So I have discovered today that even if you think you are a medium size in Rio, you are actually a small. The tighter the better. An accomplished look must involve mushroom hips and a bulging vagina. Bearing this in mind, I must remember to return the hysterectomy pants I purchased this morning. They were cutting off my oxegen supply and quite frankly it felt like two of us were doing the talking when I put them on.
I am slowly but surely getting to grips with the food thing out here. Having done my second shop and realising if you don’t like grub doused in sugar then your well and truely screwed, I decided to opt for the fruit and veg variety. If you can classify a gherkin as a vegetable then that’s fine, but I was truly disappointed when I went for the crunch and the experience was not that dissimilar to an edible fart. You live and learn, and that seems to be the attitude best applied to everyday life in this marvellous city. I never thought I would be sweating my limbs off in a forro dance class, clinging desperately to a 15 year old boy for him to show me the way, or steps at least. Nor did I think I would have to make my own doo doo paper into sushi rolls in an attempt to save the ever failing sewage system. But these are the joys of Rio. If you cant take the heat, then get out of the kitchen.
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