30/3 – Cidade maravilhosa.

It’s not my favourite place on the globe, not even a place where I could imagine myself settling down for an extensive number of years. But somehow this place seems to be good for me; no other place I’ve ever visited can make me feel beautiful in the way the marvellous city and the samba country can. And despite long working days, after been working in the city for a couple of weeks again, my blood pressure is lower than it’s been in years. Maybe I just need to get my head around to that it might actually be a place for me after all.

25/3 – Just another ordinary Tuesday.

The rain is pouring down and creates an almost horizontal stripe pattern in front of the traffic lights. The city and one of the most buzzing streets during the Carnaval are still recovering from the party of the year. After weeks of overloading all senses and the final discharge of energy during the last few days of the Carnaval, it’s like everything needs a big long breather.

I’ve decided to let the rain win and have dinner at the hotel restaurant. Three British girls, who are sitting just by the stairs up to the terrace and talking with the most high pitch voices imaginable, are starting to get more and more wine into their systems. Once their food arrives, it doesn’t take long before the waiter is called back. Apparently there’s something wrong with the plates, or the food, or both, hard to get a grasp on really. Suddenly, and very unexpectedly, the food complaints drift over into something that, from where I sit, seems like flirting with the young waiter instead. I’m struggling to keep a straight face when the flirting hits it off big time with questions about his age and work and finally origin: Where are you from? Ah, your parents are from Thailand. How neat. Do you speak Chinese? Sigh. The Dutch guy at the other end of the terrace, who is pretending to focus on his iPhone just as hard as I am with my book, makes a strange choking noise. Luckily, I hadn’t had a sip of the white recently, or it would have been all over the table by now.

For some reason Tô nem ai is more quiet than usual, no one out on the sidewalk drinking and chatting, just the normal clientele inside with the standard semi shocked middle-aged tourist couples here and there. The couples that didn’t really have a look around before they ordered the food, and now they can’t leave because they’ve just ordered tonight’s dinner. For some reason the middle-aged husband normally looks more bothered than the wife. If it had been a warm and clear night, the street would have been packed all the way from Poste 8 to the bar with happy mingling guys.

After numerous days at the hotel, the staff seems more like your neighbours than strict waiters and waitresses at the posh restaurant – and this meant in a pure positive way. No raised eyebrows anymore when I arrange the sugar stand and olive oil container to keep my book open or when I decide to have dinner at more European hours than the Brazilian midnight style.

Just a few inches from me, but on the other side of the glass wall, a pair of lovebirds seems to have a romantic dinner enjoying the Asian goodies at one of the tables inside. The guy to the left with a big tattoo sticking out from his t-shirt sleeve and the guy to the right with a silly smile on his face and eyes lost somewhere in far away land.

In other words, just another ordinary Tuesday evening at Rua Farme de Amoedo in the marvellous city of Rio de Janeiro.

23/3 – Major milestone passed.

After some 12 years of training, without any major success or progress, I have now finally succeeded.

The catastrophic attempt about 9 years ago, when my very sporty friend and party companion for the evening, provided me with a very memorable challenge in attempt to improve my skills, is not yet forgotten – but at least less typical for my present abilities. On the question what I’d like to drink that Saturday night at the student bar, a very important three-letter word of the reply got totally lost. Instead of hearing “Anything, as long as it’s not in a cocktail glass.” My dear and happy mate went straight to the bar to order “Anything, as long as it’s in a cocktail glass.” Five minutes later, the complete drink, with about one centilitre exception that did actually enter my mouth, had been poured over my chin and dark grey sleeveless top. Not only was it a complete waste of a drink, but juicy drinks running down your neckline does not look very attractive, nor does melon size stains on your clothes. Someone else will have to fill you in regarding the rest of that night...

Since then, several attempts have been made with various tactics – being in totally sober condition, less sober condition, trying the slow-mo drinking speed, the one gulp strategy, one hand, two hands – not even using a straw seemed to help at the most desperate moments. With an approximate average fluid intake of about 50% for all the drinks I’ve tried to drink from cocktail glasses up until last week, I did not have very high expectations for the Vanilla Vodka, coconut water and menthe drink I was served at the veranda of ZaZa. But I made it, for the first time – ever. Not a single drop went anywhere but in my mouth, nothing on my t-shirt and nothing on my chin. All clean. Ok, the drink lasted for quite some time and I was like in my own little world focusing on the task. But I made it. Finally.

Since we’re on the subject of recreational substances, I thought I’d check out Lapa last weekend. And the Caipirinha lady is still as devoted as last year. A bit of upgrade of the signs and straws. Skewed handwritten and plain black ones have become colourful printed and yellow with paper pineapple decorations ones. But same place, same smile and most importantly, same beautiful drinks.

18/3 - Been there, done that.

Quite big – yup. A lot of concrete – tons. Packed with tourists – of course. Amazing view – probably. The weather forecast didn’t look too promising beforehand and Corcovado was as expected covered in clouds when I pulled the curtains at 06:10 on Saturday morning. Nope, that was not a typo, ten past six on a weekend morning. Friends with small children have the weirdest hours to work after and if you don’t want to hike alone, you better get out of bed early enough as well. 

Shouldn’t complain though, a later hike and visit to Cristo Redentor would have meant even hotter weather and even more tourists, so all good. We had a good hike up and I finally got to see one of the main tourist attractions in the city. Been there, done that. Need to come back on a clear day with fewer clouds though and perhaps even watch the sunset.

Once again, the Brazilian beach wear showed its versatility. I knew since before that Havaianas were great for hiking, but also Speedos are apparently part of the South American mountain outfits. You’ll be sweating like on the beach anyways, so I guess why not?

A couple of hours after getting back from the hike, I got a bit worried that I’d ended up in a Ghostbusters movie or had moved in at Hogwarts with Harry and Hermione. For a split second I thought I saw a ghost in the elevator. But no need to panic, it was just one of the British tourists staying at the hotel. He’d probably spent the whole morning applying the sun block, which as such wasn’t too bad of an idea but very sensible actually. The only risk with spending so much time preparing for the beach is that sometimes it will start raining while you’re busy with the pre-beach procedures…like it did that Saturday. 

10/3 – The Gringo Guide to Anti-Carnaval.

Or: The fine art of getting anything at all done during the crazy chaos.

Middle aged men with dummies in their mouth and wearing nothing but diapers with the text: “No no. Not pee on the street.” Twenty-something guys in neon bikinis and mini skirts, trying to make out with as many teenage-something girls as possible as they wonder the streets. Well-fed, healthy looking women, with bunny ears or blinking devil’s horns on their heads, who are taking the only opportunity of the year to be topless on the beach of Ipanema. Blocos, beer, samba rhythms and the most astonishing outfits imaginable.

This is what Rio, Brazil, and seemingly a considerate fraction of the rest of the world, have been waiting for since about the same time last year. "Let the party begin!" as many of my friends had as status update on Facebook on Sunday morning. The Swedish ones weren’t referring to the Brazilian samba event though, but the traditional Vasaloppet – a 90 km cross country ski race in the woods of Dalarna. Same same but different I guess.

There are tricks to get something else done but lingering around in colourful wigs with a drink in one hand and a whistle in the other, these days though. Tricks to get at least a couple of things done. And it’s all about timing – or mistiming perhaps.

Lagoa is never so quiet as early on a carnaval morning. But you need to time the morning run quite precisely. 7 am is too early; too many party people out still and the cleaning of the streets has just begun. However, if using gumboots for some extra resistance and gas mask for breathing, I guess 7 am is just as good as any other time. After 9 am it’s starting to get a bit hot, but still nice and quiet if you can stand the temperature. Also, if you’re considering buying coconut water along the way, you better wait until about now or there won’t be any chubby ladies to sell you any. 8 am is ideal; streets cleanish again, the carnaval crowd fast asleep and you can enjoy the pleasure of a deserted track around the lake.

After a shower and breakfast at about 10 am – after the tourists booked for early departure day tours and before the rest gets out of bed – it’s time for the beach.

Lunch shouldn’t be an issue and not shopping, walking on the beach front or looking around in general either. However, when it feels like you have to pass P, F and W on your way between A and B at some stage in the afternoon, it’s time to retract to the hotel room, or possibly the hotel terrace if your gringo skin can stand more sun. Now is the best opportunity to catch up on reading, writing e-mails, ironing, doing your nails (guys, feel free), re-arranging the photos from last years holidays and look into the tax return.

The trickiest mistiming of the day is dinner. The safest way to go would of course be to go for delivery of fast food of choice and preference, or sneak in the back way to the hotel restaurant. If you’re up for a slight challenge, you’ll fight the crowds to a nearby restaurant. But again – timing. If you go too early, you’ll be joining the full on bloco loving people who are having lunch before heading to Sambodromo. Slightly too late, ok much too late as of European dinner standards, you’ll be squeezed in by the more average party-pigs having their evening meal.

Last, but not least, to finalize the anti-carnaval day, make sure to have some quality earplugs at hand, or you can forget about sleeping and better get downstairs and join the party on the street. They won’t stop in another 7 hrs or so anyways.

At breakfast the next morning, the tourists are quickly recognised by the classic hangover expressions and sighs, combined with the nice crayfish red colour. It always comes as a surprise how easily too many drinks in combination with too many hours in the sun can cause this award-winning look. Last night’s drag queens cannot hide either since black eyeliner has always been impossible to remove properly from the base of your lashes the morning after. But hey, who would want to hide in a place like this anyways? And who on earth wouldn’t want to join the party of all parties?

6/3 - The Luckiest Person on the Planet.

Eight days of some amazing skiing quickly came to an end about a week ago. The main thing, which you can’t do anything about when on a skiing holiday – the weather and snow set-up – ended up being more perfect than I ever could have imagined. The first day with telemark boots on my feet in almost two years, gave me some of the best snow I’ve ever skied in. Then it just continued on the same path – constant snowfall and fresh powder every morning. Hard to see where I was going at times, but luckily there were plenty of trees to aim at if alternative methods to slow down were required. The forecast showed that the snow seemed to be keen to stay for the rest of the week, which made me hesitate a bit to go through with my initial plan of booking a backcountry guide for one of the days. Finally decided to go for it, worst thing that could happen was that I’d have another day of skiing in the clouds, just a more expensive one than skiing in the clouds at the ski resort. And what happened? As on order, the snowing had stopped overnight, the clouds were gone and I got a sunny, picture perfect Saturday in Teton Pass, with skiing the deepest powder I’ve ever experienced. As already stated, couldn’t have directed the weather in a better way even if I tried. 

The evenings in cowboy land were easily passed with newfound friends and good food. Buffalo steak and wine with Italians, beers and burgers with local pilots and photographers and an undefinable experience at The Bird with a bunch of Memphis boys. Located slightly out of town, the talkative owner is making sure that the hottest chicken wings and most innovative and fresh burgers in the area are served from his kitchen. And if you don’t feel like eating and drinking, just reading their menu would make the drive worthwhile.

The only place, which got a second visit throughout the week, was the excellent Italian style restaurant and wine bar Nani’s. Even James Franco and Anne Hathaway lost the battle for my attention to a bowl of fresh pistachio-orange and olive pasta and a glass of Italian white on the last night. Next time in town, I’ll also make sure to pay the Pearl St Meat & Fish Co a few more visits. A shop full of the nicest delicacies, proper coffee and a carrot cake from a different planet

Being sore, worn and tired, but on the pink skiing clouds still, the last day up the hill was a relaxed story. The proper camera got to come along and extra coffee breaks were easily fit in to enjoy the sunshine. It was also nice to see all the mountains and the stunning views around on the last day. Every now and then I ran into someone in the lift, who had their first day on skis and were just about to start their holiday. They were are lyric about the conditions, how good the snow was, all the good backcountry skiing and how few people were out. Didn’t have the heart to tell them that this was the busiest day people wise and poorest day snow wise we’d had in a week.

Left a Jackson Hole covered in high clouds, without any snowfall and without any sun - just grey, windy and cold – with some of the best skiing memories in my mind.

The world must really like me.

March 2011 Photos