Nina’s Travel Rule #45: You Really Can do the Brazilian World Cup for a Week With No Underwear.


So, I’m at the World Cup in Brazil. For six weeks. Because I’m kinda amazing. And, at the risk of one of you flying over here to mug me for them, I’ll now share the most awesomesauce fact ever: I have tix to the final. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! But let’s get back to the point: my (glaring lack of) underwear…

First off, it’s true! Brazil is amazing. Even better than expected. Plus, this totally happened:


Now yes, I know, Americans are awful and obnoxious and loud as fuck and totally annoying, and I really usually do try to suppress any stray patriotic urge that sneaks its way into my brain, but like, FUCK THAT WE BEAT GHANA AND I WAS THERE! Not that our footballers totally suck or anything, but… actually, we kinda suck, this was not the prettiest game ever played, and we prob’ly really shouldn’t’ve even won. Yet, to reiterate, FUCK THAT WE BEAT GHANA AND I WAS THERE! Moving on.

So I was in Natal for the game, a semi-lovely quasi-functional city up on the northeast coast of Brazil, and had run out of clean clothes, as one commonly does when traveling for 6 weeks. No biggie, I’ll do laundry, right? Uh huh. They said it would be done at 8, no problemo (no, I do not hablo Portuguese. I’ve chosen instead to speak bad Spanish for the past 11 days and the thought of having to do it for the next bloody 27 is currently making me physically ill.

Side Note: the stories are indeed true. The only human who speaks English in this giant-ass country is actually… me. They do in fact all understand Spanish, even mine, but the bit where they answer happily in Portuguese is not so useful. Uh huh. I mean, seriously? Only country in the world where totally verging on trilingual is SO not good enough.

Yeah, but my laundry? Not. Eight am came and went, no laundry. Nine am came and went, no laundry. My bus to the beach arrived, no laundry. The adorable husband, who, major shout-out, is the sole reason that I HAVE A TICKET TO THE GODDAM MOTHERFUCKING WORLD CUP FINAL IN RIO, was ditching me to fly to São Paulo for the England-Uruguay game (not the dumbest thing he’s ever done, actually, I’m totes kinda jealous), while I chose to debauch myself at the beach down the road, and I perfectly reasonably decided that he could just take my clothes, whenever they cared to arrive, and I’d retrieve them in Rio in like 6 days. Reasonable, right? Especially for readers who remember my famous I am Nina, I am Dirty post…

So now I’m in Praia da Pipa, the beach of love, which is quite possibly the most fantabulously beautiful beach I’ve ever been to, and I’m down to: 2 bikinis, both of which are sopping wet; 2 skirts, one of which is equally sopping wet (Long story. Rain storm. Muchas caipirinhas. Dirty.) and one of which is not smelling amazingly; 1 shirt (same condition as aforementioned wet-ass skirt. Also, ‘shirt’ might be a tad generous. It’s really more of a shelf-bra pj-camisole-type situation); 1 pair of flip flops, one of which is kinda broken; 1 dress, which I refuse to wear, as it does not allow enough of me to tan and I REALLY require a Brazilian-colored tan before returning to Death Winter in Fucking Perth; and a sarong. Which is both wet and filthy. And covered in sand.

So I thought I’d hit the atm this morning, what with my stupid hostel not taking credit but being more than happy to take literally the last of my cash (that’s a lie. I had $20 left. It was spent on the skirt / shirt -fouling caipirinhas last night. Which I maintain was the proper and appropriate decision). Yeah, that shit’s got no cash left. The exchange people won’t do shit with my visa. And I have $0.75 Brazilian. I also have some grapes and a bottle of bad red wine, and I just drank the remains of last night’s last caipirinha (seriously, y’all, if you’ve never had one of these you need to get your asses to Brazil and drink them ALL). So, basically, life is good 🙂

On the plus side, I am here:





And yes, that is what I’ve been wearing for the past 3 days, and no, none of those pictures come even close to capturing how gorgeous it is.

If you don’t hear from me again soon, future plans may include: bartering the power of my visa for cash from the very nice Uruguayans downstairs, mugging said Uruguayans instead, as they are undoubtedly about to get quite shit-faced (Uruguay plays in an hour), purchasing a tacky shirt and / or a scary teensie Brazilian bikini from whoever takes credit here and, possibly, bathing. Because, and yes, we all did see this coming, I am in no way cleaner than my clothes.

Oh, fuck it, let’s have another caipirinha…

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