Our time in Rio is a wonderful experience. We manage to avoid all pick-pockets and bag snatchers, and we don't get mugged. Not carrying a handbag feels very strange at first, but after a couple of days I start to get used to it.
At no time do we feel at all threatened.
Finally it is time to leave Rio and fly south.
On the way to the airport, my husband suddenly panics. He can't find his passport. It's not in the pocket where he usually keeps it. He can't speak Portuguese. I ask the driver to stop, and explain the problem, and we spend a few minutes searching frantically. My husband gets out of the car and searches his luggage in the back.
Eventually the passport is found, in another pocket.
We arrive in Floreanopolis. As I wait beside the luggage carousel, I can see Enéias waiting for us.
We greet each other excitedly, and he leads us outside where a car is waiting for us.
It's a three-hour drive from Floreanopolis to Jaraguá do Sul. On the way, we stop at a newly-built resort town, Balneário-Camboriú, impressive with its array of apartment towers overlooking a glistening bay.
As we arrive in Jaraguá, Enéias asks the driver to pull over. He's seen a friend. He introduces us to a thin, wiry young man, whom he introduces as "Honey". My husband looks puzzled. I explain that his name is probably Ronnie (the R is pronounced as H). As it turns out, it's spelt Rone.
We check in to our hotel and Enéias takes us to lunch at a nearby shopping complex.
Returning to the hotel, I'm so tired that I lie down and sleep for a couple of hours.
That evening, we go out to dinner with Enéias, his mother, his girlfriend and friend Rone. It's my birthday and we are celebrating. Rone speaks some English; he lived in Holland for eighteen months. He insists he's forgotten most of it, but he does a very good job of conversing with my husband.
After the dinner, Enéias' girlfriend drives us back to the hotel. We get out of the car and she drives away. Standing outside the hotel, I ask "Where is my bag?" I don't have it.
I have left my handbag in the restaurant. I was sitting in a corner and my bag was on the floor.
I would never go anywhere without my bag. But during our stay in Rio I've become accustomed to not carrying it.
"What was in it?" my husband asks.
"Everything," I say weakly. "Money, two credit cards, the camera..."
"Not your passport, I hope".
"Yes. Everything."
We ask for help at hotel desk. I'm feeling faint and have to sit down. The hotel clerk calls the restaurant for us. There is no answer. We call a taxi to take us there. The restaurant is closed. I write a note in Portuguese and we slide it under the door.
I message Enéias through Facebook, as my phone seems unable to contact his. He promises to help us find the bag.
I tell myself that this is not Rio. It's a small town. The people here are likely to be honest. The restaurant staff will know that the bag belongs to someone in Enéias' party.
There is nothing I can do. I will have to deal with the outcome, whatever it is.
I do some deep breathing and somehow manage a deep sleep.
Next morning I log on to Facebook, to find a message from Enéias.
My bag was in his girlfriend's car. She will deliver it to him.
"So, today is shaping up as a normal day", my husband says.
Yes, a normal day. Instead of one spent cancelling credit cards, lamenting lost photos and looking for an Australia Embassy in Florianopolis.
We can play music instead.
At no time do we feel at all threatened.
Finally it is time to leave Rio and fly south.
On the way to the airport, my husband suddenly panics. He can't find his passport. It's not in the pocket where he usually keeps it. He can't speak Portuguese. I ask the driver to stop, and explain the problem, and we spend a few minutes searching frantically. My husband gets out of the car and searches his luggage in the back.
Eventually the passport is found, in another pocket.
We arrive in Floreanopolis. As I wait beside the luggage carousel, I can see Enéias waiting for us.
We greet each other excitedly, and he leads us outside where a car is waiting for us.
It's a three-hour drive from Floreanopolis to Jaraguá do Sul. On the way, we stop at a newly-built resort town, Balneário-Camboriú, impressive with its array of apartment towers overlooking a glistening bay.
As we arrive in Jaraguá, Enéias asks the driver to pull over. He's seen a friend. He introduces us to a thin, wiry young man, whom he introduces as "Honey". My husband looks puzzled. I explain that his name is probably Ronnie (the R is pronounced as H). As it turns out, it's spelt Rone.
We check in to our hotel and Enéias takes us to lunch at a nearby shopping complex.
Returning to the hotel, I'm so tired that I lie down and sleep for a couple of hours.
That evening, we go out to dinner with Enéias, his mother, his girlfriend and friend Rone. It's my birthday and we are celebrating. Rone speaks some English; he lived in Holland for eighteen months. He insists he's forgotten most of it, but he does a very good job of conversing with my husband.
After the dinner, Enéias' girlfriend drives us back to the hotel. We get out of the car and she drives away. Standing outside the hotel, I ask "Where is my bag?" I don't have it.
I have left my handbag in the restaurant. I was sitting in a corner and my bag was on the floor.
I would never go anywhere without my bag. But during our stay in Rio I've become accustomed to not carrying it.
"What was in it?" my husband asks.
"Everything," I say weakly. "Money, two credit cards, the camera..."
"Not your passport, I hope".
"Yes. Everything."
We ask for help at hotel desk. I'm feeling faint and have to sit down. The hotel clerk calls the restaurant for us. There is no answer. We call a taxi to take us there. The restaurant is closed. I write a note in Portuguese and we slide it under the door.
I message Enéias through Facebook, as my phone seems unable to contact his. He promises to help us find the bag.
I tell myself that this is not Rio. It's a small town. The people here are likely to be honest. The restaurant staff will know that the bag belongs to someone in Enéias' party.
There is nothing I can do. I will have to deal with the outcome, whatever it is.
I do some deep breathing and somehow manage a deep sleep.
Next morning I log on to Facebook, to find a message from Enéias.
My bag was in his girlfriend's car. She will deliver it to him.
"So, today is shaping up as a normal day", my husband says.
Yes, a normal day. Instead of one spent cancelling credit cards, lamenting lost photos and looking for an Australia Embassy in Florianopolis.
We can play music instead.
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