It is Friday, and I am exhausted in a good way. This thing about holidays, something I have had minimal experience of over the last 30 years or so, is hard work.

Having a good time, enjoying yourself with lots and lots of pleasure, is very new to me, but it gives us a false sense of worth and security. While you’re not exactly making or building anything, you’re not really being that productive.

Don’t get me wrong, I am really enjoying my holiday and being with Julie. It really is a privileged time for me. I feel so privileged that I am feeling guilty, and I do not know if that is good or bad.

For some crazy reason, my mind went blank, and I decided to take Julie to Saara, Rio’s old commercial district. It is made up of two or three principal streets, the backbone of Saara, and a plethora of side streets that create a labyrinth of street shopping.

Saara is wall-to-wall in retail and wholesale trade, for the mainstream clothes, anything for the home, and the car parties. If you can imagine it, you find it in Saara.

When my daughters, Jessica and Yasmin, were very young, I would often take them there to buy whatever they wanted. Especially Yasmin, I would give her R$50 at the time, which was a lot of money then for a little girl, and tell her that with this money she could choose whatever she wanted.

Yasmin would love to go around the shops, especially the toy shops or the stationers specialising in drawing and painting materials, to see what she wanted and could buy.

For Julie, it was the same. As soon as we left the VLT tram, she faced Saara and saw the street lined with shops to infinity, and, between the plethora of shoppers dipping in and out of each shop, it was an overdrive and an overdose of possibilities for her senses.

Any form of shopping, in general, really tires me, but Saara is hell on earth for me. Hot under the carioca sun, especially in the summer, cramped, sometimes smelly, and with a lot of confusion as so many people twist and turn in and out of the shops. But for the women, ladies, and girls of my life, it is heaven on earth.

Julie bought some clothes, mainly tops, after we had gone down one main street and come back on ourselves on the other main parallel street; I was completely done. It was getting on for lunchtime, and really, we had seen all that was necessary, at least for me, so it was time to go home.

We took the VLT tram back to Santo Cristo. Before going home, we stopped by the per kilo to have lunch. Even though it was early afternoon and the restaurant was only open for lunch, it was still open, and there was still a good variety of food to have a decent bite to eat.

At home, we rested, and a little later, we prepared to go out to Copacabana to meet Dona Regina.

Dona, Regina. A pupil of mine for a long time is a lady in her mid-80s who, in the past, was a ballerina with the municipal theatre of Rio and was once married to one of the wealthiest men in Brazil, who sadly committed suicide.

She later met and married Roberto, and I have deep admiration for both of them. I think Gina has been my pupil for almost 10 years. I had been teaching her classes for at least 3 or 4 years before the pandemic.

She’s an example of how we should reach old age and of the importance of listening to and learning from older people. They always have something good and positive to say, and a lesson is always hidden in their kind words, waiting to be discovered.

Over the past year or so, my teacher-pupil relationship has evolved into a friendship, and I visit her from time to time, especially when she is ill or recovering.

She invited Julie and me to go because I had told her about Julie while I was in England, so she was curious to meet her, and I think Julie was too.

However, our meeting, although very pleasant, was not without its challenges. I had bought flowers for Dona Regina, as I always do, and she liked them very much. She had made a small tray of appetisers and a lot, but a lot, of beer to wash them down. While we were talking, Dona Regina would bring one more can of beer for us, but for me, it was too much!

After an hour and a half of pleasantries, good conversation and a lot of beer, I said it was time to go. I knew that if I stayed, I would get drunk, really drunk, and if that happened, I would never hear the last of it from Julie. After two Saideiras: two for the road, we said our goodbyes and left, half drunk. What a night, and it hadn’t finished yet.

It was about 7:30, so I suggested we take a walk along the beachfront. It is only one block from Dona Regina’s building.

The promenade or walkway in front of the beach was crowded, with people walking up and down the central part. The kiosks were full of people drinking and eating, and there was live music in all of them, so music was in the air wherever we went.

We were walking towards Post 6, almost to Ipanema. Julie wanted us to sit on the beach, so we did. It was already dark, but since it is summer and still 30° at night, families and friends are on the beach as if it were day.

The only difference is that they can’t sunbathe, but going into the sea, playing with the ball, etc., and eating and drinking are just as they would be during the day.

We sat on the sand, looking out to sea. I think Julie couldn’t believe we were on Copacabana Beach at night. It was warm, and people around us were savouring the moment. It was safe. It was an existential, surreal, sublime moment for both of us.

How good is that!

I think we stayed on the beach for a little more than an hour. We went back to the Calçadao, the main pavement walkway in front of the beach, where everyone was walking past the kiosks. We cleaned the sand from our feet, put on our flip-flops, and went to the main street in Copacabana to catch the bus home.

In half an hour, we were home, ready for bed; what a day!

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you.

Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post From Hell to Heaven With Julie first appeared on The Long Gringo.

It is Saturday, the 8th of March, and it is my mother’s birthday.

If you are a regular reader of the blog, then you know that my relationship with my mother is a little complicated, to say the least. The truth is that my mother is an extremely difficult woman, who, all her life, has been complicated not just with me but with probably everybody who has had contact with her.

Scenes of hysterical behaviour marred my childhood with my mother. At one point, when I was maybe 5 or 6 years old, she put a knife to my father’s neck in front of my brother and me in an act of hysteria. Her obsessive need to physically punish us when we were young was constant.

I think she assumed our absent father’s role as both a mother and father, which meant it was necessary to inflict as much punishment on us as possible for some reason. If she had not hit or slapped us, especially in the face, then the punishment was not yet complete.

She always needs to be right, and she believes she was right and that everybody else was wrong. Because of that, she consequently sees herself as a victim in every situation. For me, there is a need for recognition and validation, and when we discuss self-recognition and validation, we are ultimately talking about low self-esteem and worth.

Obviously, I did not see that at the time; I was too young. When you are on the receiving end of the stick, your body and mind are on overdrive, ultimately focused on self-survival while living with such a person.

My mother’s toxic behaviour towards me, my brother, his and my families, her neighbours, past and present, and anybody else who has had contact with her or crossed her path has made her a lonely, bitter and frustrated old woman, at times displaying childlike behaviour that masks her inner childishness.

She looks for excuses to justify her terrible acts, pre-judging people she has never known or had contact with. When praising or complimenting a person, it is as if her judgment or word is law, and as if given on a higher level than for anyone else, which, for me, is hypocritical to say the least.

When I went to England in November 2023, I naively thought that my mother would have changed over time, that at the end of her life she would have learned from her mistakes, maybe even regretted some of them, and that she would have been different. But it does not seem to be.

It was not to be. The last two weeks of my visit, 20-plus years ago, were pure hell because of a fit of jealousy my mother had over my good relationship with my brother and his family.

This time, the first few months were cordial, never loving or affectionate, but coldly so. However, when she discovered that I was going out with Julie, everything began to go south. I tried to talk to her and reason, explaining that I had my own life, that if I had met someone I liked and wanted to take it further, it was my business, not really hers.

As a mother, she should have been happy for me to have met somebody I had special feelings for. The truth is that a loving mother would want to see her son happy and in a promising relationship and would encourage or offer support, but my mother, no.

She did everything she could to undermine and destroy what I was investing in and the good times I was having with Julie. It was as if she wanted to compete with Julie for my attention, but I don’t think she has.

Towards the end of my stay there, it was getting exponentially worse, to the point of becoming intolerable and toxic.

One of my mother’s excuses for her behaviour was that she wanted me to have another chance with Nalva, whom I have been separated from for almost 10 years and do not find attractive, with no love, who I think is extremely self-opinionated, like my mother, and who has been bleeding me dry for money for the last 20 years.

My mother’s reason was that Nalva had treated her well the last time she visited Brazil. It does not matter to my mother what I think or feel, what is important to me, or what is good for me, her son, but her point of view, what she thinks is right, and because Nalva treated her well 10 years ago.

We, as parents, have to be careful about what we consider right and wrong for our children, and the line between our interests and goals and our children’s has to be respected and not blurred.

We should never impose, demand, or oblige our own beliefs, desires, wishes, ambitions, or even aspirations on our children in the name of doing the right thing.

Our frustrations are not our children’s because they stem from pure selfishness. We are there to support, help and aid our children in whatever they decide to do in life. We can give guidance, but there is a line between guidance and self-interest, and parents have to be aware of that.

Julie kindly went to my mother’s today and gave her a bouquet that I had asked her to give because, besides everything that has happened with my mother, and there is a lot, she still is my mother, and I always try to do what is fair and right.

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you.

Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Turbulent Ties In A Mother And Son Relationship first appeared on The Long Gringo.

It’s Friday, the end of the week, usually a lighter day for work and classes.

Fewer classes mean I can focus on other projects: the blog, the YouTube channel, video work, uploads, or things around the home. After an early class, with nothing else until midday, I had time for housework and exercise.

I sweep the flat almost every day and keep everything in its place, but by midweek my duffel bag was already stuffed with dirty laundry, so I took it down to the laundrette in the condominium.

There are only two washers and dryers, and luckily the machines were free on Friday morning. Working from home means I don’t go through many clothes, so I don’t need a fresh shirt, jeans or shorts every day.

It sounds terrible, but even in Rio, a tropical city that gets very hot in summer, I can wear the same shirt and shorts for two or three days.

There are a few reasons for that. One is the air conditioning, which I only switch on in extreme heat. The flat stays fairly cool on its own, and there’s almost always a breeze, which helps.

Another is what I wear for work. When I’m teaching remotely, I usually wear just a black UV shirt and underwear, since the students only see me from the chest up. It’s a bit like a news presenter behind a desk: a suit and tie on camera, shorts or nothing at all underneath.

And when I’m writing a blog post or editing a video, I skip the shirt altogether, just underwear, completely at ease. Since COVID, working remotely has meant wearing very few clothes, or changing them far less often.

The laundrette was empty, so I loaded in a duffel bag’s worth of clothes, not a huge load. The wash takes 35 minutes, then I move the wet clothes to the dryer stacked on top.

Drying takes longer: 45 minutes, so 75 minutes total, an hour and 15 minutes of idle time. I use that time to journal. Usually I manage two entries, and today I did, which made me quite proud.

Once I start an entry, I don’t stop. My thoughts, good or bad, flow from my mind, down my arm, through the pen and onto the paper. I always finish what I start, and that’s something I’m proud of.

It’s a kind of promise to myself, and a promise you make to yourself still has to be kept. Break enough of those, and your self-esteem and self-confidence slowly erode.

Sometimes I struggle to get started. I think there’s a bit of self-sabotage in that. But once I begin and the motor is running, I don’t stop for anybody, not even myself, until it’s done.

I think it’s a mindset that applies to so many things in life.

A boring book you’ve started is still a book you have to finish. A project can be easy to begin, but having the drive, focus, discipline and even the honour to finish it is far harder, and plenty of people give up along the way.

It once took me five years to sell a boat project, but I never gave up. I believed in it, and I always felt that giving up once would make it too easy to give up again.

The rest of the day was a few classes and some quiet time alone.

Be kind and be happy. If you can’t be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Friday | Laundry, Journaling and Finishing first appeared on The Long Gringo.

It’s Sunday, Father’s Day in Brazil. Yasmin and I had arranged to go to Jessica’s for breakfast with her and Mario.

But Yasmin woke up feeling sick. She went to the bathroom several times trying to be sick, without success, and had a severe headache and heartburn. I gave her some water, but she wasn’t improving. It was 8:30, and we were due at Jessica’s for 9:30.

I suggested we cancel breakfast, rearrange it for another day, and let her rest before heading back to her mother’s.

At first she didn’t want to cancel. She wanted to go, more out of guilt than anything, not wanting to let me down. I told her she wasn’t letting me down in any way.

I messaged Jessica, who called, concerned about Yasmin, but understood.

We figured it was probably the nuggets I’d bought her the night before from the local mini-market. I’d tried one and found it extremely spicy, and I like spicy food, so that’s saying something.

I left Yasmin resting and went downstairs to work out: skipping, aerobics, kettlebells, and 30 lengths in the pool. Afterwards I stayed in the courtyard, bought a beer from the vending machine, checked emails and messages, and called Nalva to tell her what had happened to her daughter.

Nalva said Yasmin already knew she couldn’t eat nuggets anymore. True or not, at least her mother knew, which felt like the right thing.

When I got back, Yasmin was lightly asleep. I changed, cut my hair, and wrote a blog post.

Once she woke, I asked what she wanted for lunch, and settled on a small quentinho of rice and beans with barbecue and salad from a local street-food stand where the food is genuinely good.

I went out, bought it, and she ate. At about 4pm she caught a taxi back to her mother’s in Botafogo.

So that was my Father’s Day. Am I disappointed? Not in the least. Would I have liked to be with Mario, Jessica, and both my daughters together? Of course.

But it didn’t happen, and that’s fine. It’s just a day that can be redone, maybe next week or the week after. It might not be exactly what it would have been, but that doesn’t matter. If it can’t happen now, it’ll happen later.

Yasmin gave me some boxer shorts, men’s moisturising cream, and a bottle of wine now chilling in the fridge. But what I valued most was a small handwritten note thanking me for being her father and for being so supportive.

That’s the best present a father could ask for: recognition and love.

I teach Fabio and his son Eduardo, a family from Rio who moved to Sao Paulo for Fabio’s work. Eduardo didn’t give his father anything for Father’s Day, and nothing for his mother on Mother’s Day either. I’ve tried, in this year’s classes and in past ones, to teach him the importance of showing his parents some recognition.

I tried to explain that if his parents give to him 24/7, 365 days a year, the least he could do is reciprocate on special occasions: Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. He agreed he understood, but did nothing.

How messed up is that?

Married or not, I always made sure to take my daughters out to buy presents for their mothers on special occasions. Showing appreciation for their mothers has always mattered to me.

We don’t expect anything back from our children for all we give them, except some recognition, respect, love, or appreciation. Every relationship is different, but in a reasonably functional parent-child relationship, it matters that a child learns to give, not just receive.

Giving is better than receiving, and it’s been shown to be true. The earlier we teach children that, the better for them, their families, and the world. Or am I just old, stupid, and out of date to think this way? I had a beer at Guarabira’s and was in bed by 8pm.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Father’s Day | A Note That Mattered Most first appeared on The Long Gringo.

It’s the day after my 60th birthday.

I didn’t celebrate with anyone, but I had a long, meaningful conversation with my mother that cleared the air about something I’d been carrying for a long time.

It sounds ridiculous that it’s taken me until 60 to start letting go of the baggage and traumas of my childhood, my mother, and the injustices she’s done, not just to me but to others too.

An hour-long call between Stourbridge, England, and Rio, on a standard landline, is quite a lot. What also made me happy was hearing from Julie, indirectly and directly, since she’s always in my thoughts.

She sent me an audio message early in the morning, a nice surprise since she doesn’t usually like recording her voice. Last year she only sent a birthday message in the late afternoon, which felt lame, weak and inconsiderate.

We’re not together anymore, and this year she got it right. How crazy is that. Try explaining it to me or anyone else: together, it’s all wrong, but apart, it’s all right.

There are changes on the indirect side too. Julie has been visiting my mother, which I thought was a genuinely nice gesture. Whether there’s some other motive behind it, I don’t know, but either way I appreciated it, and I sent her a quick message thanking her at the end of the day.

My daughters, Yasmin and Jessica, called early in the morning to wish me happy birthday. Jessica had work and Yasmin had school, so a birthday midweek is a bit complicated. Both the day before and the day itself were bank holidays.

Usually these holidays come together, turning two days off into three, but not this time, so for most people my birthday was just an ordinary day.

Still, it was a good birthday, the way I like it: discreet.

Today’s lunch was really the one I should have had yesterday, on my birthday, but it happened today instead, with my daughters, Mario and, surprisingly, Cibele, my first ex-wife and Jessica’s mother. Also joining the family was Zoe, Jessica’s newly adopted shelter dog, a beautiful black mongrel with long fur, and a little suspicious of everyone.

I met Yasmin at Flamengo metro station, and we carried on to Arco Verde in Copacabana, then walked ten minutes to Jessica and Mario’s flat in Leme.

On the way we passed an old man walking a Belgian Malinois, a breed that’s suddenly become famous, probably thanks to the John Wick films, Halle Berry, and the French police.

I stopped and asked if it really was a Malinois. He confirmed it, and when I asked if I could greet the dog, he said yes.

Better to ask first than risk losing a finger, a hand, or an arm at the shoulder. The dog was beautiful. I told the owner I’d been thinking of getting one, and he told me to leave my contact details at the entrance of his building, for Senhor Cabral, as he’d be breeding her in three or four months.

How cool is that.

I said I would, and after a couple of minutes thanking him for his kindness, Yasmin and I were on our way again. We were already running late for lunch.

We arrived five minutes late, which wasn’t too bad. We all exchanged presents. Jessica and Mario gave me a beautiful green UV shirt. I’m well known for wearing my black UV shirts, practically my uniform by now, so it made a nice change.

It’s cool against the skin, perfect for Rio’s heat, easy to wash, and I think it looks good.

I bought books for Jessica and Mario: a romance novel for Jessica and a David Goggins self-help book for Mario. Goggins is famous in the States, a kind of superhero example that if you put your mind to it, you can do it.

Cibele arrived and we had lunch. The last time I’d seen her was in September, when Jessica had surgery.

The last time we all had lunch together was three or four years ago, when we got into Brazilian politics. I was complaining about the government’s hypocrisy and mentioned Lula’s name. She asked me not to say it. I told her, without hesitation, that I’d say whatever I wanted. Nobody was going to shut me down for saying what I believed.

Never let anyone shut you down for something you believe is right. Lunch itself was lovely: simple Brazilian food, plenty of eating and drinking, good conversation, laughter, and a bit of piss-taking.

On the way back, Yasmin got upset about something Mario had said at lunch. Without meaning to sound insensitive, I think the timing didn’t help, and she ended up crying about it in the street.

I left her with her mother and headed home to Santo Cristo. I rested, did a little work, and that was it: another nice day with my dysfunctional family.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Sixty in Rio | Family, Forgiveness and Small Surprises first appeared on The Long Gringo.

Today is the first Monday of the new year, so it’s the first working day and, unofficially, the start of the year for money, work and prosperity.

I didn’t sleep well, but I woke up relatively happy and ready to face the day. I got a full workout in at the flat. The pool was closed for Monday maintenance, as usual.

Between the few Monday classes I teach (some pupils are still travelling), I caught up on blogging, revised some old posts (tedious but satisfying), and finally picked up video editing again.

I’d stopped editing in the middle of last month because Descript rolled out a new billing system. It’s expensive, and it makes keeping up my usual workload unfeasible.

To produce at least 15 videos a month, I’d now have to pay four or five times what I was paying two months ago.

Mid-December, chasing a goal of 200 uploaded videos for the year, I was sitting at 192. I bought extra credits, but they weren’t enough; they evaporated in two days. And since Descript bills in dollars while I earn and spend in Brazilian reais, worth less every year, the new pricing hit even harder.

What felt like a reasonable $50 a month became $65, and even that isn’t enough anymore. I’ll need to buy more credits soon, which is its own quiet worry.

So instead of panicking, I decided to wait it out and put that time and energy into something within reach: the blog. I couldn’t touch video editing again until the new billing cycle started, which isn’t ideal, but it turned out to be exactly the pause I needed.

Because here’s what the forced break showed me: nonstop output creates expectations we never actually agreed to.

All last year, I worked on the blog and video editing almost every day, chasing videos for YouTube. They got better, technically, but never quite hit 100%. I think I know why: I was optimising for quantity when I should have been optimising for quality.

Only now, catching up on old posts from December, do I see it clearly: for the last couple of years I’ve been a workhorse (maybe even a slave) to output, without really protecting quality along the way.

That costs more than it looks like on the surface, because creativity is a form of quality. When one suffers, so does everything built on top of it.

The same is true of the editing itself. Stepping back let me look at my videos from a different angle: what was missing, what needed cutting, and, more importantly, what needed improving.

It reminds me of a pupil coming back after weeks without class. The moment we restart, I can suddenly hear how good their English actually is, something I couldn’t see before, buried under the back to back routine of daily lessons. There’s no room to stop and really look when you’re moving from one class to the next without a break.

Space does that. A pause, a reset, does that. And I don’t think it’s limited to work. It applies just as much to relationships, especially the ones sitting in a confusing, undefined place.

These last six months, without Julie around and without dating anyone else, the solitude has been its own kind of teacher. Time alone with myself has been clarifying: what’s good, what’s not, what I can live with and what I can’t.

I believe any real break, any reset, gives you a clearer, fairer read on where you actually stand: what you want, whether you’re on the right track, where you’re trying to go, and whether what you’re doing will actually get you there.

Whether the break is one you choose or one that’s forced on you is almost beside the point. Most of the time, life doesn’t ask; it just happens, and we adjust.

All of it takes humility, and a lot of quiet work done alone.

A good first day back.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post The Break | And What It Taught Me first appeared on The Long Gringo.

Journaled on Sunday, 19th of July 2026 | Santo Cristo, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: 30 degrees, hot, sunny and blue skies.

I started yesterday, careful not to wake my daughter, who was asleep in my studio flat. So I went downstairs, out of the condominium, and 20 metres further on, to a small man-made park with concrete benches, a play area with swings and roundabouts, and a bit of grass.

Yesterday was hard, and today my left calf muscle is complaining loudly. Even so, I skipped, stretched, did some Tai chi, and walked three kilometres on a round route, passing the supermarkets and the local bakery on the way back.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun full strength but not torturing us since we’re in winter. When I got back, Yasmin had had a quick breakfast, and we headed down to the pool.

I hadn’t swum in a month, thanks to the cold and rain, but today was beautiful. Even so, the water was freezing, and it got me thinking:

• Diving straight in beats slowly climbing down the ladder. The thermal shock hits immediately, but it wears off fast, and you’re fine. The ladder is slow torture. Every centimetre of skin that touches the cold water sends a shock wave to your brain telling it to stop, so you stop, then start again, then stop again as you go lower, and the torture just repeats.

Stopping and starting like that is a bit like life: starting something new, something that needs doing. It’s better to dive in and get it over with. Life is like water running down a hill. Slowly, it stops and mixes with the dirt, and it’s not as pure as before. Quickly, without stopping, it stays clean, and it keeps moving.

• Once you’re in and swimming, moving, the blood warms up fast. The shock, the so-called pain, the bad feeling, all of it goes, along with the cold. It’s the same with life: once you’re in the thick of things, the initial confusion and awkwardness wear off, and you’re free to just get on with it. I think it has a lot to do with speed, getting on with what needs doing rather than wallowing in hesitation, fear, and feeling lost.

It comes down to that moment standing at the edge of the pool: get in slowly by the ladder, sit and dive in, or just give up. Funny how it’s all connected, especially when it comes to life.

While at the pool, I journaled at a table next to Yasmin, who was catching some sun on a lounger. I got two entries written, which made me happy. I like journaling in different places, not just at home.

After finishing, I showered (compulsory before the pool) and dived in exactly as I’d just preached. Technically, diving isn’t allowed by the building’s rules, but I do it anyway, and the lifeguard knows me, so it’s all good.

Today I only did 20 lengths. Before my break from swimming, I’d usually do 30 or more, but coming back, 20 was enough. Like everything in life, 20 is better than none.

In the afternoon, we watched the World Cup final: Argentina against Spain. I wanted Argentina to win, for Messi, but every Brazilian I spoke to was rooting for Spain, pure South American rivalry. Spain had the better team on the day and won.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Diving In, Not Wading | A Winter Swim in Rio first appeared on The Long Gringo.

So it’s Thursday, and yesterday I may have had one of the most important meetings of my life.

The meeting with Alex was fairly simple, with him clearing up all my questions and doubts, but it made one thing clear to me: he is honest, hard-working, skilled in his field, and willing to work to change his life.

I have liked him since our first contact. We got off to a good start, and even though money is involved and I am very conservative, wary and suspicious when it comes to spending money with others, he has always given me a sense of transparency, which is obviously good.

Alex is doing his best as a professional to make sure everything goes smoothly, and I want to do my best too. Still, I have a little insecurity about whether I have the right skills to develop a project like ‘Teahogui’.

What I tell myself is that whatever I lack now, I will learn. We are essentially giving birth to a new creation, and with nurturing, work and love it will grow, develop and in some ways mutate, and we will change along with it.

I know I barely have all the skills to take on such a responsibility, but more importantly, I am willing to learn, adapt, and become a better professional version of myself.

I am almost 60. This may be the last time in this life I get the chance to do something really impressive professionally, something that could be a real professional realisation for me. I’m not just talking about money. I’m talking about building something big and beautiful that makes money by bringing people together.

Putting people together, helping them realise their dreams, and getting paid for it is probably one of the best jobs in the world.

Think of a teacher looking to teach; a host who wants to welcome people into their home to help with the family income, which is so hard to make ends meet on nowadays; or someone who knows their region well and wants to make a little extra money showing people around the places and spots.

These are just the most basic examples, and there are hundreds of thousands of variations. At ‘Teahogui’ we connect the person who wants to learn with the person who wants to teach, host, assist or instruct.

The possibilities are endless, and it is up to us to do it right: professionally, ethically, and in the simplest, most transparent way, because simplicity and transparency are the keys to this project’s success.

Behind the front page of the site there may be a force 10 interaction of resources and infrastructure, but the front page itself has to be a sea of calm and positivity, where the end user, a possible future client, can navigate with precision, tranquillity and no complications.

The ultimate test for navigation will be me, as I am very critical of anything too complicated. If I find the site too complex, too slow, or with too many layers between me and where I want to go, then something is wrong and it will have to change.

Obviously our first version won’t be our best; it’s a matter of evolving and fine-tuning with each new version. But what we plan now will have enormous consequences, to the point of deciding whether ‘Teahogui’ succeeds or fails.

Its embryonic blueprint, with its characteristics and values, has to be on the right track from the start, or there could be serious problems down the line.

As for money, it obviously matters. ‘Teahogui’ has to be profitable. Every business needs to make a profit, because if not, it is a charity, and a charity, unfortunately, is for the poor.

Personally, I don’t need much wealth to be happy. Even a lavish lifestyle isn’t that different from a normal one day to day. What makes the difference is travel, and the standard at which you can travel.

If, in my old age, my daughters and I can enjoy a better quality of life and travel well thanks to my work on ‘Teahogui’, then I will already be a wealthy and realised man.

The next six months are going to have extreme highs and lows, a roller coaster ride, and I honestly don’t know where it will take Alex and me. All I want is to create something very special for others, to be part of it and help make it a success, with many stories of people improving their lives because of us, both the clients and the suppliers: the teacher, the instructor, the one with a skill and the willingness to share it.

I am very grateful to have Alex come into my life and to begin such an exciting project, not just for me but for him and for all the future people our venture will touch.

Tomorrow I need to transfer 4000 Reais to his account.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 11 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Almost 60 and Starting ‘Teahogui’ first appeared on The Long Gringo.

Yasmin is staying with me, and she had to be up early today for an extra class to prepare for ENEM, the Brazilian national vestibular exam.

The class started at 8:30. She asked me to wake her at 7, which I did, and she made herself a breakfast of the fruit she had bought the day before.

Taking the bus in Rio can be dangerous, especially for a young, beautiful teenage girl. Part of me didn’t want her to do it, but she would have to eventually. If I had thought it was really that dangerous, I obviously wouldn’t have let her.

The 109 bus line, whose first or last stop, depending on how you look at it, is on a side street two minutes’ walk from the condominium, goes straight to the street where Yasmin’s school is in less than 10 minutes. The VLT tram and metro would take at least 40 or 50.

It is the only line left in Rio that takes this route, cutting through the Santa Barbara tunnel and along the viaduct beside the Sambódromo, where the samba schools parade during carnival. Before COVID there were many more, but the council has since cut them, which is a pity, because it was one of the fastest ways to cross between the south and north zones by public transport.

I have never really liked Rio’s metro. Besides being limited, it feels like a waste to travel underground in a city this beautiful, missing everything between one place and the next.

The internet said a bus supposedly leaves every half hour. We got to the stop at 7:45 and there was no bus, but in less than a minute one drew up.

We said our goodbyes, and I kissed her on the forehead like I always do. She got on, paid, and after about 10 minutes, the bus was off.

I was a little worried about her first time alone on a public bus in Rio, but also confident nothing would happen. The bus was empty when it left, and early on a Saturday it was unlikely many people would get on. Fewer passengers meant less chance of someone badly intentioned boarding. I had also told her to sit at the front, near the driver, so she could call him if there was a problem.

All this might sound over the top to Europeans or Americans, but here in Brazil, and especially in Rio, no precaution is too much when it comes to crackheads, thieves, chicken thieves and anyone else getting on a bus with the intention of hurting others.

Twenty minutes later, Yasmin messaged to say she had arrived at school. Her first ride on a public bus in Rio went better than expected.

Back at the flat, I put my swimming trunks on under my shorts and went downstairs with my little black pump bag. I skipped and did some exercises for about 40 minutes, then swam 30 lengths in the pool.

Afterwards I prepared and uploaded a video, showered and changed, because I was heading to Saara. I had promised to meet Yasmin there after her class, and I needed to buy sunflower and basil seeds for Dona Vera in Copacabana, as I had promised her too.

Saara is a network of streets in the old part of Rio’s city centre, packed with popular shops and trade stores selling almost anything you could want. It is a bit like a street version of a poor man’s Harrods, where you can buy at trade or very low retail prices.

I met Yasmin on Rua Buenos Aires, one of Saara’s main shopping streets. We found some seeds, though not the quantity I wanted.

We also went to Caçula, a well-known Rio shop specialising in stationery and handicraft supplies. For the last month or two, Yasmin has taken up crochet. She taught herself, made a pair of shorts, and now wants more thread, or whatever it is called, to make a bikini.

The shop is enormous, at least three floors, and whenever we go, Yasmin loses herself in the endless possibilities. It really is a handicraft lover’s paradise. She found what she wanted, I paid, of course, and we left.

It was about 2 p.m. and I was thinking about lunch. Right outside, we passed a per-kilo restaurant, had a look at the buffet, and it seemed OK, so we ate there.

After lunch we walked on through the enormous open-air pedestrian shopping area to the VLT station. It was full of people waiting, but the tram soon arrived. We got off near the supermarket in Santo Cristo, bought some food for later, and went home.

In the evening we played chess, best of three. Surprisingly, for the first time in a long time, I won the first two, so it was game over for my daughter. We watched a film, and I was too tired for anything else. Every time I go to Saara, it literally kills me.

Be kind and be happy. If you cannot be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 10 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post Yasmin’s First Solo Bus Ride in Rio first appeared on The Long Gringo.

It’s Sunday, the day before Julie leaves for England. Her flight is late tomorrow evening, so we’ll probably head to the airport around 7:30 or 8.

Yesterday we took Yasmin to a party at the Northeasterners Convention Centre in São Cristóvão. The place felt a little run down and tatty, a flat note to end her stay in Brazil on.

Still, all was not lost. We had a couple of beers, and Julie found a beautiful reversible print while I picked up some rugs for the bathroom.

Today we woke up with a little tension in the air. It has been building for a couple of days now, understandably, given her anxiety about returning to England. She doesn’t want to go, but she has to, and I’ve grown used to having her here with me.

Only time will tell how we handle this going forward. Long distance relationships, especially at our age, rarely work. They’re almost impossible to sustain today, when everything moves so fast and feels so immediate.

I’m hoping for a change, whether that’s her coming back to Brazil for a couple of months or me going to England. For now, I’ll let time run its course and see where it takes us.

After some morning affection, and while making coffee, I decided a trip to the laundrette was a good idea. It would get me out of the flat for a couple of hours, and while I waited for the clothes to wash and dry, I could write at least one journal entry.

It would also give Julie time to pack and call her family in England, something I’ve had no contact with until now. While I’m out, she can talk to them freely, without me overhearing even indirectly. It’s an awkward position for us both. I don’t want to know what she says to her mother, her daughter, her son. It’s none of my business.

When I got back from the laundrette, her suitcase was already laid out on the floor, with half her clothes and belongings packed inside.

The tension I’d felt earlier was even more pronounced now. We talked a little about what we’d done together over the last four weeks. It had been so good for both of us, at least for me. There’s always something more, better, or different we could have done, but even so, we’ve both had a great time in every respect, and it’s only strengthened our feelings for each other.

Again, neither of us really knows what the future holds for us.

In the late afternoon, we picked up Yasmin from another birthday party, the same crowd as yesterday, just at a different venue, this time in Lapa. Julie had passed through Lapa once or twice before, skirting the edges of the neighbourhood, but never actually gone in until the evening, when it’s really humming, buzzing and bustling with people until the early hours of the morning.

I used to go to Lapa 25 years ago, when the first samba houses opened in the area. Carioca de Gema was a true blue carioca spot. Back then I’d go at least once a week and got to know the owners of many of the bars and restaurants there, including Thiago, whose Carioca de Gema was the groundbreaking first entrance for the many samba houses, bars and restaurants that still exist today.

That was a long time ago. After I got Bruce, my first boxer dog, everything changed, and I lost touch with Lapa’s bohemian nightlife.

I went to a show at Circo Voador in Lapa, a semi-open-air alternative concert hall, with an ex-girlfriend six or seven years ago. Afterwards we had to pass through Lapa to find a taxi home. The Lapa I’d known at night had changed completely. It felt darker, dirtier and more sinister, so I haven’t been back in the evening since.

I’d arranged for Nalva to take Yasmin to the bar where the celebrations would be held, and Julie and I would pick her up around 5 or 6 p.m.

At the right time, we took the VLT tram into the city centre and walked to where Yasmin would be. There was some confusion with the address, but we found her eventually.

Yasmin is at an age where she’s naturally seeking more freedom. My only worry is the hidden violence in Rio. I can’t imagine something bad happening to one of my daughters.

After finding her, she said goodbye to her friends and we all walked back to the city centre. We left Yasmin at the metro station to head home to her mother’s. Before going home ourselves, we had a chopp, a light Brazilian beer, at Amarelino, one of Rio’s most traditional bars. By 9 p.m we were home.

Be kind and be happy. If you can’t be happy, still be kind, but never be naïve.

In bed by 9 p.m.

Thank you

Thank you for reading. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.

Richard

Photos by Richard George Photography

The post  A Rio Farewell | Julie’s Last Day in Brazil first appeared on The Long Gringo.