From what I hear positivity is a choice and and try as I might I don't always succeed is seeing the bright side.
This difficulty often arises first thing in the morning. As I open my eyes (or eye as the case may be with my current health situation), before I can organize my thoughts, or set my intention for the day, my heart hurts.
I'm not sure where the term broken heart came from, as my understanding after something is snapped in two it can suffer no more, but that is simply not the case. It can be crushed, and smushed. Or perhaps it should be called heart torture, as mine feels like it is water boarded on a daily basis. Attacked from all sides.
I realize there is no point in inhabiting this emotion. After all, it's only a feeling. Something temporary, but when the temporary lasts longer than expected, longer than acceptable, the pain can be quite difficult to ignore.
This very morning I defiantly dragged myself out from under the warm, dense fortress of my borrowed bed and dressed. Dressed for the chilly world that awaits outside.
Needless to say my bad ass pep talk from the night prior was left on the pillow case, along with my drool.
Waking in time for the complimentary breakfast I headed downstairs in order to drink some hot tea and choose from a myriad of food products bound to spike my blood sugar first thing in the morning. Perhaps that mixed with the juxtaposition of piped in Frank Sinatra jams would assist in lifting my spirits.
Rounding the corner to grab the CA1 bus to Tres Cruces I couldn't help but marvel and the stunning and ubiquitous street art blanketing this otherwise drab city and spent the 30 minute bus ride listening to American music popular when my parents were children and watching the world go by.
No one here speaks English yet the Beatles and the Goo Goo Dolls are on the public bus soundtrack... I'm suspect.
Luckily the bus brought me in a new direction, different than my journeys on foot the few days I've spent here, unfortunately this just offered more views of very loosely deemed pizzerias and endless leather shops selling Spice Girls inspired platform boots, the seeming footwear of choice in Montevideo.
By the time STP began to yodel through the speakers I thought for sure I was on the Delorean of buses, traveling back in time to my pubescent, the birth place of my battle with emotional distress; the birth place of my battle for independence - though the two are not inextricably linked.
Safely deposited at Tres Cruces I located COT and paid the 250 Uruguayan pesos for my first class ticket while an old woman yelled at the poor young ladies behind the desk. Wishing desperately I could understand what was so upsetting to her I politely took my ticket and went to wait with the other droves upon the primary colored plastic seats. There are moments in my travels where I feel so comfortable or distracted that I need to pinch myself - remind myself that I am in fucking Uruguay. That I'm half way around the world, alone on an adventure. I think like anything, one becomes so accustomed to something they take it for granted and I am certainly guilty of that. Though sitting in the subterranean mall of the bus station isn't super sexy I do realize it is a place none of my compatriots have been uncomfortably seated, nor have I prior to this, and for that I am grateful.
I am also grateful to watch the Soul Glo John Oats look alike seated across from me partake in the ritual of drinking Yerba mate tea - something commonplace in the culture down here and though steel thermoses now seem to be employed for those wanting to drink on the run the entire process seems arduous with the straw and loose leaf tea and special mug. It is both confusing and admirable - I always appreciate native cultural traditions being practiced, even if exercised while wearing a Quicksilver sweater.
On the bus and on my way I was mildly irked that the man next to me had seemingly stole my window seat, but since the city isn't much at which to gander I let it go and made myself comfortable. It wasn't until about 45 mins into the ride when an adorable young boy sporting his soccer team championship jacket told me 15 was his seat that I was aided in realizing I was on the wrong bus.
Fortunately I dealt with this is the way any educated, sophisticated, well traveled upstanding citizen would - I exclaimed motherfucker.
Unable to calm down and go with the flow in numerous factions of my life, travel is not one of them and I spoke to the conductor, located another seat, and headed for Punts del Este. The warmth of the bus cabin and slow rocking motion put me almost immediately to sleep in my new asiento and by the time I woke, an hour had gone by and the bleak greys of the city had been replaced with Kelly green rolling hills.
Finally I made it to parrara Punta del Este and de-boarded, checking my notes for the name of my hotel for the next two days. I located the taxi stand and got in the back with my two black bags, letting the driver know I needed to get to hotel Milano. That's when he turned the engine off.
Immensely appreciative that he chose to step out of the vehicle and point in the direction of the hotel, about 3 blocks away, as opposed to driving me around town and charging me tourist prices I wished him well and schlept on over to the Mediterranean inspired abode.
It smelled of paint but the beach was a block away and the tiny beds looked well taken care of - I was content. A little wifi break would do me good before hitting the mean streets of this sleepy beach town.
Having booked this trip for very specific reasons on very specific dates I can never, especially with the joys of wifi and an iPhone, escape reality.
3 days ago marked the 1 year anniversary of my father's unexpected passing. I had wanted to be away from the world in which I regularly function because it makes it easier not to think about the fear and pain and gaping hole that day left in it's wake. I am so fortunate to have people in my life that love me and who want to make it known they care about me, but a cryptic or prophetic text on a day such as that just sort of stings.
Ellen Degeneres had a joke in a standup special from years back about how when someone accidentally walks in on you in a public restroom and apologizes your immediate reaction is 'that's ok' as if you're inviting them in to watch you wipe.
Today, when accessing wifi at the hotel I got a message from a friend telling me I could call her tomorrow if I needed to talk. We went back and forth a couple times before I asked why the offer was made and it was then that she reminded me it would be Father's Day. Of course! I thanked her for her generous offer and display of love but I had almost forgotten tomorrow was Father's Day and was left with no other option that to essentially invite her to watch me wipe.
The pain is there whether someone points it out or not. It's just that sometimes, you wish they wouldn't.
Pulling myself together and my greasy hair back, I headed back toward the bus station which happens to be adjacent to the only tourist attraction I've seen on postcards from this part of the world - a huge statue if a hand coming out of the sand. Photo op complete I went down to the ocean to a) ensure all of my clothing and camera gear would become embedded with sand for the rest of my trip and b) with it being a balmy 21 degrees, the warmest it's been since I got here, To sit on the beach, listen to the waves, and be as close to my father as I can be.
After watching a father and daughter build a sand castle with traces of envy I made my way to the main drag filed with eateries and souvenir shops. Never knowing what to get my nephews, as they don't seem to like anything I ever get them I decided to get a taste of home and head to the local BK for food and free wifi.
This did not taste nothing like home, but it did give me a chance to FaceTime with a dear friend and her tank topped husband so it was well worth the 350 pesos.
After gazing lovingly at my spirit animal in the form of the most obedient and patient Dalmatian ever waiting for his owners just outside f the glass facade I traversed the peninsula to catch the sunset.
Finding a bench where just BJ (Billy lets me call him that) and I could sit and watch the sunset quietly together seemed like the perfect end to a mellow day, but the bench I selected must have been next to a placard designating this an official selfie spot because it was not long until some Spanish speaking family of tourists smiled and posed until their hearts content unacceptably close to me. Luckily as that door closed, another opened and I found a long, narrow cement dock on which I could dangle my feet above the ocean and watch the sky marble into shades of orange and pink and the sun cloaked itself in spotty clouds and eventually dipped below the line of horizon, leaving streaks of Lisa Frank hues.
A long walk along the planked boardwalk led me to the tip of the peninsula and back again, this time with stops for both yet another pair of new earrings ad, in the dead of winter, ice cream. Knowing that the calories in my pistachio and menthe cone are like resistant magnets to my ass when in another time zone I felt no guilt while devouring the myriad of greens swirled to perfection into a sugar cone think and dense.
Evidently someone had been jay walking in this city that seems to shut down even earlier than the capitol, as there was a sole police car outside of the ice cream shop with no sign of crime or accident.
Looping back around to my home for the evening the night air sank deep into my bones and I kew it was time to tuck myself in.
As I entered Hotel Milano I got the rush of renting a new apartment, due to the foreign environment as well as the strong perfume of fresh, cheap paint haphazardly splashed upon the walls. Making my way up to the second floor and sliding the key into the door marked room 18 led me to two small twin beds (do they make a smaller size?) and a flat screen TV.
After a scalding hot shower I took the remnants of my skin and wrapped it in as much clothing as I could before burying myself under plaid blankets and using the remote to locate the only channel without dubbed programming. For the intellectual Uruguayan there were subtitles on a movie that barely held my interest but at least spoke my language.
It took me nearly an hour to realize I was half way into a Father's Day marathon. Proof further there is truly no escape.
'Till tomorrow...
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