Here’s the thing about Brazil Day. It’s madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. Not as much the event itself but the happenings surrounding it. You know that song from Love Actually, Love Is All Around? Yeah, well, if it had been written about The LPV it would have been called, Crazy Is All Around.
Experiencing Brazil Day is one thing, trying to recapture it in post for you is a different kettle of fish altogether, it’s very difficult. But the thing is, you have to believe me when I say this, Brazil Day is nuts (but then again, The LPV is nuts). So I will endeavor to do my best in describing the nuttiness that was.
The Croupier was attending Brazil Day for the first time this year, and since Mrs. London was going as well, Gregory decided that a Thursday morning gossip session was much more entertaining than sweating it out on the hot sand playing beach football. (The Croupier is Gregory’s all time favorite gossip partner. They started gossiping together when they were tweens, stopped briefly to date each other and then decided that they shouldn’t mess with a good thing. Best gossip buddies they’ve been ever since.)
Sidenote: Every year Brazil Day is held on le jour de l’ Assomption, which is a Catholic holiday here in France and a day off. So that’s why everybody can sit around drinking beer, listening to loud mind numbing techno, and playing beach soccer in the middle of the week.
An hour or two in, Mrs. London and I got up from our seats to do a lap around the village and stretch our legs. As we walked into the street behind all of the festivities, Child Bride’s youngest sister, Wolf (she’s about ten I think, I can never remember), came running up to me shouting my name and waving her arms in all sorts of Gallic gestures. A pigeon had been attacked by a cat and was left flapping about under a car and she wanted me to come and look at it. For some reason this was something she just HAD TO TELL ME. Why me? Why did I have to see it? And I’m I really the proper person to deal with something like that? No, I’m not. I told her I’d go and find Brother-in-Law so he could deal with it and continued on my way.
(I’ve told you the above anecdote purely to highlight the random craziness that one encounters in The LPV… flapping semi-lifeless pigeons, murderous cats, and a girl named Wolf. For the record, I have not nicknamed Wolf, Wolf, it’s actually her name. OK, not Wolf, but the French word for Wolf, Loup. And there you go. )
Flapping pigeon crisis averted we returned to our seats and found that George had foraged some mint in an attempt at Mojito making. (Once again I was promised by the Brazil Day Committee that there would be Mojitos or Caipirinhas and once again I was lied to. I really need to stop being so gullible.)
We ordered a few shots of Rum and a couple of glasses of fizzy lemonade and figured we’d be all set. The waitress dropped off our drinks and charged us €2.50 per cup of fizzy lemonade… €2.50 (that’s $3.35)! These weren’t cans, or small individual bottles but small cups, poured out of a plastic bottle. That’s highway robbery and Big Man had our hands in the air. But, what were going to do? Of course we paid…
For the next round, I walked into the bar and ordered the lemonade from the waitress that had been hired for the day (never seen her before in my life). She charged me €2.70 per cup. WHAT THE?! I was momentarily dazed by the 20¢ mark up that had occurred within the hour (a mark up on top of a mark up) and I carried my lemonade outside. I told Gregory and he promptly flagged down the waitress and asked what the 20¢ price hike was all about. She looked at me, looked back at him and said, “oh sorry, I thought she was a tourist.” WHAT THE?! (Yes, that actually happened… I’ll leave you a moment to absorb that scandalous nugget.)
The waitress left and returned tossing 20¢ on the table. That really wasn’t the point but with lemonade costing €2.50 a cup, I pocketed it.
Let’s see, what else happened…
The Cousin was there with Petit Cousin (you know, the one that’s named after an X-Man character) aka the most gangsta baby ever. Honestly, I’m expecting him to come out with his own rap video any day now.
I have no idea who won the beach soccer tournament (too busy gossiping and being overcharged) but since Honey Jr was refereeing again, I’m going to go ahead and say his team. However, I can tell you that Gregory and Honey’s Honey did not win the beach volleyball despite their best effort (And despite Honey Jr refereeing that too. He’s quite the busy little bee on Brazil Day… do you see what I did there… Honey Jr… bee… hee hee!)
For lunch we got price gauged again… €10 for a plate of two sausages and chips (that’s French fries to my American brethren) or in my case, €10 for a plate of chips since I don’t like Chipolatas. At least the €10 was the same price for everybody (but then again, I’m not too sure… I forgot to ask the holidaying Parisians how much they were charged, but knowing Big Man, how much he likes money, and how much he dislikes Parisians, I’m going to go ahead and wager that they paid more).
That is when he wasn’t stealing her mother’s ice cream anyway.
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