Finally, I return to my old caipirinha island haunt from 20 years earlier, Ilha Paquetá. Stepping from the ferry, I’m amazed to find that almost nothing has changed. Cars are still banned. The colonial facades continue to crumble. The island is also, I’m told, a holdout of the old-school lime caipirinha. In the dusty lounge of the Lido Hotel, a grinning, elderly bartender wearing a soccer singlet whips up a classic brew with a brand called 51, a mass-produced cachaça that’s barely more expensive than water.