her name was lola, she was a showgirl

31 December, 2008

Mein god. The Brit Girls stepped out of their yoghurt-filled bath tubs last night and were back on form. We started off the evening with them coordinating an all-consuming mass drinking game called Ring Of Fire.

It should've been called Circle Of Death in retrospect. It basically takes every drinking game you know and rolls it all into one, so 8000 caipirinhas/jet fuels later, and you're ready to hit the ceiling.

The German bought out a sneaky bottle of vodka on top of it, so come 2am I was ready hit the clubs and the Lapa street party for the final time.

The great thing with the clubs here, is besides the fact they're they're packed with smooching sultry individuals, the clubs are all in beautiful old colonial buildings, complete with long windows with balconies overlooking the pumping street and aquaduct.

So when you need a breather, or just want to feel ostentatious, you just kind of hang out the window balcony and watch the people down below. And wave like the Queen.

We got into this exclusive club without queueing. The one Brit Girl told the doorman:
"Yes, hoi. We're vat TV crew from the BBC?"
Doorman: What TV crew from the BBC? I don't remember no TV crew.
"We're the ones reviewing your club innit."
Doorman: [ray of light] ah yes...yes. OK go through.

We all shuffled in - about 10 of us - without cameras. ('Dudes...we don't have the equipment or props to pull this off....')
"Peas, queues are for commoners."

Tried to get into the VIP area using the same story, but they smelled a rat.

A woman stood on my foot in a high heel while she was doing the samba, which left me crippled today basically.

Got home at 4:30am, tearful, because my trip is fast coming to an end. And we've all become a little family here, all having fallen hopelessly in love with Rio.

Hungover, we did another day on Ipanema Beach, stopping at Dominoes bloody Pizza, because a Swede amongst us wanted one of those ridiculous pizza ensembles where there's a sausage and cheese inside the crust. Interesting 'Swede' though - since he looks like a slightly darker version of Enrique Iglesias.

"It's not like home here."
Peas: Where you from? [He looks Latino. I'm thinking Chile.]
"Sweden."
Peas: Get out.
"No seriously, my parents are Chilean, but I was born and grew up in Stockholm my whole life."
Peas: Get out.
"I don't even speak much Spanish. I'm 100% Swede."
Peas: Do you shop at IKEA?
"Actually, yes."

I have a connection with this city I can't describe. For me, it's the perfect destination. Awesome nightlife, a great national alcoholic beverage, amazing scenery and jungles, beautiful world class beaches, friendly people, interesting language, a nation that loves music, the realism of the favelas, there's nothing I don't love about this place.

This is the last diary entry I will write. New Year's here comprises 2.5 million people descending onto Copacabana Beach. They close off the whole area, and everyone has to wear white. All the stores are selling white clothing on special at the moment.
As millions hit the beach in a sea of white, fireworks are set off in the ginormous bay, live international bands play music, and everyone gets a flower. The colour of the flower determines how your year ahead will be. Yellow is wealth, red is passion, white is peace, etc etc.

I'm going for passion this year. As sad as it is to leave a place I have almost completely lost myself in, it's going to be great to get home to Chester.

And so the dawn of 2009. Who knows what it will bring