In Paradise

We rushed directly to the buffet in the morning as if there were no tomorrow. And yes, the buffet was different from yesterday. What an absolute surprise, because one firmly assumes that hotel kitchens aspire to an entry in the Guinness Book of Monotony. But no – today the chef really outdid himself. Probably on coke or freshly divorced. In any case: fantastic. We shoveled in food like a construction crew after a 12-hour shift – very, very tasty. I can't say it any other way. It was so delicious that my cholesterol spontaneously did a samba.

After that: Sport. A whole hour in the gym. Emphasis on 'very large', because apparently Brazilians build gyms like football stadiums. Luckily, I still had my headlamp from the jungle – you never know. Maybe there's an alligator between the dumbbell benches or the trainer is actually a serial killer on a diet. Preparation is everything. Those who don't have a headlamp have already lost in life.

Next: Reading. So pseudo-intellectual flipping through a book to justify that I didn't fall into a food coma right away. Then picked up the car at the airport. Fun fact: Brazilian minutes are like dog years. 5 minutes mean 55 if you’re lucky. Still, everything went smoothly, even though we were close to losing 1,100 euros in credit card nirvana. Almost a disaster, but just almost. We are professionals at having good luck.

Then off to Galinhas, the place where we went snorkeling yesterday. We took backroads to Maragogi, where we found our accommodation. Right on the beach, palms like in a catalog, those thatched umbrellas where you never know if they're made of reeds, deer hair, or unicorn fur. Dreamy. And the best part: 40 Euros. Thanks to a Booking upgrade. Genius Level 3, baby. Years of enduring sham hotels and fake reviews finally paid off.

On-site, small talk with the boss right away. Tours for tomorrow? Bought. But only after we quickly booked an extra night – with a discount of course, because after 5 minutes we pretend we're living here. The beach? White like the backside of a privileged Scandinavian. In the evenings, the palms rise into the sky like designer decor, with warm lamps attached, as if someone tried to artificially recreate a catalog dream. Too perfect to not somehow feel wrong.

Oh yes, tomorrow a massage on the beach. Finally. The plan is watertight. If the massage doesn’t take place again tomorrow, we will finally give up. Brazil will then officially have failed in the wellness sector, Portuguese will triumph like an arrogant Latin fetishist, and English will die a quiet, undignified death in the sand. End of debate.