On The Beach

Trip Start Aug 09, 2007
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21
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Trip End Jan 20, 2008


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Flag of Brazil  ,
Sunday, October 7, 2007

Nevil Shute. Neil Young. Chris Rea. And now me. Less post-nuclear than Nevil, though. Different Threads. More Chris Rea. Relaxed, to the point of coma. Oh yes.
The journey from Lima to Rio was easy. Back to Lima airport. I remember this place. Less of a wait this time - not trying to kill 8 hours at night. Check in. Head to the bar. But...it isn't there... What? It's only been four weeks. And they replace the bar with a shop selling bags, scarves, hats, etc. A sort of Accesorize, with more alpaca. This is no good. You can' drink a scarf. You could try, but it wouldn' be very refreshing. The fibres would stick in your throat. I had to go to one of those open plan cafe type places that are popular in airports. Central podium/counter. Tables surrounding it. Not as good. Much like a party I once attended, at which the host played all but one of his Joy Division 12 inch singles, there was no Atmosphere. It is always a sad event when a bar closes. To paraphrase Uncle Bob, It was only a crappy airport bar, but one more is gone. There should be more of them, not less. I once devised a plan to convert churches into bars. Well, not so much a plan, as it didn't go any further than thinking that churches should be converted into bars. No details. Not like Henry VIII and the monastaries. But you get the drift. They work well. Plenty of seating. Nice decor. Use the altar as the bar. There's one in Hull, I believe. I think I've been there. Although these things are invariably hazy. Especially with Hull. The Fish Trail - hunting for the golden prawn. The Sailmakers Arms, with its chipmunks. The Civil War era White Hart. And then onto Spiders, for Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters. I think the man from the Fine Young Cannibals owns a nightclub in Hull. Sillhouettes, maybe. Or another one. As I said, it's never clear.
So from Hull to Rio. Copacabana. And an enormous statue of Jesus, looking down on us. From a hill. The Hunchback. The name of the hill, that is. Not Jesus. At least not in this statue. I have been told I should go and touch the toe. It may cure gout. Or possibly baldness. But this is speculation, and I have no firm evidence for or against the idea.
Anyway, enough of this. I have to leave. To dance on the sand. Once more unto the beach, dear friends. And so on.
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