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The ultimate white British tourist: a rucksack, a 26kg suitcase, a purse, two cameras around the neck, Dr Martens, and long sleeves. Don’t forget the airport trip to Starbucks in your extremely non-fluent/non-existent Portuguese: a long hot wait for a domestic flight change in a Brazilian airport (in São Paulo) takes its toll.


Despite sitting in the wrong seat twice, subsequently having my rucksack frantically passed around the cabin by adamant Brazilians communicating in only Portuguese in attempt to find space in the overhead storage compartments, experiencing (what felt like) non-stop turbulence for the duration of the 12 hour flight and eventually locating my suitcase in the luggage carousel for a flight from Orlando in São Paulo’s airport, my journey wasn’t too shabby. Alas! I live.

My joy at dodging death was manifested upon landing by the lone woman on the left hand side of the plane clapping the pilots far too enthusiastically: the small child behind her pressed her hands to her headphones harder, furiously watching her third repeat of Frozen whilst her mother took several selfies with the child throughout the series of bizarre events.



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