There isnt that much to say about Florianopolis barring the fact that it is a beautiful part of the world. The story of Florianopolis is the story of the stories...

First, the story of Carsten.
We met him on the bus to Florianopolis. He's a Danish geyser. He got chowed by some flying ants at Iguaçu falls. Half way through the overnight journey, his hand and one leg had swollen up so much that it looked like he had elephantitis. We kinda took him under our wing and ended up sharing a beach apartment with him for the next 3 days. Whilst we enjoyed lazy days on the soft, white sand beaches, hikes through sand dunes and the fabulous seafood, poor Carsten did not have such a good time. When we returned to the flat each night, we heard the same sad story. His favourite expressions were:
"It's still swollen but doesn't hurt as much"
"If only it wasn't Easter weekend I could change my flights"
"I just want to go home"
Poor guy!

Next Lindsay's story of bikini shopping
The Brazilian swimwear market is targeted at those who have beautiful, brown beach bodies. Lucky for Nick, after 2 months of the summer sun and a metabolism faster and more criminal than Oscar Pistorius, he sauntered into the shop and bought the first pair of swimmers he saw. Unlucky for me, after 2 months of being on holiday and with a taste for dulce de leche, fried calamari and no gym plus the inability to tan, buying a new bikini was somewhat more difficult. There was success in the end but I'm pleased that job is over and done with.

The story of why Nick is not cut out for surfing
Buoyed (!) by the excellent experience of surfing in Cape Town I decided to rent a surf board for a few hours. I waited until about 4pm when the Atlantic breakers were raining down on the beach in crashing, relentless sets. This seemed to be when the surfers started to amass, bobbing up and down in lines a couple of hundred metres into the ocean.
Es que tiene que llevar camiseta? I asked the woman. She said it didn't matter whether I wore a tshirt or not. Personal choice.
The board I was given was on the large side, allowing greater stability for the learner but at 15 reales it seemed a bargain for 2 hours. That view changed when I got into the ocean.
I asked Lindsay to accompany me with the bodyboard. However, after about 10 minutes it became apparent that her bikini was not made for this force of surf. Every ten seconds a wave would come to remove her top and this resulted in significant, errrr, overexposure. She might as well have been wearing no top at all, so she soon retired back to the sand where I'm sure she was given a round of applause by every man on the beach.
I was smashed in the eye by my board the moment she left. Then smashed in the ear by the crest of a wave with the force of the punch of a welterweight boxer. Then I was smashed and held under by a wave which dragged me along the ocean bed. I've still got the graise on my stomach. The board was rough and the constant rubbing on my chest resulted in a tenderness which still persists a week later. I rode a small wave into the beach and returned the board in ignominy. Who wants to be a surfer anyway? I'm prepared to leave it to the Aussies and the Cornish from now on.

And finally, the story of the brilliant Posada Aconchego.
150 meters from the barra de lagoa beach, this is one of those gems of accommodation that isn't mentioned in any tourist pamphlets. We were directed to it by a friend of the owners, whilst looking for a pozzie to escape the general smell of decay and sickness of the manky flat we had been sharing with Carsten. Aconchego (the Conch Shell) is run by a fussy little Japanese woman called Mira and assisted by her doddery German husband Hans. Both were absolutely delightful, as was the pousada itself. Somehow we managed to communicate as a group although the Venn diagram of languages at our disposal (Spanish, English, German, Japanese, Portuguese, Afrikaans) never seemed to intersect at all. Through good will and patience we were able to express difficult concepts like 'can we check out at 8pm instead of noon so we can shower before we get on a 15 hour bus ride after a hard day's surfing and sunbathing at the beach using your complementary deck chairs, sunbrella, bodyboard, and by the way could you book us a taxi to the long haul bus station for about 8.30 but please get the cheapest price possible'.
Despite the fact that none of us had understood a blind word either couple had uttered over our 24 hour relationship it generated the kind of emotional parting that warranted the swapping of contact details, handshakes, hugs and genuinely sad goodbyes from all parties. We tried to get them to take extra money for the extraordinarily late check out but this just offended them.
If you ever decide to run a B and B you will want to try to give everybody who comes through your doors the same feeling of genuine affection that they gave us. God bless them.