our gate is 330.” Andrew tells me.

Brilliant. That means we don’t have to trail back along the pier.

With my oldie privileged status we get on the plane first. Even before the business class passengers.

Before we take off, an attendant comes by and asks Andrew if he wants to move to the row in front. It’s a bulkhead row and only the window seat is occupied. Of course he agrees, welcome of the extra legroom.

I move over to Andrew’s seat. This is brilliant.

As soon as we’re done eating, I try to sleep. Which works really well. Soon I’m spark out. When I wake, we’re only four hours out from Amsterdam. And I promptly nod off again.

I properly wake when we’re two hours out. And we’re served a weird breakfast of mostly sweet stuff. I don’t eat much of it. But appreciate the coffee and orange juice.

Passport control is really annoying. The automatic gates aren’t open and there’s quite a queue. After a while, they do open the gates, but we can’t use them as Alexei is travelling on his UK passport and Dutch ID card. Fucking Brexit.

When we’re almost at the head of the queue, a group of Brazilians in wheelchairs are wheeled up in front of us. They don’t have to hand all the documents they need for entry. Much pissing around entails.

At least our bags are on the carousel. Soon, we’re in a taxi bowling along the motorway. It’s warmer than in Sao Paulo.

Back home, Dolores is waiting. With tea.



Sagrado Mineiro
R. Maj. Sertório, 82
República,
São Paulo
SP, 01222-000.
 

Japantown

I awake to a coughing fit around 3 AM. Other than that little interruption, I have a pretty good night's sleep. Rising at 8.

Alexei knocks on my door, as arranged, at 9. No Andrew, of course. He isn't really a breakfast person. Or a before midday person.

The breakfast room is large and busy. I have scrambled egg and cheese for my main. Fruit for pudding. Washed down with buckets of coffee and orange juice.

There’s no bacon. Just those weird slices of sausage floating in some red stuff. Alexei gives that a go, but isn’t too impressed.

“What’s the red stuff, dad?”

“No idea.” Not sure I want to know, really. “I steer well clear of it.”

“Dad, would you watch Young Sheldon?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For obvious reasons.”

“Which are?”

“That it’s total shite.”

“And?”

“I’m not an idiot. That enough reasons?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re enough for me.”

After a little chilling in my room, we venture to the metro. The closest stop isn't far. While we're trying to work out how to get tickets, I nice security guard comes up to us and explains how it works in pretty much perfect English. We just need to get paper tickets from the counter. It's a pretty simple process. And pay in cash, weirdly.

It’s very spacious here. Which implies they have masses of people passing through.

We're only going two stops. To the cathedral.

“Look, they have the Spanish system.” Andrew remarks, as the doors open on both sides. One side to get on, the other to get off. That also implies that it gets very busy.

“They have that in the centre of Munich, too.” I respond.

The cathedral is pretty impressive. Not so much in the area it covers, as in its height. Some lovely stained glass, too.

There’s a very strong police presence around the cathedral. Should that reassure or worry me?

Next stop is Japan Town. We could take the metro for one stop. But that seems a waste. Instead, we walk. It isn't that far. On the way, we pas a shop with a very impressive display of meat. So impressive, I take a photo.

It's very busy. I suppose it is Saturday. We're looking for a restaurant. I expected there to be loads. There aren't.

Eventually we find one, Banri. It's pretty full. We have to wait a while for a table. Then things start going wrong.

We try to order drinks. But there's some problem. We get the help of a waiter. But they can’t fix it, either. It seems that they're out of the beer the kids wanted.  Great. It takes around 10 minutes to fix.

We order spring rolls and gyozas. You can never go wrong with gyozas. And more drinks. Caipirinha for me, Heineken for the kids.

Some of the menu items – like chop suey – aren’t exactly Japanese. Not even authentic Chinese.

“Dad, would you live in the USA?”

“I did live there. Surely you know that?”

“I mean would you live there again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Lack of a safety net.”

“What do you mean?”

“One accident, and you’re fucked. I had two. My pair of broken ankles would have cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“Wouldn’t your insurance pay?”

“Hahaha . . .” I laugh so hard I have a coughing fit.

After a few minutes of coughing: “No.”

We finish with a plate of sushi and gyozas all around. Then it's a walk back to the cathedral and the metro.

On the way from the metro to our hotel, we drop by a supermarket. For sandwich makings. And some drinks, of course. We get a bottle of 51 cachaca. It's just 11 reals something. About 2 euros. For almost a litre. Obviously, this being Brazil it comes in a weird measure: 965 mil.

We eat drink and watch YouTube. Before turning in pretty early. We fly back tomorrow.



Restaurante Banri
R. Galvão Bueno, 160
Liberdade,
São Paulo
SP, 01506-000.

Back to Brazil

I rise a little before eight. To discover I have no internet connection. I fiddle around a bit and it magically returns. Not exactly sure what I did. If anything.

I had a pretty good kip. Other than a coughing fit in the middle of the night. The last remnant of my cold, I think. There’s nothing like waking up struggling for breath. It’s what I live for.

The kids trail by at 9:35. We go pretty much straight downstairs and check out. An Uber arrives in about a minute and we're soon racing along the side of the River Plate. It's like a sheet of glass licked by a low layer of mist. I can see how it got its name.

It takes about 45 minutes to get to the airport. Which is modern and modestly-sized. Just how I like my airports. There are only eight gates.

Passport control and security are a doddle. Though for some reason the automatic gates won't accept the kids' passports. They have to have a human look at them. And they get stamped.

I counted on getting breakfast in the lounge. But we don't have access. That's a bummer. Instead, we buy cola and a sandwich. Like plebs. It isn't exactly cheap. I consider getting a whisky, but fuck it. It'll be some stupid price.

I'm flicking through the Guardian website when suddenly it becomes unresponsive. I've used all my 1 gig of data. Oh well. It lasted most of the holiday. I log into the wifi network instead.

It's a bit vague when the boarding process is starting. But we get ourselves into the priority queue in time. And convince the staff that I’m suitably old.

I read Private Eye. Which is always a good way of passing the time. And coughing. I do a lot of that. It’s one of the things I do best.

The cabin crew ask us where we're from as they try to explain the sandwich filling.

"Holland." I reply. Sometimes I respond with England to that question. Where am I from now? It depends on whether you mean where I'm originally from or where I'm living now. Then there’s my nationality, Or nationalities. It’s all very confusing. Too much for my brain. Far easier to just pick one at random, without thinking.

"Is there much walking in Sao Paulo airport?" Alexei asks. He wasn't impressed by how far we had to walk in Rio.

"I'm not sure. I hope not. I don’t like long walks."

“I know, because you’re old.”

“You don’t fancy it, either. And you’re young.”

“I was just thinking of you, Dad.”

“Right.”

It turns out that there's fuck all walking. Thank fuck. There's no air bridge and a bus takes us pretty much directly to immigration. Which is queue-free. The baggage carousel is just behind it. This is so easy.

Just through on landside is a taxi office, where I purchase a voucher for the city centre: 160 reals. The taxi rank is only a few more steps away. That was a total piece of piss. Some of the least walking I’ve done in an airport. Especially one as large as this.

We bump along the motorway following the beautiful river. Into which waterfalls of sewage cascade from pipes in its banks. There's a delightful grey-brown scum on the top of the water, inviting you to take a dip.

"Look! There's a capibara by the river." Alexei remarks. He asked me if they had capibaras in Sao Paulo. I said probably not. It seems I was wrong. The driver hears us and makes biting motions with his hands.

During the 45-minute ride I do some Olympic-level coughing. Damn this cold. I’m sure the driver is impressed. I wonder why he’s just put a mask on?

As soon as we're settled in our rooms, I look for a supermarket. There's one just 50 metres away. I think I can just about manage that. We head there to stock up on water, beer, cachaca and crisps.

On the way down I notice something: “Look, there’s a 13th floor. You’d never see that in the US.”

One of the young women working in the shop speaks such fluent English, that it initially confuses me. I’ve had this happen before in Brazil. Come across really good English in unexpected places.

Once our stash is safely stashed in our rooms, it's time to find somewhere to eat.

None of us feels like much fucking around. And there's a restaurant just opposite, SagradoMineiro. So that's where we traipse. A very short traipse.

It being a very pleasant temperature, we sit outside. Drinks first.

"I'll have a caipirinha." Alexei says, rather surprisingly. It would be impolite not to join him. Andrew has a Brahma.

I've been fancying a steak for a few days. And that's what I get. A filet mignon. Alexei has one, too. Though of a different kind. With tomato sauce and cheese on the top. Andrew has an omelette. All three come with the compulsory twin carbs. Chips and rice in their case. Roast spud and rice in mine.

The food is pretty good. As are the caipirinhas. So good, we get a second round. Though we don’t linger long after finishing our food.

“Another round, Dad?” Alexei asks.

“No. I’m not made of money. It’s cheap cachaca and crisps back in my room for the rest of the evening.”

We chill in my room watching the weird Olympic opening ceremony. With some YouTube on the side.

“Is that a balloon?” Alexei asks.

“I’ve no fucking idea. Why is it on fire?” I reply.

“Is it?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

Perhaps we’d have more idea what was going on if we could understand the Portuguese commentary.

“Would you like to be in Paris now, Dad?” Alexei asks for the fourth time.

“No. I’d rather be in Grantham. It’ll be full of twats and dead expensive.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be there for the Olympics?”

“No. Definitely not. Well, only for the football and cricket.”

“They don’t have cricket in the Olympics.”

“Exactly.”

We head to our beds reasonably early. Even Andrew.



Sagrado Mineiro
R. Maj. Sertório, 82
República,
São Paulo
SP, 01222-000.

Old town

I rise around 8:40. After a pretty good kip. Andrew is still well out of it.

Alexei comes along just after 10.

"Where are we going for breakfast today? The same place as yesterday?" Alexei asks.

"No. That turned out quite expensive. I'll look for somewhere else."

The café lattes were 5 euros a pop. And we both had two. With the food it came to almost 30 euros.

I spot a place called Franca in the corner of a nearby square. It's only a couple of minutes’ walk.

Great. They have big coffees. I get a large cafe latte. Alexei goes one better and has an XL It's half a litre. I also get an orange juice. We don't bother with any food.

[Imagine a photograph of two massive coffees next to a bottle of oranges juice.]

A very modern place, most of the seating is upstairs. We get one of the two tables downstairs. Young women scurry around behind the counter and in the kitchen.

“Dad, did you ever take a Greyhound bus?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

“As grim as you would expect.”

“Full of poor people?”

“Yes. People like me. And students. The bus terminals are good fun, though”

“What do you mean?”

“Entertaining. There’s always Shouting. Lots of shouting.”

“Isn’t that scary?”

“Not once you get used to it.”

Andrew is still sleeping when we get back. And eat up the leftover food from yesterday evening. That’s our breakfast today.

It's after noon when Andrew finally drags his sorry arse out of bed. I have a simple plan: walk to the old town. It's not that far. Around a mile.

On the way we pass around a dozen La Pasiva restaurants. There’s one on virtually every corner. Two are all but opposite each other. There are almost as many as chemists and opticians.

Thankfully, it's warmed up a bit. It was freezing earlier. The sun is out, the sky deep blue. There are some pretty impressive buildings. Mostly from the 1920s. There's a particularly fine knobbly skyscraper on Independence Square.

It appears much warmer than it is. Look what people are wearing.

On the other side, there are the remnants of a city gate. Behind it, the old town starts. It's mostly pedestrianised. And rather attractive, as many of its older buildings have survived. Some rather fancy ones. Such as this:

We take a look at the cathedral. Which is fairly modest for a city of this size. Smaller than Newark parish church. And strangely austere on the outside. Rather flasher inside, mind.

Oddly, the only refreshment option on the square is a McCafe. We need to look further. But not that much. One block further is a place called El Copacabana.

“What about this place?” I suggest. “They have beer.”

“Do they have cocktails for you, though?” Andrew says.

“Very funny.”

While we’re still debating, a young waiter pops out and almost drags us inside.

It’s quite a classy looking place. With uniformed staff buzzing about. Though we’ve come at a quiet time. Some of the staff are eating.

We take seats and order some drinks. Big bottle of Zillertaler Pils for the kids, a bottle of merlot for me. The same wine as a couple of days ago. And only 11 euros. That’s a dirt-cheap restaurant price for such a good wine.

I’m so happy, I send Dolores a photo of the wine. Mobile data has totally corrupted me.

“No comment about the wine, Andrew?”

“Only: can I try some?” The cheeky git.

“Of course.” I say through gritted teeth.

Alexei goes for a chivito again. I get a tortilla. Andrew orders nothing.

The food is pretty good. And not too expensive. I do like a tortilla.

Alexei and I finish with a coffee. Which is served in a dead fancy way. With loads of bits to it. It’s easier to show you a photo than try to describe it.

We walk back to the hotel, only pausing to buy sandwich makings in the supermarket.

The evening is spent snacking and watching YouTube. And drinking whisky and beer.

I picked up a can of Porter earlier. Maybe I should try drinking it. Perhaps even review it.

Patricie Porter 5.6% ABV, 18.5 IBU, 80 EBC
Not really roasty, more caramelly. Pretty low bitterness. Maybe a little on the thin side. OK overall, if perhaps closer to a Dark Mild than a Porter. Not that I'm going to argue about that.

Will that do? I’ll have to show it to Andrew. Demonstrate that I have done the beer writer thing. In a very apathetic way, admittedly. But I’ve still done it. Now I can return to just being on holiday. Not on some beer adventure. Which is not what this trip’s about. I want a rest from being Mr. Beer.

We don't stay up too late. We're flying to Sao Paulo tomorrow.



Franca
Circunvalacion Pl. Cagancha 1124,
11100 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.



El Copacabana
Sarandí 454,
11000 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.
http://elcopacabana.com.uy/

Football pilgrimage

I've had a really good sleep. My cold has got much better. Though I still feel quite tired.

While I'm writing up yesterday, I cough rather heavily and feel something wet on my face and chest. It's blood. My nose has started bleeding. Just as well I haven't put my shirt on yet as it would be covered in blood. I stuff some toilet paper up it and carry on typing.

The kids trail by a little after ten. Me and Alexei go to the cafe next to the fountain covered in padlocks.

We both get cafe con leche and an empanada. There's a football match on the TV. Of course, there is. Penarol (sounds like the name of a painkiller) against someone or other. There's a banner at one end of the ground saying "Barra Amsterdam". What's that all about?

"Dad, have you watched any David Lynch films?"

"Yes, Blue Velvet. The person I was with said ’Never take me to a film like that again.’"

"Did you like it?"

"Not hugely. More than my companion, though."

"Was it weird like all his other films?"

"Yes."

"You don't want to see what his dreams are like."

"No. Definitely not. Mine are bad enough."

"Don't you like surreal films?"

"Yes. But his are a bit bleak"

Today's plan is easy. We're going to the football museum. Being a bit away from our hotel, we get an Uber. Which gives us a chance to see some more of the city.

The museum is housed in the Centenary Stadium. As we drive around the ground, I notice that part of it is called the Amsterdam stand. That explains the banner this morning. As that game was played here.

It's only 7 euros to get in. Though it's half that for Uruguayans.

It's pretty interesting. With a lot of emphasis on Uruguay's two Olympic victories, in 1924 and 1928, plus their World Cup triumphs of 1930 and 1950.

There's also information about the construction of the ground, which was specifically built for the first World Cup in 1930. And hosted the first final. It was thrown up pretty quickly, only being started in 1929.

After looking around the museum, we go into the stands. It's much the same as when opened. Which means it doesn't look all that safe by modern standards.

When we're done in the museum, Alexei finds a restaurant a few minutes’ walk away.

Ombú is a modern bar restaurant. Without many customers. Though it is a quiet time of day

Time for food. And drinks, of course. A big bottle of Zillertal beer for the kids to share. Rum for me. Alexei has a toastie. While I have an empanada. Andrew just has a bite of Alexei's toastie. They have quite an impressive empanada range. For a Change, I go for a ham and boiled egg filling.

The waitress is very friendly. Despite not speaking English. We manage to get across what we want.

It's an interesting area, built around the same time as the stadium. Many houses having an art deco look.

“The streets look quite English.” Alexei remarks.

He’s right. Terraced housing lines the streets. Though mostly every house is different. Unlike in England.

There’s ancient tree outside the restaurant. Judging by the size of the trunk, it must be several centuries old. It’s on a little roundabout and it looks like the roads have been built around it.

The waitress comes by and gives us a free thing. I think it’s a sort of fried bread. It tastes pretty good. In a very unhealthy sort of way.

Another Uber has us back in my room for some more chilling. After a quick nip to the supermarket.

Where to eat this evening? We still haven't tried a chivito. So we drop by La Pasiva again.

Me and Alexei share a chivito. Though he eats most of it. Andrew has a toastie. Beer for the kids, a glass of wine for me. It's OK, but not as good as yesterday's, which was excellent.

"Did you notice that the national dishes of Chile and Uruguay both start with a 'ch'?" Alexei asks.

"And both include a pile of chips." I reply.

"Yes, that too."

"It can't be a coincidence. Someone must be behind it. Probably the Welsh."

"The Welsh?"

"Yes. They secretly control the world."

"You're talking crap again, Dad."

"Am I? Why do you think they're always singing?"

"What's that got to do with controlling the world?"

"Everything, Lexie, everything."

"Dad, can you just shut up with this bollocks?" Andrew remarks bluntly.

Alexei has been dying to try some cake. And orders a slice of chocolate cake. It's very good.

While he's eating it, a pro-Palestinian demonstration trails by in the rain.

When it's time to leave, it's chucking it down. Thunder roars out. People scurry about the streets. I follow suit.

Not having eaten much, I nip into the supermarket for French bread, cheese and salami. I quickly dash back to the hotel through the rain. Which, luckily, is nearby It's the first rain we've seen on the trip.

Alexei goes back to his room quite early. Leaving Andrew to sleep in my room. Because Andrew kept him awake last night chatting.

I go to bed around midnight, leaving Andrew to fiddle on my laptop.



Ombú Bar
4V33+P45,
11600 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.



La Pasiva
18 de julio 1251 esquina,
11100 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.

Meat

A rise at 8:15 having had a shit night's sleep. My throat is aching like fuck. The first thing I do is take a couple of painkllers.

The kids are supposed to show up at 10. But it's only Alexei who knocks on my door.

"Where's Andrew?" I ask.

"He's still in bed. He was up until six watching videos."

"That's annoying."

"He says he'll be up by 12."

"He better be."

As breakfast isn't included and costs $9, we head off out into the street. To La Pasiva. Which was recommended by our driver as a good place for chivito, a type of Uruguayan sandwich.

We order coffee and cheese and ham sandwiches. The coffee is dead good. The sandwiches rather anaemic.

I noticed a man drinking beer close to the entrance. Now the waitress is walking over to his table with a shot glass and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label.

“He must be French, Lexie. Drinking spirits for breakfast.”

“Or English.”

There’s football on the TV. Obviously. It can’t possibly be live as it’s too early in the morning. Do they just show these games on a loop?

“Dad, would you like to own a slave?”

“No.”

“But they could do things for you for free.”

“But I’m not a twat. Would you like to own a slave, then?”

“No.”

“Why would I then?”

“Because you’re old. They still had slaves in your time. Didn’t they?”

“I’m not that fucking old.”

 

On our way back we take a look at smaller supermarket over the road. It seems cheaper than the other one. A litre of Gregsons "Special whisky" is just 7 euros. Despite the name, it’s made in Uruguay. I get some orange juice, too. Just to be healthy.

Andrew does, indeed, appear a little after noon. I've noticed that a Museum of Art History is just a black away. so there we go about 1 PM.

It's quite interesting, starting with pre-history, then going on through Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Persian, Greek and Roman. Though the European stuff from the Middle Ages onward is closed off.

As Alexei is getting hungry, we go to Brecha. The place that was full yesterday.

It's an odd place, being both a bakery and bar. The bread and pastries look really good.  It has a pretty cool vibe, too. With lots of those young people. I used to be one of those, once.

They also have craft beer. While the kids get Corona, I order a Cabesas Double IPA. My first beer in a couple of days. In fact, I think only my fourth of the trip. It's pretty good.

“No comment about my drink today, Andrew?”

“You’ll be back on cocktails soon enough.”

The kids order toasties with a side of cheesy chips to share. I get stuck into the latter. They're pretty nice.

We then go back to my room to chill. First calling in the smaller supermarket for some provisions. Rum, crisps. That sort of stuff.

Alexei is keen on having some Uruguayan meat. Which is fine by me. After a search on the internet, he finds a place a little down the main drag. It's called El Gaucho, which sounds the part.

On the way there, I spot a bookshop. And quickly nip in to see if they have anything on Uruguayan beer. Which they do. So I buy it. Dolores will be so pleased.

El Gaucho is modern and bright inside. Long and thin, with an impressive cake display. It’s quite busy. But we find a table OK.

Alexei and I order a sharing platter of meat with chips. Andrew gets a toastie. We also share a bottle of Uruguayan merlot.

“What do you think of the wine, Lexie?”

“Good.”

He’s right. It is really rather good. Never had Uruguayan wine before.

“I wonder if Ton Overmars sells any Uruguayan wine?” I ask.

“Probably not.” Andrew replies.

Our platter has various types of roasted meat. Including black pudding. One of my favourites. It’s surprisingly similar to the English stuff.

There’s football on a TV. There’s always football on the TV here. Just like in Brazil. It’s obviously a lower division game, given the size of the stadium. Bizarrely, the home team is called Liverpool FC.

Alexei fancied trying the cake, But he’s too stuffed after all the meat. It really was filling.

Back in my room we chill to Youtube videos over a few drinks. After a while, I lie on my bed and doze. I felt terrible this morning. My cold has been coming and going in waves. I want a good night's kip.

I kick the kids out about 11.

"Don't stay up too late." I warn Andrew. I doubt he'll listen.



La Pasiva
18 de julio 1251 esquina,
11100 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.



Bar Brecha
Dr. Aquiles R. Lanza 1201,
11100 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.



Bar El Gaucho
18 de Julio y,
Dr Javier Barrios Amorín 1393,
11200 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.
http://www.elgaucho.com.uy/

Back over the Andes

I rise at 8 again. Not the best night's sleep. I seem to have come down with a cold. Which is a bummer. I woke at 4 AM with an aching throat.

It's the normal drill at breakfast. Except we're the only guests there and get to sit at the big table.

We still have beer and half a bottle of Havana Club left over. Andrew packs the cans in his bag. While I take the rum in mine. Wrapped in a plastic bag.

We're in no huge rush as our flight isn't until 14:50. We lounge around in my room for a bit and then check out at 11. We order an Uber and the woman from the hotel nicely waits outside with us until it comes.

It's a lovely sunny day and we get a good view of the Andes on our way to the airport.

Printing our boarding passes and checking our bags all goes pretty smoothly. So far, so good. The trouble starts when we go airside.

There's a massive queue for passport control. I try to go through the priority lane, bur a member of airport staff points me to the massive ordinary queue. I try to persuade the kids to go into the priority queue anyway, but they're having none of it.

The long wait isn't helped by my worsening cold. At least there's not much of a queue for security. Probably because everyone is held up by passport control.

It's not too stupid of a walk to our gate. Despite all the fucking around, we're still in good time. Me being pretty paranoid about being late for a flight.

The kids go off and get us a sarnie and drinks while I fiddle with my phone a bit.

“Would you like to travel around the world in 80 hours on low-price airlines?”

Alexei has been watching Youtube again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It would be really knackering. And I’d see nothing, just be on planes all the time.”

“Isn’t that the fun bit, being on the plane?”

“No. Of course, it fucking isn’t”

“Why wouldn’t you try it? Isn’t it fun just flying constantly?”
“No, definitely not.”

While we're waiting, I get a message from our transfer driver in Montevideo. I tell him that I'll message him again when we're picking up our bags.

Despite the kids’ reluctance, I decide to try the priority queue again. When one of the airline staff looks at my boarding pass and tries to redirect me, I say: "I'm a pensioner. I'm 67." Then he lets us through.

"I must look under 60."

"Right, dad." Andrew replies.

The view of the Andes is spectacular. Sharp rocky spikes and smooth drifts of snow. Places which look untrodden by human feet. Ever.

"Who would you put on the rotisserie first if we crashed here?" Alexei asks, back on the cannibalism theme. Good question.

"Someone young. Not a tough old bastard like me."

“That’s right, you’re old.”

“No need to rub it in.”

There's only a short walk from our gate, thankfully. As I'm feeling really fucking ill. I hope I don't have Covid.

We look down on passport control and . . there's no queue. Or hardly one. And they have automatic gates. Absolutely zero buggering around. Our bags are already on the carousel, too. I message our driver to tell him we're ready. We find him waiting outside.

It's a long drive to the city centre. Almost an hour. Though, as the sun is already down, we can't see much. The river, according to our driver, is to our left. It’s just a pool of darkness with no visible features.

When we get closer to the centre, we travel along a street where virtually every shop is an opticians. I suppose that makes a change from all the chemists in Santiago. Where three within 50 metres isn’t unusual.

Checked into our hotel, I open up my checked in bag. To a smell of rum. Oh fuck. The bottle has leaked. Luckily, it’s been contained by the plastic bag I wrapped around the bottle. And my clean clothes are unflavoured.

We wander around the corner to a supermarket. Where we load up on beer, rum and cola. Much as in Santiago and Rio. Though the supermarket is much closer than in Santiago. Thankfully. The Havana Club is more expensive, however.

After going to the toilet, Alexei says: "The water really goes down anticlockwise. Just like in the Simpsons."

"Well, yeah.” I reply. “Have you only just noticed?"

"I thought they just made that up."

Alexei is hungry and finds a bar just down the street where we can go. Which we do. Except it's full. Luckily, Bar Andorra is on the opposite corner. Which has space.

It's very dark inside. We need the torch on Andrew's phone to be able to read the menu. The kids get a large bottle of beer to share. I get a rum.

“Not even bothering with a cocktail now, Dad.”

“Fuck off.”

We order food, too. Sandwiches for the kids, an empanada for me. You can never go wrong with a pie.

They’re projecting Grand Hotel Budapest on the wall behind us. Which is rather surreal.

We stay for a couple of rounds. The return to my room to chill and watch some Youtube. It's about 1 when we turn in.



Bar Andorra
Canelones 1302,
11100 Montevideo,
Departamento de Montevideo.