Tour de Reino Unido – part cinco

Dear readers,

Tuesday 9th July 2014

With another unplanned day in Florida, Pamela and I were a bit lost in what to do. I looked on the internet to see if there was anything in Fort Lauderdale, as we had already seen enough of Miami. The website said there was a big fleamarket. We both thought we would give it a try. Unfortunately it wasn’t worth a try at all.

At the front of this strange building, an ugly piece of architecture, was a small sports car museum, with Ferraris etc. It had a nice old aroma. Unfortunately the rest of the market did not smell nice and it was all incredibly overpriced for useless junk. Pamela bought a pair of sunglasses which was the best thing there, as well as a phone cover which uses pictures from the Internet. I bought two coconuts. That was it. Oh. And some Cuban food, which was alright. As we waited for Josh to collect us, Pamela said that she wish she could wipe the place from her memory. The people working were the poor of America. Struggling to survive. The place looked as if it hadn’t been revamped since a depressing time in the 80s and I genuinely felt for the people trying to sell random shit to a very small minority of people who visited. I don’t like to mock poverty or the working class like the media do these days. But I was glad to leave the place. It was such great a contrast to South Beach the day before. Both places freaked me out a little.

When we returned, we watched a game of football which left the world gawping. I remember going to Brazil and falling in love with the life and football. That was 11 years ago. Ronaldinho was doing samba moves on the football pitch. Back then they had the right to call themselves the best in the world. Now their hopes rested on a striker called Neymar who looks like a mosquito. They had been aggressive throughout the competition and no one was particularly enjoying their football. When the well oiled Germans ripped them apart, I could only see it happening. The same with England against these saxons four years before. The fans didn’t deserve it. But as my dad pointed out. The Brazil fans in the stadiums were all white middle class; the poor black communities were unable to afford the tickets. Neighborhoods were torn down to create these stadiums. Poor construction workers had died. Brazil’s organisation had been criticised a lot. The fans in the stadiums, I didn’t feel that bad. The everyday working class Brazilian? Tragic.

Then Pam had the fright of her life. It seemed that Iberia had cancelled her flight but not mine. We bought our flights through the airline and they charter it with a different airline, so we were actually flying with American Airlines. I checked in easily, but American Airlines had no idea who Pamela was. Poor Pam’s face was more shocked than the Brazilians. After 3 phone calls to the Iberia offices in Madrid (they kept hanging up; delightful Spanish customer services) we got in contact with Iberia in Guatemala who confirmed Pamela’s details had been deleted. A nice Chapina put her details back online. We were ready to go tomorrow.

Wednesday 9th July 2014

A late rise, we were at the airport by lunch time. All worries put to bed, Pamela and I were on a plane only two thirds full so we could put our feet up, relax, and enjoy the doubles in alcohol they were giving us throughout the flight.

Next stop; London!


About Nicholas Rogers

I am an English journalist/copywriter living in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, and I have been here since 2011. I originally came to work with Casa Alianza, which supports street kids and vulnerable youths. I then stayed on, after meeting Pamela Cruz Lozano, who calls me her adopted Catracho. I work freelance journalism and I have my own translation business. Why did I come here? For the challenge, to open my mind and get out of my comfort zone. I love literature and I've written a book with street kids. I write novels, short stories and poetry, all of which you will find on this blog, as well as a lot of information about Honduras. View all posts by Nicholas Rogers

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