This is a story passed down through the family.

My grandfather had some odd friends. One day, they invited him to go mushroom hunting with them around the local area. (He lived on a farm.) Obviously, the friends gave him some important tips to make sure they got the correct things before leaving my grandfather to hunt for his own mushrooms. They both got a reasonable amount and headed home.

Of course, once my grandmother saw the pile of mushrooms, she decided to cook them for breakfast. However, being naturally slightly dubious about these mushrooms, she gave none to the kids, a little to my granddad, and she had the rest.

My granddad headed out to work away from the farm. My mum, eleven years old at the time, then started to notice that her mum was slightly off; she seemed to have a dreamy expression. Then, she started talking about the wonderful music, freaking out my mum. Once Grandmother started talking about going ice skating in a Brazilian summer, my mum decided she needed help.

She loaded her mother and her younger brother into the car and set off toward the neighbours’ house twenty minutes away.

My grandmother ended up on a blissful two-day trip.

To this day, it is debated about the friends:

1. Were they secret mushroom gatherers and didn’t mention this to my grandfather?
2. Did they tell my grandfather, but he either forgot or misunderstood? (Portuguese was not his first language.)
3. Did neither of them know what on Earth they were doing and nearly poisoned the family?

We think all are equally likely, knowing my oblivious grandfather and his odd mates.

In Brazil, by law, there is a priority line for many services, e.g., supermarket checkouts, banks, and many ticket-selling stations. To be in the priority line, you must be above a certain age, have a physical or neurological disorder, be injured, have small children, or be pregnant. There is no limit to how early on in your pregnancy you must be, so technically, you could have just conceived and be able to use the line.

My husband and I are visiting São Paulo, and a friend has joined us. As it’s late January, it is raining, a lot, so we decide to go to one of the museums around the city. When we arrive, it appears the world and his wife has had the same idea, and it is packed.

There is no message saying the priority line cannot be used to get tickets for other people who can’t use it. Therefore, I volunteer to get the tickets so I can get moving quicker as I am sixteen weeks pregnant. (While not obviously pregnant, I am also no longer flat as a pancake.) This makes sense to the others; if the priority person can only get tickets for themselves, they still end up waiting which defeats the purpose of having a priority line. I get dull pain under my growing bump if I stand still too long, so it’s a good option for me.

It quickly becomes clear that the museum’s way to control the crowds is to sell the tickets in batches, which means that even my line doesn’t move for about twenty minutes, in a hot and crowded room. My husband and friend offer to get some water for me as they notice I’m a little off, and they head off to the cafe area (as they also want coffee) while I continue to wait with a growing pain around my hip.

As I wait, both lines get longer.

After about twenty minutes, the attendants start calling people forward. It turns out that the museum is open for free today, so they are going through people quickly. I am called forward soon after.

Attendant: “Here is your ticket.”

Me: “Oh, I need three, please.”

Attendant: “Um, hang on.”

The attendant calls for a supervisor, who comes over and looks me up and down.

Supervisor: “You need to join the back of the line.”

Me: “Um, I’m pregnant. I’m allowed in the priority line.”

Supervisor: “Can you prove it? Do you have a positive test result or record book from your doctor?”

That’s right: this random woman wants to see my private medical records before giving me museum tickets. This is in no way allowed; while they can disapprove, the priority line is self-regulated. If you say you can use it, you can. It mostly works, as surprising as that is. As I am pregnant, I am allowed to use it, end of.

I must admit, the pain from standing still but mostly thirst and heat get to me. I pull up my loose T-shirt and tug my shorts down slightly — not exposing myself, I hasten to add — showing my rounded belly, which is a bit hidden by my preferred clothes when not breathing in.

Me: “I have this. I don’t carry around my medical documents on holiday.”

Supervisor: “Well, where is your ‘group’?”

Me: “Getting me water after I started to feel a bit unwell in the line.”

I indicated the bar they had where they sold water.

The supervisor gave me a long look. The attendant did have the three tickets in her hand, and while I could have grabbed them, I wanted to wait for her to give them to me. She was clearly torn between wanting to give them to me and not wanting to upset her supervisor. Eventually, she passed them to me, and I thanked her over and over before walking away to grab the water from my husband.

I don’t know why it became a problem only after I mentioned that I was also getting tickets for other people, but no one said anything before that, and there were no signs saying the people in the priority line couldn’t get tickets for multiple people. (There were just signs that said groups of ten or more needed to alert staff to their presence; I did read the signs around and the display on the TV as I was bored.)

When we got in, my husband joked that I should have peed on a stick there and then, and when we saw some other pregnant women, we were sorely tempted to ask if they had needed to prove their pregnancy, too. (But we didn’t; unlike the supervisor, we know when not to ask questions.)

I’m about nine weeks pregnant. My husband and I are doing some last-minute shopping just before Christmas. As the shop is packed, my husband decides to go through the preferential line for older people, pregnant women, and those with disabilities. To be fair, I have had horrendous morning sickness.

Just before we get in line, we realise we have forgotten something, and I go to find it. It’s normally in the baked goods section, but when I get there, they only have ones with cream cheese (which I can’t eat due to lactose intolerance). The lady at the counter tells me there are some at the bakery, so I get into line there. Which doesn’t move. After about five minutes I go to find my husband.

He has already gone through the line, and he gives me a funny look. Apparently, everyone in the line gave him the side-eye as he was clearly not supposed to be there. I tell him that next time, I’ll wait in line and he can get the missing items, or he can just say to the nosy people that his pregnant wife is being sick in the car.

I got married recently and decided to change my name. I actually did it in two stages to include my grandfather’s name as well as my husband’s. I need to do two documents: my ID card (Registro Geral – RG) and my driving licence. To do this, I need to go to the local office where they do both things. I HATE this place; every time I go there, I have some kind of issue (mostly due to being born abroad and having an accent, but I was born Brazilian). The first step is to make the appointment.

My husband and I look everywhere for an option saying something about updating documents after marriage, and we find nothing. We can’t even find one for updating the ID card; we just find the one for the driving licence. Thinking it will do as we want to do both at the same time, we book that, cross our fingers, and wait a week.

We arrive with all the documents we think we need and show our slot, explaining that I need to update my name after getting married. I show the woman at the front desk my RG and driving licence with the marriage certificate. She tsks at us.

Employee: “Well, you need an updated RG to do the driving licence. As you booked the driving licence, you need to rebook.”

It is the same people doing all the jobs; it’s not like I need to go to different departments. It is the same system and same people. We are shocked to learn this, and the begging begins.

We tell her we are sorry, we made a mistake, and there was nowhere that said we need to do the documents in a certain order online (we checked). We ask if she could please give us a ticket with the correct number as we still have an appointment with them (even if it states the wrong reason).

Employee: “No. You need to rebook. The next appointment is available in two days.”

Us: “Why? It is the same people. Can you just amend the booking? We will be seeing the same person — theoretically.”

She is adamant and walks us over to start booking a new appointment while telling us off about wasting one. She gets us to the correct screen and then just walks off. Utterly confused, we go back and ask what is going on. To get rid of us, she sends us to the manager.

Now picture this guy; he is in a government job where he doesn’t think about anything, just pushes the paper around. We arrive and perfectly politely explain the situation, saying we made a mistake, but we are here now, and could he please, please, please just amend our appointment reason so we can get this done? I cannot describe the vacant look on his face as he replies.

Manager: “But you booked it for your driving licence. You need to update your RG first. You need a new appointment.”

And round and round we go in circles. He tells us off for wasting an appointment while asking us why we didn’t book one. We decide to try another tack:

Me: “Okay, let’s imagine I did book an appointment for my RG. The person helping us at the desk isn’t assigned to that role specifically; they just do them in the order they arrive. So isn’t it possible that it could be same person as if I were to go in for changing my licence?”

I can see the wheels turning in this guy’s head before he comes back with:

Manager: “But you didn’t make an appointment for your RG. You made an appointment for your driving licence — which you can’t do as you don’t have an updated RG.”

Twenty minutes of pleading later, he gives us a new appointment number and sends us back to reception with permission to jump the intake queue.

And so we check in and wait, thinking, “We won the battle.”

This is when the confusion starts again. The employee asks for the marriage certificate and my RG, which I give over. She then starts to input the data. Then comes the news:

Employee: “We need to call the state police and have them give permission to issue a RG as you were born abroad.”

My mouth drops open at this. I have already gone through that process, but I was told that it was a one-time thing. They say not to worry; it shouldn’t take long. I am disheartened and try to explain that I am registered in Brazil but just in Brasília, but it doesn’t matter. I was born abroad, and they tell me that every time I will need to renew my ID, I will need permission to do so (even though I was born Brazilian and, in theory, the same as everyone else).

We go off to wait while they send an email. Thirty minutes later, we get called back. The woman smiles at us and says our request was denied. Without thinking, I say:

Me: “They refused me a new RG because I got married?”

She then gives me a confused look.

Employee: “No, you asked to change your birthplace.”

While I would if I could at this point, I know it is impossible. Somehow, our asking about how my birthplace changes things became the request, not to update my name. We explain to her that I am just updating my RG, so I need a new one. Apparently, I just need permission to get one due to where I was born. She says she will see to it personally that the request goes through correctly.

And we wait again. Again, it takes about thirty minutes before I am called up to say it can go through. They ask me to check my details, and I will need a new picture and my fingerprints taken again.

The employee immediately talks about how the girl behind us mucked up the request and it isn’t her fault. At this point, I don’t care; maybe it wasn’t your fault, but don’t just try to shift it. I’ve been here for nearly two hours for something I thought would take ten minutes.

She sees I’m annoyed and comes out with this final gem:

Employee: “This is just how it is for foreigners.”

This is after the woman has seen my two Brazilian birth certificates (with the old and new names) both stating that I am born Brazilian, not naturalized. I just look at her and finish the interaction by saying.

Me: “I am Brazilian.”

I’m an American tourist in Brazil. My husband and I checked into a hotel room. When we got there, there was a puddle on the floor of the bathroom and the sink was dripping.

We asked management to move us to another room.

The new room seemed fine at first, though smaller than the old one. In the middle of the night, the ceiling fan started dripping. Then, it started gushing, like a pipe had broken over it. It was pouring water down onto the bed and onto my husband and me. We were very fortunate that the water didn’t splash onto the desk and wet our laptops, which we both used for work.

We asked again to be moved to another room.

The manager was fairly flummoxed and wanted to see the new leak with his own eyes. He didn’t quite understand how this had happened twice. He kept telling us, “Sirs, this never has happened before,” and, “I am so very sorry this happened to both of you, sirs.”

Together with the manager, we opened the door of the new room. As we opened the door, the ceiling fell in and water started gushing onto the floor. “You are cursed by God,” the manager said. “Get out. We’ll refund you your whole stay. But get out.”

So, we called our travel company, and they booked us another room at a different hotel at no extra charge. The new hotel didn’t leak at all.