19 August 2010
Breakfast
Being a Sofitel, the hotel has plenty of French guests, and these are easily spotted: women with beautifully cut skirts more suitable for cocktail hour, or at least with evidence that they've given some thought to what they are wearing, even thought they would in some cases have done better to come to different conclusions (particularly about shoes). Elegance of manner unfortunately fails to match elegance of clothing, with attempts to jump the queue for the egg and waffle station (twice, by different individuals, on two different days), and one woman approaching the toaster at speed to claim the slightly warmed bread she had abandoned there five minutes before as if it was about to be stolen: 'Zat ees mine!'
As for the males: pale blue T-shirt, lemon shorts, and lilac espadrilles? Yes, French. Couldn't really be anything else.
The Brazilians aren't numerous, and in terms of big hair, an excess of frill, generous embonpoint, and general curvaceousness very tightly clad in denim are not hard to spot either. Many resemble the cast members of the soap operas that seem to run 24 hours a day on television, and which are inescapable in most restaurants, since these are liberally dotted with screens.
The Americans fall into two types: triangular torso'd surfer dudes, who wear T-shirt that mention surfing just in case you can't read all the other clues; and their cultural opposites, the inevitable supertankers manoeuvring ponderously in the narrow lanes between the buffet tables, overheard saying, 'I'm just looking for a second desert' (the whole room overheard this), and blocking all other traffic.
And the British? Just sitting in the corner being typically snide.
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