The amazing journey

I don’t sleep that well. Imagining all sorts of nightmare scenarios. This could work out very expensive. Dolores will not be happy if I have to fork out a couple of thousand euros for a stupid mistake. All of my own making.

Most of the judges have already left. Only a couple are around at breakfast. I would have my usual. Except that there’s no scrambled egg. Leaving my plate looking rather sad with just cheese. 

One of the staff brings out a plate from the kitchen for another guest. It’s scrambled egg. She notices me looking and gestures asking if I want some, too. I nod vigorously. Phew. Breakfast saved. If only that was my biggest worry.

I’m still doing some heavy-duty fretting. However I look at it, my chances of catching my Amsterdam flight don’t look great. Everything will have to run perfectly for me to be successful. Even the slightest delay could be disastrous. How often have I been on a flight that was 20 or 30 minutes late? Far too often for me to feel comfortable.

I check out at midday. And jump in an Uber to the airport.

It’s three hours until my first flight. I decide not to check in a bag. To make my exit from my arrival airport in Rio quicker. Just as well my check-in bag is small enough for hand baggage.

There are a couple of cafés and bars airside. I’m too stressed for alcohol. I want to keep a clear head, too. I get a baguette from the oddly-named Smell café. I think “aroma” is the word they were looking for.

You have to tick boxes on a form to say what fillings you want. Most of the options, I can’t understand. Which is why I end up with a boiled egg and red onion baguette.

Reassuringly, my flight is listed as on time. Now. Hopefully, that doesn’t change.

I read some Private Eye. And look at the Guardian website on my phone. I’m so modern, now. Just like one of those young people. Whose faces are permanently glued to their phones.

The flight is, indeed, on time. Even better, it’s a little early. Pulling away from the gate 10 minutes before the scheduled departure time. A good start. Still a long way to go, mind. I’m still feeling very stressed.

We arrive in Congonhas early, too. No air bridge, though. Meaning a bus ride to the terminal. My connecting flight is also out on the tarmac. Fortunately, the bus goes from the very next bay. That’s handy. My luck is holding.

I spend no time, really, between flights. And the second one also leaves early. Things are going about as well as they could. I let Jose know that I should be arriving on time. It’s still going to be tight. My heart is racing. Which is worrying.

As soon as we land in Rio, I message Jose. He’ll see me in arrivals.

With no checked-in bag, I walk straight to arrivals. It only takes us a couple of minutes to meet up. We climb into his car at 17:00. I feel relieved. Until Jose points out that the satnav estimates that it will take 53 minutes for the trip. Which is 57 minutes before my Amsterdam flight is scheduled to leave.

When does check in close for intercontinental flights? Forty minutes before departure? I hope so. If it’s an hour, I’m screwed.

The traffic is bad. We often slow almost to a standstill. The satnav estimates our arrival time at 19:53 or 19:54 for most of the journey. But as we get closer, it drops to 19:48. Which is exactly when we pull up at international departures.

I quickly find the KLM desk. It’s very quiet. And there’s a sign saying: “closed”. It doesn’t look good.

“Can I check in for the Amsterdam flight?”

“Yes, you’ve got a minute. Can I see your passport?”

Phew. As my bag rolls away on the conveyor belt relief rolls over me. That was way too fucking close. If we’d been stopped by one more red light, I’d have missed my flight. I’m glad that I didn’t know the cutoff time was 60 minutes. I’d have been worried sick the whole car ride.

That was far too much of an adventure. I get anxious enough just watching Race Around the World. I don’t want to live it.

Boarding has already started before I’m through security. It’s a long walk to my gate. With a couple of minutes’ delay at the duty free, I arrive at the gate 30 minutes before departure.

Once on board, I nip to the bogs to down a couple of miniatures I bought in the duty free. Just to calm my nerves. What a stressful day it’s been. Not one I’d like to repeat.

We take off pretty much on time. Just 10.5 hours and I’ll be back in Amsterdam.

A French-speaking couple sit next to me. They’ve brought McDonald's with them. KLM food isn’t great, but is it that bad?

The main meal – chicken with cheese on top – is surprisingly edible. One of the best meals I’ve had for a while on a KLM flight. Though that isn’t saying very much. The bar is barely at shoe-height.

I start watching some Mission Impossible nonsense. But doze off halfway.

I don’t sleep that well. I can’t really get comfortable. A couple of hours out from Amsterdam I give up and return to Mission Impossible. It hasn’t got any less ridiculous while I’ve been dozing.

The main part of breakfast is a bit weird. On the plus side, there’s some fruit. And coffee and orange juice.

When we arrive, I’m feeling pretty tired. Thankfully, I don’t have to piss around for too long in the airport.

When I roll up at home, Dolores opens the door. Of course, she has tea waiting for me. My first cup in over a week. It tastes so good.

 

Free in Uberlandia

No judging today. And no rush to get up. I rise a little after nine. Then go for brekkie. Happy enough, once more, just to have made it to another day. I no longer take waking up for granted.

Jose and a few others are there. I sit with them and chat. While eating my usual breakfast. Scrambled eggs and the white cheese. Followed by fruit. Can’t forget the fruit.

Jose offers to pick me up from the airport in Rio tomorrow. Which is nice. And take me out for some food and beer. That's dead cool. He’s such a nice bloke. It’s been great spending time with him.

Even after three coffees I feel rather knacked. I consider going back to bed. But instead fiddle on my laptop.

There is an excursion to a coffee plantation today. But, as the start time was stupid o’clock, I gave it a miss. I simply couldn’t be arsed to get up that early. The only other thing on the agenda is the awards ceremony this evening. A free day. Yippee!

My plan is to take things easy. Very easy. I could go out for lunch. What are my nearby options? Mostly buffets. I’m a bit buffeted out. Instead, I think I’ll have a wander to the supermarket and pick up some cheese and salami.

It’s an interesting walk. A bit downhill. Along some really crap and uneven pavements. You could easily do yourself an injury, if you weren’t paying attention. Especially if it’s a bit icy. Then I remember. Not much chance of ice here. Not unless there’s a nuclear war or massive meteor strike. In those cases, I’ll have more pressing worries than an icy pavement.

Not the largest of supermarkets. It does have all the stuff I need. Along with the aforementioned supplies, I buy rolls, bananas and cola. The latter I need to mix with the gut-rot cachaça I brought from Rio.

Luckily, the road only gets really steep past the supermarket. I really can’t be doing with hills anymore. That’s what decades of living surrounded by the Dutch mountains gets you. The only inclined surfaces at home are the approaches to bridges. A rise of no more than a couple of metres.

I play around on my laptop. Doing a bit of writing. And lots of looking at crap on the internet. It's so cold in the room, that I'm wearing my jacket. I can't seem to turn the ac up. Or is it down? Make it fucking warmer in here, that's what I mean.

The gut-rot cachaça is, er, rotting my gut. That’s annoying. Typical that I feel crap on my day off.

It doesn’t get better as evening rolls around. Think I’ll give the awards ceremony a miss. They’re quite stressful – lots of standing up and deafening noise – at the best of times.

Looking at my email, I notice one from KLM. Asking if I want to check in. That’s a bit early. It’s 48 hours until I fly.

At least, that’s what I thought. It seems my flight is booked for tomorrow, 4th March. Didn’t I book it for the 5th? That’s what it says in the document with all my trip details. I originally planned to return on the 4th. But when I changed my departure date to a day later, the KLM site automatically shifted my return to a day later, too. Or that’s what I thought.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Fuck. How on earth could I get that so wrong?

Will I be even able to make it? My Amsterdam flight leaves at 20:50. And I don’t get into Rio until 18:50. At the other airport. The domestic one. Two hours for the transfer is really tight. Any sort of delay will completely bugger me.

To make matters worse, I have two flights to get to Rio. With quite a tight connection in Sao Paolo. Lots of room for delays. One of as little as ten minutes could ruin everything.

I message Jose that I won’t be able to meet him for drinks tomorrow. Kindly, He offers to give me a lift between the airports.

According to Google maps, it takes twenty minutes by car between the airports. Even if it’s half an hour, I should be OK. Should be.

I start to do some industrial scale worrying. What the fuck do I do if I miss my flight to Holland? Would I be able to rebook onto the next day’s flight? How much would that cost me? Where would I stay in Rio? As I’ve already cancelled my hotel.

Maybe I could change my flight from Uberlandia to an earlier one. No. GOL only have the one flight a day. Maybe another airline.

I look at Azul. They want around 500 euros for a single. And the times are no better. A Latam flight would be earlier. However, they want 1,200 euros. What the fuck? That’s more than I paid to fly from Amsterdam to Rio and back.

I do some more worrying. Then go to bed. 

 

 

A video report about my time in Uberlandia.

Still judging

I rise at 6:30 feeling much better than yesterday. After a solid eight hours of kip. It’s amazing what a good sleep can do. Just waking up is a positive at my age. You never know when it may not happen. I’m downstairs by 7:15.

I have my usual breakfast. Call me Mr. Boring. I don’t care. It’s what I want to eat. And I’ll fucking eat it. That’s the great thing about being old. Not really having to give a fuck what anyone thinks.

I’m sitting with Jose. The chat turns to yeast with the bloke on the next table who has a yeast company. I meet such interesting people at these things. And learn interesting stuff. In the Anglosphere, the discussion rarely turns to South American beer. A shame.

For me, it’s one of the most interesting regions of the beer world. Lots of very enthusiastic people trying out lots of stuff. Some of which works. Like Catherina Sour, which I think is a wonderful style. So drinkable. And so lovable.

Back over at Überbräu, I’m on the same judging table as yesterday, with Suzanne and Alan. I’m happy with that. We rattled through the flights yesterday. Coming to a consensus without much argument. Which saves much time. And annoyance. Especially annoyance. The last thing I need is extra stress.

In charge of beer service is Matteo. A livelily friendly young man. With whom I chatted a bit at the barbecue yesterday.

Lots of flights this morning. Fortunately, mostly very small flights.

We start with fruited wheat. Just two samples. Both pretty good.

Scotch Ale. One sample. Pretty nice. A perfect breakfast beer. 

American Pale Ale. Six samples. Loads of hops.

Session IPA Not the greatest flight. Lots of oxidation. One or two decent ones.

Dorada Pampeana. One Sample. A type of beer from Argentina. Lucky that we have an Argentinian on the table to explain it to us.

Dutch-style Koyt. One sample. Pretty decent.

German-style Rye Ale. One sample. Tastes right to me. Quite similar to the Thurm und Taxis Roggebier.

We finish at 11:00. Or, rather, we think we do. Matteo gets us one more flight.

Wood and Barrel-aged beers. Six samples, three of which are based on Wee Heavy. The Wee Heavies are so good, I finish all of them. Just to get me in the mood for lunch. My plan works.

We finish at 11:42. A victory for common sense.

Lunch isn’t at the judging location today. We’re whisked off to a restaurant, Boca e Uva, in taxis. At first, I think we’re going back to the hotel, when we pull into the street it’s on. In fact, we’re headed to a place just a little past it. 

It’s a buffet, obviously. This is Brazil and it is lunchtime. A bit more choice than on other days. It’s OK. I get some meat and some salad. Which pretty much describes what I always collect from a buffet. And an orange juice to wash it down.

After lunch, there’s a real treat. Non-alcoholic beers. Six samples. All three sour styles are pretty good. With the Catharina Sour the pick of the bunch. The best non-alcoholic beer I’ve ever drunk. Which may be quite a low bar. Or was. It’s been raised considerably now.

That was much better than expected. Some flights of alcoholic beers were far worse. Not sure what that tells us.

There’s then a long wait for the pre-BOS. Like two fucking hours. Such fun sitting and sweating. Watching Match of the Day helps pass a little time.

I’m doing the pre-BOS of English styles with fellow Dutchman Ferry Wijnhoven. At 16:50. Just four beers arrive:

British-style IPA
Special Bitter
Dark Mild
Robust Porter.

This should be nice and quick. Oh no, that was a mistake. It's actually 14 beers. Fuck.

It does turn out to be fairly painless. Only complicated by the fact that most of the beers are excellent. I quite like the English IPA and the Dark Mild. Though we settle on the Imperial Stout as the winner. It’s a lovely beer.

We’re done at 17:18. And I can fuck off back to the hotel. Totally knacked again.

I have some time to relax in my room. Which I really fucking need. Excuse the swearing. I’m feeling stressed. Weirdly, the hanging around seems to take more out of me than the judging. 

That should be the last stress of the trip. No more judging. Just a couple of days relaxing to come.

Some judges are going to the Madero steakhouse tonight. I decide to tag along.  I could do with some more meat. Can’t remember the last time I ate some. It’s so hard to get hold of here in Brazil.

I bump into Tina Rogers outside the hotel. She’s headed the same way. We share an Uber. 

The restaurant is in a shopping centre. Most of the others haven't arrived when we get there. It’s fairly spacious. Reasonably posh. And not very full.

For a while just Tina and me sit on a large table. Drinking caipirinhas, as they don't have any decent beer. And I like drinking caipirinhas. Who doesn’t? Weirdos, that’s who.  Anyway, I’ve had enough of beer after the last couple of days.

There are ten of us eventually. A very international bunch, a mix of South Americans and Europeans. Which is always fun. One of the reasons I enjoy judging so much, mixing with people from diverse locations. The main reason I love it, now I come to think of it. The actual judging can be as much fun as sandpapering your bollocks.

I order a picanha steak and chips. Medium rare, of course. It's very tasty. And goes well with a caipirinha. Well, anything goes well with a caipirinha. Even better with two caipirinhas. Or three. Or four. Any number, really.

We stay until around 10:15, then get Ubers back to the hotel.

I don't stay up long. Even though I can sleep in tomorrow. Just a quick draught of gut-rot cachaça to push me down the hill to unconsciousness.



Madero Steak House Uberlândia
Av. João Naves de Ávila, 1331
Tibery, Uberlândia
MG, 38408-902.
https://www.restaurantemadero.com.br/pt/restaurante



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

Back home

The kids keep taking the piss out of me for not learning any Portuguese. Totally incorrectly.

“I know enough.”

“Like what?” Andrew asks.

“Sanitarios? The question mark in the tone is important.”

“Obviously.”

“And knowing where the bogs are is vital when you’re an oldie like me.”

“I don’t need to know that, Dad.”

“Carvalha. That’s oak.”

“Any non-alcohol-related words.” 

“Morango. Strawberry.”

“That’s something that was added to a beer, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“Learnt any new words that aren’t a fruit or type of food?”

“Er.”

“Got nothing?”

“Mandioca. Cassava.”

“Also in a beer?”

“No.“

“Part of a meal?”

“Possibly. That’s three new words. You should be congratulating me.”

“That’s not even a word a day.”

“Caju. Cashew.”

“You already knew that one.”

“I haven’t told you to fuck off yet, have II?”

“I’ve a feeling you’re about to, aren’t you?

“If it’s that obvious, I’ve no need to.”

“Right.”

“Tapioca. That’s a new one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tapioca.”

“So the same as in English?”

“Yes. Still counts as a new word.”

“Even though it’s exactly the same as the English word?”

“Yes. It isn’t pronounced exactly the same.”

“You just did.”

“Because I’m not a native Portuguese speaker.”

“I’m going to say it now.”

“What?”

“Fuck off, Dad.”

“I’m glad you said it and not me.”

We have such inspiring conversations. 

Lots more judging

I rise at 6:30 after a shit sleep. A shower livens me up a little. A little.

A coffee helps some, too. But I only get the one before the coffee machine breaks. Bum.

My breakfast main course is scrambled egg and cheese once more. I’m sitting with Jose again.

“I see you’re trying the white cheese. Do you like it?” He asks.

“Yes. Much better than the yellow stuff.”

Which it is.  Like cottage cheese formed into a solid lump. Still very soft. The yellow cheese is very plasticy. And pretty tasteless.

The judges’ bus is at 8:00 again. Sort of. It’s close enough. We’re in South America, after all. No point in getting hung up on exact timings.

I’m on table 7 today. Where Suzanne Schalow is captain. The other judge is Alan Iglesias, a brewer from Argentina.

We start with a mini-BOS of American Malt Liquor. A couple of OK ones. Quite an alcoholic start to the day. Not totally sure about what a Malt Liquor is. Other than a strongish Pale Lager.

Our scores are quite a long way apart. With mine being particularly low. I’m rather a mean scorer. If beers have faults, which many do I’m pretty ruthless.

More Lager next. Slightly weaker stuff: Dortmunder Export. There are a couple of pretty good ones. Rather surprisingly. Pale Lagers are difficult to get right. And quite fragile. Which isn’t great when beer isn’t kept refrigerated the whole time.

We jump up in strength again. With Double IPA. Pretty good generally. With a couple of outstanding beers. Though they’re quite hard on my tastebuds.

There’s no letting up on the strength: English Barley Wine. A couple of real crackers in this set. As I can’t stand wasting good beer, I finish off the best samples.

American Imperial Porter. Another really good flight.

Lunch. I’m not particularly hungry. Not surprising, given all the big, chewy beers I’ve tasted this morning. At least we kept up a good pace. We got through five decent-sized flights. Have we caught up yet? Probably not. I eat some stuff simply as ballast rather than with any great joy.

Back to judging. Fuck. It’s Irish Red Ale. Even less fun to judge than non-alcoholic beers. The six or seven times I’ve judged them, I’ve never had one that was even half decent. This lot aren’t quite as terrible as usual. A couple are almost drinkable. Almost. Out of twelve samples.

Czech Dark Lager. four samples, one quite good.

Followed by an hour wait. Then more flights in quick succession.

Belgian style Witbier. six samples. Some OK ones.

Wild Beer. five samples. Mostly with Brettanomyces. Quite a difficult flight to judge.

West Coast IPA. Eleven samples. Eleven fucking samples! After all the strong beers we’ve judged today. My palate has gone. They all taste the same. Which I hate. I always want to do justice to the beers I’m judging. I defer to the other judges.

I've already packed away my laptop, when we're asked to judge another flight. Aargh. I thought I'd escaped. Fuck. Luckily, it’s a very small flight. Of a style so obscure, even I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.

Breslau-Style Schoeps. Two samples.

And we’re really done. Just to make sure, I pack up quickly and head for the exit. Don’t want them dragging me into judging yet another flight.

I'm so fucking knacked. We’ve judged so many beers today. And lots of strong ones. I never want to drink beer again. I’m so done with it. I just want to drink some cachaça and sleep.

Back at the hotel, I'm tempted to skip the barbecue at Captain Brew and just get some food from the supermarket. Then I see that it isn't open. I'd forgotten it was Sunday. Barbecue it is, then.

I'm half way through arranging an Uber when another judge asks me if I want a lift. That's handy.

There's the lovely smell of cooking meat when I enter. That perks me up a bit. I get myself an IPA. One brewed here. It’s perfectly fine. Hitting the spot without pummelling it to death. With enough alcohol to keep my interest.

I’m offered a taste of Einbecker Maibock which a German judge has brought over. Then a Bayerischer Bahnhof Gose. 

"It's not sour enough." I complain. As usual. I can be a real pain in the arse. I should learn to keep my gob shut. Particularly when people are giving me beer.

I find myself a seat. because, well, I'm well knacked. Platters of meat appear. And are quickly consumed.

I get chatting to Matteo, who’s been organising the beers for our judging table. A really nice bloke, full of energy. As young people tend to be.

Someone brings around Paraguayan rum. Which is very nice. And nicely alcoholic.

I leave a little after 21:00. Back in the hotel, I sip dodgy cachaça and watch the rest of Match of the Day. And crash out not much after 10. I need sleep.



Captain Brew
R. Marieta de Castro Santos, 135
Altamira, Uberlândia
MG, 38411-004.



Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia. 

 

A video of my time in Uberlandia. 

Judging day

I rise at 6:30. Feeling just about human. And quickly head downstairs. As I want to have a leisurely breakfast. At my age, everything takes a long time. The bus to the judging is scheduled for 8:00.

I sit with Jose. No bacon, so it's scrambled egg and cheese. Which fills a hole. And three cups of coffee wake me up. A bit. 

“Have you tried the white cheese?” Jose asks.

“Do you mean this?” I reply, pointing at the rather anaemic yellow squares on my plate.

“No, the really white cheese. It’s local. Very fresh.”

I check the cheeses when fetching my fruit. There is, indeed, some very white stuff. I’ll have to try that tomorrow. Always good to expand my cheese horizons. Melon and watermelon provide all the fruity goodness I need. Along with orange juice.

The buffet selection isn’t that bad. Other than the absence of bacon. Lots for the cake-eater.

The bus leaves fairly well on time. To Überbräu, another brewery taproom. This time on an industrial estate.

I’m on table 13. That’s lucky. With table captain Tedesko Almeida (from Brazil) and Lisa Matzeu (from Italy).

After a short introduction from Doug Merlot, including a stern reminder not to throw bog paper into the bogs, we’re ready to rock. And rock we immediately do. This is great. No pointless hanging around without beer to judge.

We kick off with American-style Light Lager. Now there’s a style to cheer the soul. The examples vary between fatally flawed and just about acceptable. I'm glad when we're done.

Looking forward to the next set, which is Catherina Sour. Except they don't seem to have them ready. We have a wait. Which becomes a long wait. So frustrating. And likely to leave us finishing rather late. We have to judge 50-60 beers today. After two hours, we've only judged eight. I have visions of us judging into the night.

We wait so long, that lunch rolls around. Which is, surprisingly, a buffet. Quite a small one Not particularly great for the vegetarians. Who have a choice of stodge or salad. Even some of the vegetable dishes seem to contain meat.

Not long after lunch, a second flight appears. Not Catherina Sour, as promised. Instead, it’s Belgian-style Dubbel. A type of beer I’ve drunk quite a bit of. All are a bit sweet for me, but there are a couple of really decent beers. With enough alcohol to rouse my spirits.

There’s a bit more waiting before the next flight arrives. Catharina Sour. One I’d been looking forward to. As usual, some lovely beers. And all are pretty decent. It’s a wonderful style. So drinkable, while still being packed with vibrant flavours.

After lots more doing nothing, it’s announced that we’re done for the day. At 16:00, after only judging three of our scheduled six flights. While it’s nice to finish early, it just means more work tomorrow. As we try to catch up.

I rest a bit in my room, before heading downstairs at 18:00. The plan is to go to the Trema brewery. But a group of people are going first to Bar do Rone for some meat. I decide to tag along. Good Brazilian meat isn’t to be missed.

When I arrive, the others are already there. It’s an unpretentious Brazilian neighbourhood restaurant, very simply decked out. And pretty busy. Which is a good sign. I pull up a chair.

The meat is delicious pork. With a wonderfully crunchy crust. It comes in a big lump which is sliced by a waiter at the table. Yum, yum, yum. I accompany it with a passion fruit caipirinha. Which is also yummy.

There’s a bottle of posh cachaça on the table. Not sure where it came from. However, it would be impolite to refuse a shot. It’s very nice. As I knew it would be. Don’t ask me describe it. Other than that it’s full of cachaça-ey goodness.

The plan is to continue on to Trema. But I'm feeling knacked. Instead, I return to the hotel. Where I chug some cheapo cachaça. And start watching Match of the Day.

After 20 minutes, I'm done and turn in. Tomorrow will be a long day. Lots of beers to judge.


Überbräu Microcervejaria
Av. Espanha, 391
Tibery, Uberlândia
MG, 38405-048.
https://uberbrau.com.br/


Bar do Rone
Av. Seme Simão, 1399
Laranjeiras, Uberlândia
MG, 38410-327.


Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia.

 

A video of my time in Uberlandia. 

Why are you still travelling?

Dolores has asked that more than once.

I asked it myself last week, when I had an incredibly stressful journey back from Brazil. All my own fault. 

 My answer: social contact.

The older you get, the harder it is to either meet new people. Or hang onto the ones you already know. As they drift off geographically, spiritually or physically. 

My international beer gigs are a great opportunity to socialise. Meet old friends. Make new ones. Pretend that I'm still a student. 

That's it, really.Pretending to be young again. If only for a couple of days.  

Another video of Brazil

 Me in Uberlandia in Minas Gerais, Brazil, , where I judged the Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas.

Uberlandia bound

I rise just after 7:00. And, after my morning ablutions, go downstairs for breakfast.

It's the same as yesterday: scrambled egg and bacon. Along with coffee and orange juice. Plus fruit, of course. Wouldn’t want to skimp on the vitamins. Or the bacon. It may be the last I get on this trip. Best double up.

The other guests all seem to be Brazilian. Beach bound most of them, based on their dress. This is a handy spot. For the beach and everything else.  A really nice spot. Which is why I’m here and not wasting my money on a Copacabana beachfront room. Probably their motivation, too. Not a lot of business travellers, by the look of it. Just me. Sort of.

Just after 9:00 I get an Uber to the airport. Santos Dumont, not the international airport where I arrived. I’m off to Uberlandia. Weird name, I know. Strangely German. Sort of. In Minas Gerais. A new state for me.

Once out of Ipanema, we skirt Copacabana beach for a while. Hunking hotels looming over the beach. Which doesn’t look that inviting in this weather. Overcast and rather blustery. Like midsummer in Mablethorpe. But double the temperature.

On the way to departures, I notice that the bloke in front of me looks familiar. It's one of Brazilian judges, Jose Padilha. We’ve been at competitions together a few times. We sit together while waiting for our flight to board. 

I spotted someone in a Cantillon top earlier. After Jose posts a photo of me and him on the judges’ WharsApp group, Cantillon bloke comes over with his wife and introduces himself. He’s from Italy. Later a Mexican judge also joins us.

Our connecting flight in Sao Paulo leaves the gate on time, but then queues on the tarmac for ages. We take off twenty minutes late. The flight itself is uneventful.

Once we’ve picked up our bags, me, Jose and the Italian judge and his wife share an Uber to the hotel.

“Uberlandia is very different to Rio.” Jose remarks as we make our way along bumpy roads, flanked by random buildings of random heights.

That’s very true. Much more modern. And rambling. A lot less charming, too. With a busy four-lane road right through the middle of it.

The hotel is a bit grotty. And has a brown toilet. How weird is that? I suppose it hides shit stains well. There is a fridge. Where I stash what’s left of my cheese.

I have a few hours to myself. Warming myself up for the evening with the last of my hotel whisky. There are no glasses in the room. Another sign that it’s not the poshest of hotels. I have to mix in a coke bottle and drink from that. I feel so classy.

The bus for the judges’ dinners leaves at 19:00. Supposedly. This is Brazil. No way it will leave before 19:20.

Lots of familiar faces are waiting in the lobby. Which is cool. Plenty of people to chat to. And I’m a pretty chatty bloke. When the topic is beer. Then it’s hard to shut me up. Especially if I get going on the colour of Mild Ale. You’ll be lucky f I pause in the next three hours. Such a enthralling subject..

The dinner is at Captain Brew, a taproom. In quite a plush neighbourhood. The interior is fairly cavernous. As these places tend to be. With the brewhouse at the rear behind glass.

There’s a buffet. What a surprise. They so rarely have buffets in Brazil. Not really. I’d best get used to it. The first of many, I’m sure. I get myself some beef and cheese. Seems like a balanced meal. Colour-wise, at least. 

I have an IPA. There’s original. Not that there are loads of options. Rather an IPA than a Lager. Hops will cover up some nastiness that’s totally exposed in a Pils. And it’s stronger. Just love me those ABVs.

More cheese is eaten And IPA is drunk. It’s very good. The cheese, I mean. The IPA is OK. The cheese is something special. A cheese corner is home to several different types. Local artisanal stuff. Easily the best cheese I’ve had in Brazil. And, as everyone knows, you can never have too much cheese.

There’s plenty of chat, obviously. I talk to the Silvia de Tomas, from Peru, about writing, A topic I know a little about. I hope. I’ve written a lot of books. Volume counts for something, surely? Best not mention that. If number of words were the sole criterion, I’d be the best beer writer in the world.

I sit next to Suzanne and Kate, whom I’ve met a few times over the years. More than I’ve been able to forget. Back during my first trip to Boston, when Pretty Things held an event in their bottle shop. My biggest memory being how fucking expensive the Starbucks Dann bought for me was. The price of 3 Abts in Ton Overmars. 

Thankfully, the bus back to the hotel isn’t too late. I can’t be doing with late nights. Especially when I need to be up early in the morning. And need a clear head for judging.

I do have a small nightcap. Of gut-rot cachaça. I have to get someone at reception to open the bottle for me. It doesn’t have a screw top, as you might expect. Instead, a plastic top that needs to be cut off with a knife.

Soon slumber summons me. How can I refuse?


Captain Brew
R. Marieta de Castro Santos, 135
Altamira, Uberlândia
MG, 38411-004.


Disclaimer: Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas paid for my hotel, some meals and some drinks during my stay in Uberlandia.
 

Rio relaxing

I rise at 8:30. Potter around a bit, then nip downstairs for breakfast.

It's not a bad buffet. I go for bacon and scrambled egg. Followed by fruit. I'm such a healthy chap.

I wander to the supermarket to stock up on essentials: salami and cachaca. Two litres. I'll be needing that in Uberlandia. And am not quite sure where I could pick up some there. Or when I’ll have the chance. It’s not exactly the best stuff. Far from it. Not a cachaca you’d want to drink straight.

The weather isn’t great. It’s cloudy and threatening to rain. Not really beach weather. And only around 25º C.

I laze around in my room for a while. I'm in no rush. Around 13:30 grab an Uber and head for Copacabana and Colarinho. A bar that I rather like.

We roll through leafy Ipanema streets. Bustling businesses and apartment blocks. Chemists. So many chemists. Almost as many as in Paris.

I always try to drop by Colarinho when I’m in Rio. Grabbing a table outside. Where I’ve a good view of the street. There aren’t quite as many beautiful people walking past as usual. Though some still wander by in beachwear. 

What to start with? I think I’ll go for an IPA.

Colarinho IPA Maracuja, 7.5%, R$23.90
A bit hazy, but not too bad. Quite nicely fruity and not too bitter. Quite dank and quite alcoholic. Just like me (I keep making that joke.)

They’re still building opposite. How long have they been doing that? At least a couple of years. I doesn’t seem to have progressed at all since I was here with the kids in 2024.

This is my only real rest day. I did consider going to the beach. Then I saw what the weather was like. I don’t really fancy sitting on the sand in the rain.

I first came here with Martyn Cornell in 2020. On my first trip to Brazil. I’ve visited pretty much every time I’ve been in Rio since. It reminds me of Martyn, which brings up mixed emotions. Still hard to believe that he’s been gone almost a year.

Time for another beer. Maybe an IPA, for a change?

Noi Amara IPA, 10.5% ABV, 100 IBU, R$30.90 (450 ml)
Pretty sure I’ve had this before. I wonder what attracted me to it? I remember: the high ABV. Funny that. It’s quite dark and caramelly. Also, pretty bitter. As you’d expect from the name. 

Not bad. And very alcoholic. Did I mention that? Probably not. I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing.

It’s not that warm. Did I already mention that, too? Barely warm enough to wear shorts. Which I’m obviously wearing. As I will be all the time I’m in Brazil.

The bloke on the next table is getting stuck into caipirinhas. He’s knocked back three or four since I’ve been here. I’ll be moving onto them later.

I’m feeling all relaxed now. Can’t think why. I just ordered a 57 real steak. Bargain. I don’t get anything to go with it. It’s a 100% meat meal.

A woman just walked past wearing a Nottingham Forest shirt. How strange. Most people are in Flamengo tops.

The steak is excellent. As they always are in Brazil. The beef is so good here. Just a shame about all the rainforest. Time for a caipirinha now. My first of the trip. I’m sure it won’t be my last.

You know what a caipirinha puts me in the mood for? Another caipirinha. Which is what I order. This is my idea of fun. Sitting in a Rio bar, drinking caipirinhas and with absolutely fuck all I need to do.

Still a bit hungry, I order a cod ball. Because I know from previous visits how nice they are. Full of coddy goodness. It doesn’t disappoint.

A French family, on their way back from the beach, order takeaway hamburgers. The adults drinking a Pils while they wait for their order.

I leave around 17:30. Before it gets dark. And when I’ve had enough caipirinhas to warm me up. I have nothing planned for the evening. Other than attacking my hotel whisky and fiddling on my laptop. 

I find that the maid has left the TV on. A bit odd. As there must be a reason, I don’t switch it off.

I turn in around 23:00. As I have to be up fairly early tomorrow for my flight. After I’m urged unconscious by whisky.


Boteco Colarinho Escondido
R. Francisco Otaviano, 30
Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro
RJ, 22080-040 

 

Flying down to Rio

I've fairly early start. my flight is at 10:40. I rise at 6:45. And am in an Uber by 8:05.

The formalities go pretty fast tanks to pushing in boarding. And after a quick diversion to the duty free, I'm in the lounge by 8:30.

It's the standard brace of whiskies to kick off. Along with some breakfast. It's the best meal of the day in the lounge. The hash browns are pretty nice. Not so keen on the turkey bacon. I prefer the real stuff. Which is full of piggy goodness.

For some reason, I thought the scrambled egg was potato salad on my first visit to the food bar. WTF was I thinking? Next time I get myself a plain omelette. And insert some cheese. Cheese improves anything.

I revisit the bar bar a couple of times for more restorative whiskies. Wouldn’t want to be getting on the plane too sober.

There's no air bridge, for some reason. We have to get a bus. Which is weird for such a large jet. And lots of stairs to walk up. Always a challenge for fat oldies like me.

Boarding is competed pretty early. I’m hoping to get two free seats next to me. But right, just before the doors close, two young blokes take the seats. They're obviously on stand-by. And, judging by the way they interact with the cabin crew, seem to be KLM employees. Probably cabin crew themselves.

That's fucked me trying to surreptitiously drink the miniatures I bought in the duty free. Then, just before take-off, they're moved to premium economy. Phew.

Just before take-off, we're told that there will be a half hour delay due to a "miscommunication". Great. It's more like 40 minutes. Brilliant. Though the pilot claims we'll still arrive on time. I’ll believe that when it happens.

The first meal is meatballs. It's just about edible. Though I can't stomach the mash. It’s good to have low expectations of airplane meals.

I start watching Infinite Vice. Which is sort of like the Big Lebowski. But not quite as good. Half way through, I pause it and doze for a couple of hours. It makes the time go quicker.

I nip to the galley a couple of times to fetch some red wine. I wouldn't want to become dehydrated during the flight, would I?

It's a long walk to immigration again. At least there are moving walkways for most of it. With my oldie priority, I'm through in a jiffy.

My bag pops out quickly. And soon I'm in a taxi bouncing towards Ipanema. Through a darkened Rio, lights glistening on the hillsides. Motorbikes weave scarily through the traffic. We dash through floodlit tunnels. Finally, rumbling into the rumbaing streets of Ipanema. Where shops glow enticingly. Cafés and bars spilling joyously onto the pavement.

God, I love Rio. Especially Ipanema. That could explain why I come here so often.

Same hotel as always. Comfortable enough rooms. Great location. Pretty decent buffet breakfast, which includes bacon. Crispy bacon. Mmmm.

Once checked in, I nip to the supermarket. It isn’t even a block away. (See what I said about the hotel’s location?) For bread rolls, cheese, sliced meat and cola. The latter to mix with my whisky. That’ll be my tea. The rolls and stuff, not the whisky. That’s supper.

The meat section is impressive. Big chunks of lovely beef. I stare longingly at the display for a while. Before moving on to the cheese. A far less impressive display. I’ve been spoilt by living in Holland.

I consider dropping by Mad Brew for a beer or two. Just consider. I don’t actually do it. As it’s getting late. And the pubs are looking pretty crowded. With happy, young people. Pretty much the opposite of me. I don’t want to bring down the tone.

I spend the next couple of hours watching YouTube. And sipping my whisky. Until sleep beckons me from across the void. Hello oblivion.
 

Rio by the sea-o

A short video report of my time in Rio de Janeiro recently.

My 2025: beers

This going to be a tricky one. As I didn't drink that much beer this year. Or many different types of beer. Which may surprise you.

Rather than a crate of St. Bernardus Abt per week, I got through little more than one for the whole year. I bought 13 bottles for Christmas 2024. And still had four bottles left six months later. Nonetheless, Abt remained one of the best beers I drank all year. Sweet, malty and warming. Lovely stuff.

I quite enjoyed Noi Amara Imperial IPA, at a refreshing 10% ABV, when in Rio. A lovely breakfast beer, full of bitterness and, happily, pretty sludge-free.

There was also an excellent English IPA in Brazil, but I drank it while judging and so have no idea what the beer was. A shame, as I would happily drink it again. And let you know its identity, too. I judged a really good Lichtenhainer, too. Fuck knows what that was, either.

Obvoiuusly, Cooper's was dead good in Adelaide. Cask Castlemaine XXXX was very drinkable, too. And I usually fucking hate Australian Lager. Which was confirmed by an undrinkable Carlton Draught in Marvel Stadium in Melbourne. (Best toilets ever in a stadium.)

On the bus driving the judges around in Singapore after judging, I had a left-over competition beer that was pretty good. A Chinese-brewed IPA of some sort. Very nice. That I was dead thirsty and it was free may have influenced my evalaution.

In Maidstone in October, the one beer I drank was a beautiful pint of Harvey's Sussex Best. If looked after, it's a killer pint. Packed with character. All beer used to be like this.

In October I bought some Dutch Bok. A six pack of Amstel and another of Brand Doppelbock. The Amstel was as reliably good as ever. It's the classic Dutch Bok, rich and malty. And wonderful value for money. 

Think that was boring. Wait until you get to the next post on pubs. 

South America here I come

Just starting to get my travel plans for next year sorted out. Well, trips in the early part of the year, at least.

In February/March I'll be judging the Concorso Brazileiro de Cervejas. As usual. I've judged there since 2020. It's always good fun. I's no longer in Blumenau. This year's location is Uberländia in the state of Minas Gerais. Which will be interesting as I've never been to that part of Brazil. And I should get to meet all my Brazilian chums again. Only downside: it's a long way from a beach.

As usual, I'll have a couple of days in Rio on the way in. I do love Rio. And I won't be there during carnival this year. What's more relaxing than chilling out in Ipanema for a while? Sipping a 75cl caipirinha on the beach.

In April it's the turn of the Copa ACI in Santiago, Chile. Organised by my good mate Chris Flaskamp. Santiago is a pretty cool city. And, of course, there's the Républica Independiente del Pisco. One of my favourite bars anywhere in the world.

I've also a couple of Spring gigs in Germany. In March I'll be giving a couple of talks at the Heimbrau Convention in Romrod. Where I'll be staying in an amazing gothic castle.

At the Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt in Essen, I'll be giving a talk on the history of IPA in April. Where there will be several historic IPAs to lubricate my dusty lecture.

I'm always up for a bit of judging and or talking. Especially outside Europe. Feel free to shower me with invitations. Unless you're in the USA. I think I'll be giving that a miss for the next couple of years. 

Flying home

I rise at 7:30. Planning to eat breakfast, finish packing and then grab an Uber.

Despite being a good boy yesterday, I’m feeling quite tired. Some coffee livens me up a bit.  And I get some energy from scrambled egg, cheese and ham. And orange juice, of course.

A breakfast of scrambled egg, cheese, ham, orange juice and coffee.

I’ve still got a fair amount of hotel cachaça left. I decant it into a half-empty cola bottle. Het presto – an Uber drink.

By the time I’ve checked out, it’s 8:45. I have a bit of a wait for an Uber. But I’ve plenty of time. My flight isn’t until 11:35.

The traffic is quite heavy. We slow almost to a standstill at certain points. Especially where there are road works. But we always soon get going again. I’m in no great hurry. I’ve left loads of time. Because I’d rather hang around for an hour than have to rush.

Swigs of my special cola drink help keep me calm. So calm that I start nodding off. Now there’s an oldie way to start the day. Falling asleep just after getting up.

It’s well before 10 when we roll up at Navegantes airport.

It doesn’t take long to check in my bag. What to do now? That looks quite a nice café. And I’m still feeling a bit knacked. A nice cappuccino should do nicely. It’s so nice, I get a second. And a chocolate thing. Need to keep my energy levels up. And my eyes open.

A cappuccino and chocolate biscuit.

Gol are boarding very early again. They’re already on group 2 when I get down there. I basically walk straight through out onto the tarmac, up the stairs and into my seat. Which is 2C.

Nothing much happens on the brief flight. Other than it taking ages for then to open the doors after landing. With us eventually disembarking from the rear.

My GOL aircraft from Navegantes.

It’s quite a walk to the international terminal. It takes around 15 minutes to get there from my bag pickup. Wisely, I’ve grabbed a trolley. Which makes things easier.

I’m slightly worried about whether I’ll be able to check in yet. It’s more than 8 hours until my flight. I ask the nice young lady at the desk:

“Can I check in for the Amsterdam flight?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Brilliant. No hanging around landside. Where I have to pay.

I have priority all the way to the duty free. I already have three bottles of cachaça in my check-in bag. But you know, you can never have too much cachaça. Not when Andrew is around.

I also pick up some sweets and chocolates for Alexei. The woman in front of me in the queue for the till drops her cachaça variety pack. It lands with crash and leaks all over the floor. The fruity smell of the spirit fills the air. I feel for her. I’ve done exactly the same thing myself with a bottle of whisky in Schiphol duty free.

The lounge is in a different location to most of the others. Almost at the end of the international pier, next to gate 327. It takes a while to walk there.

Lounge whisky.

I remember this lounge being pretty small. There aren’t a great number of free seats. I get one at a desk with lots of sockets, clearly intended for those with laptops. None of them seem to work.

After a while there’s a crackling noise followed by a burnt smell. Looks like some sort of short is occurring under the table. The staff requests I move to a safer seat. They don’t have to ask twice.

Luckily, my laptop has a long battery life and is fully-charged. I fire it up and get myself a whisky. And stuff to nibble on: olives, tomatoes, those funny little red things, grapes.

An email tells me that my flight is delayed by an hour and fifty minutes. Great! I’ll be getting even more value from this lounge.

Being here for a long time, I don’t go too crazy with the whisky. Fancying a change, I plump for a gin and tonic. The server begins by completely filling the glass with ice. Back at my seat, I shovel out handfuls into an empty whisky glass. And the drink is still too cold and too fucking watery. I revert to whisky for my next drink.

View of the runway at Sao Paulo airport from the lounge.

I entertain myself watching old clips of Mock the Week. It passes the time nicely. The many, many hours I have to wait.

When the display finally says “go to gate”, I trundle down there. Quite a mob has beaten me to it. Most of it in the priority queue.

There being no air bridge, we pack into buses. This is such fun.

As soon as we take off, I settle back to get some kip. Not even bothering to get my headphones out. The meal isn’t too dreadful. Some sort of chicken and mash. I eat more than half of it

Then lie back for some kip. I doze on and off for 5 or 6 hours.

The view from my seat on the plane.

With about 2 hours to go, they switch on the cabin lights. Rather than just stare into space, I unload my headphones and watch some stuff. Several episodes of The Frsnchise. Which s OK, I suppose. Vaguely amusing.

Breakfast is, I think, some sort of tomato omelette. It’s alright, in a rubbery sort of way. The coffee and orange juice are more welcome.

I’m feeling remarkably chipper considering I’ve been travelling for over 24 hours. Though for more than half of it I was either lounging in the lounge or asleep.

It’s 13:20 when we touch down. Not much longer and I waltzing straight into one of the electronic gates. Once again staff direct Dutch passport holders in Dutch to the automatic gates. What about other EU passport holders. Aren’t they entitled to use then, too?

Luggage will be arriving on carousel 22. About as far away as you can get. It takes a while for my bag to emerge. Not too crazy long. Just long enough to be annoying. Even so, it’s only about an hour after touching down when stumble through my front door. To an empty house.

Dolores is at a meeting, Alexei is out cycling and Andrew is still in bed. I have to make my own tea.



Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.

I speak!

I rise at 8 after a long, long sleep. I feel so much better. It seems like every day this trip I've had an hour too little sleep. Or more.

I've arranged to meet Thomas for breakfast at 9.

I have the same breakfast as always. I love living life on the edge. I spend a couple of hours chatting with Thomas.

A breakfast pudding of guava, pineapple, orange juice and coffee.

Doug turns up and tells me that a car will be picking me up at 18:30 tonight to take me to my talk. That's cool.

I arrange to meet Thomas downstairs at 12 to go into town for drinks and food. We decide on de Marchand taproom. But it isn't open. Instead, we wander down onto the seafront and go into a random restaurant, Casa do Camarão. And order caipirinhas.

I start with a couple of strawberry ones. Along with some cod balls. Which are tiny. The two combined are smaller than one in Colarinho. And cost more.

Tiny cod balls.

A couple of Italian judges join us. And I get a passion fruit caipirinha. Which is dead good.

We decide to go somewhere cheaper to eat. A buffet place. Where it's about 12 euros for as much as you can eat. Deep-fried sushi is available again. I get various meats, loads of battered prawns, sushi, some meat bits, half a tomato, a few slices of beetroot and some pickled chili. A totally normal combination. At least here.

There are two choices: all you can eat for 75 reals, or 105 per kilo. Which means, if you want good value, load up you plate with a kilo of food all you can eat. If you're only going for 500 gm, pay per kilo.

A buffet lunch of potato, beetroot, sushi, boiled eggs, tomato and various meat.

As all the tables downstairs are taken, we head upstairs. Where there’s loads more room.

When I try to order an Uber to take us back to the hotel, my phone goes all weird. I don't see to have a mobile connection. Fuck. Have I used all my data? We go back to the buffet place and log on to their wifi to order the Uber. Which is an extortionate 1.50 euros.

On the way back, my connection reappears. Maybe all those highrises were to blame for my inability to connect.

Back at the hotel, I say goodbye to Thomas. Who is flying back to Atlanta. When will I see him again? Who knows?

Luc is already waiting for our car to the festival when I step outside the hotel. It doesn't show up at 18:30 or even 19:00, when Luc is supposed to be giving his talk. He's pissed off. And with good reason.

Me? I'm in South American mode. It will arrive when it arrives. Which is 19:10. There are already two passengers.

"Just as well we're all good friends." I remark. It's very intimate on the back seats.

Inside the hall, I grab myself a glass and go into the festival to find a beer. Any beer, really. On the way in, I bump into Tina.

The Green Coast stand at the beer festival.

"It's empty inside." she says. That's just how I like my beer festivals. Though the music is loud. Very loud.

There's a bit in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy about a rock band. Where the best place to listen to their concerts is in a concrete bunker 20 miles from the stage. I'm wishing I could find that bunker.

I have to shout into the ear of the server to get my NZ IPA. Three times.

“Why do they have music so loud?” I ask Tina.

“What?”

“Why do they have music so loud?”

“What?”

“Oh, forget it.”

“Almost seven forty-five.”

The location of the talks is cleverly hidden behind the counter where glasses are handed out. No chance of any random punters stumbling across it accidentally. Or even finding it if they’re looking for it.

There are nine of us for Luc's talk. It thins out after he's dome. One hand is enough to count my crowd. Including the staff. And me.

My talk goes quite well. Is that despite or because of the small crowd? Who knows?

Do I mind that the attendance was so poor? Not really. I don’t expect things to always go smoothly. I’ve learnt to just take things as they come, when I’m in South America. As long as one person enjoyed it, I’m happy. Easily pleased or at peace with myself? You decide.

Okcidenta stall at the beer festival.

I head back into the festival with Tina. And we bump into Rafaelo. Who is in Bavarian gear today, in honour of it being a beer festival. He points us to an Argentinian brewery with barrel-aged stuff. I get myself an Imperial Stout. With a head almost as dark as the beer itself. Just my sort of beer.

When I've finished it, I fuck off. I need to be up fairly early. For a long journey. And I don't want to start out feeling shit. I'll be seeing Rafaelo in a few weeks in Chile. And Tina after a few more in Rotterdam. No need to torture myself for social reasons.

Outside, it's raining. Proper Brazilian rain. Not quite as bad as earlier. Like the world won’t be ending until tomorrow. Not in just a couple of hours.

As we swish through the deluge, I reflect on the trip. Much like the rain, it's been intense and enveloping. Unlike the rain, it's also been lots of fun.

I'm in my room by 9:30. What a good boy you've been, Ronald. You deserve that cachaça nightcap.



Casa do Camarão
Ed. Imperador - Av. Atlântica, 2100
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-666.


Restaurante Tempero e Sabor
R. 1700, n 193
Centro, Balneário Camboriú
SC, 88330-514.


Disclaimer: my hotel and some meals in Balneário Camboriú were paid for Concurso Brasiliero de Cervejas.