A bowl of bland cornflakes and a couple tapped keys on the lap top and I was prepared to check out, say goodbye to Punta del Esta and make my way to Minas.
I had miscalculated when I was heading back to the states and realized I had a whole extra day in which I could head back to Montevideo and gaze at the grey skies and sooty city streets or I could take those 24 hours and visit someplace new.
Not having been able to locate a Lonely Planet for just Uruguay, likely due to the size and relative importance of this country, I bought a Brandt guide weeks before leaving and according to the middle-aged white man who wrote it if you're only in Uruguay for a short stay Minas is worth a gander.
Packing up all of my stuff has become a more and more arduous process each day and with all of my gifts purchased and food stuffs tucked away for long bus rides I am no longer so pleased with my less is more approach to packing.
Sherpa'ing my shit back to the bus terminal I remembered just in the nick of time to stop in at el correo to send my obligatory post cards. Having created so many traditions of my own on these journeys I am finding my trips are less wandering and more organized chaos. This is merely part of the reason I never say I'm going on vacation and always say I'm traveling.
Trust me, if you could see me right now. Dirty hair, dirty clothes, bags strewn about, sitting on the roadside waiting for my 12:45 bus to Minas you'd agree - I don't make this look luxurious or relaxing. But if you look closely enough, it just might resemble living.
Bidding adieu to this beach resort destination on a grey and hazy day made me particularly grateful that my Sunday here was so idyllic and that I'd decided to leave this morning and keep my lovely memories in tact.
Sitting on the roadside, which happens to face the beach, I am brought back 10 years. I'm in the South of Spain and I've been traveling with a girlfriend for weeks through early spring in Europe. It's been so cold I've been layering jacket upon hoodie upon t-shirt (some things evidently never change). Once we reach Cadiz it isn't hot, but it's warmer than any place we've seen in far too many days and we run down to the beach, enormous backpacks strapped to our bodies in painful and meticulous ways. Without hesitation we drop our bags, and then drop our tops, and lay in the sun. It is the only time I've ever sunbathed topless and I can't help but think how much has changed in the past decade decade. 10 years, 3 cities, 2 heartbreaks, one loss of a parent, a handful of grey hairs and 32 or so more countries.
Deciding it was far too cold and leggings are not nearly enough insulation to sit outside and ponder my youth I crossed back over the street, and decided to spend the next 90 minutes in Cafe Pecas, which seemed all too appropriate for this freckle face. Inside Good Morning South America plays on the flat screen and the heat was turned all the way up. An amiable man with a glass eye and sunny disposition served me green tea and a cookie and I watched the world go by as I waited for my Bruno bus departure.
Making certain to get on the right bus this time I interrupted the driver's phone conversation to confirm and the plopped my ass down in lucky seat 13.
Though when I boarded it was just me and a slumbering woman, as the bus wound it's way through the countryside it began to fill up.
Navigating the suburbs of Piriapilos I nearly decked a woman seated across the aisle who took this ride as her opportunity to 'catch up on correspondence.' Only problem was, instead of taking the Rachel Green approach and writing letters, she chose to make call after call chatting with, from what I could gather, loved ones of all ages and comprehension levels at a very audible volume. Technology, like many things in life, really is such a blessing and a curse. This being an example of the latter.
The deeper inland we drove the more at peace I felt. Modest homes, candy colored with chickens running free in the yard. Vast stretches of unscathed land, rolling into the distance. And, for good measure, a smattering of senior citizens pushing bicycles and carrying baskets, dressed in wool sweaters and knit caps. This was the Latin America I knew well. This was the Latin America I love.
Sneaking bites of the baguette and peanut butter from inside my bag helped curb the nausea I tend to experience when in any sort of moving vehicle, if by land or sea. I repeat, helped. I was determined to stay awake for this midday ride and take the opportunity to watch the world outside the window, motion sickness be damned!
Finally! Terminal Minas. Realizing I had seen calle 25 de Mayo, the street upon which Hotel Minas is located, when pulling into town, I figured it would be easy enough to locate. I was wrong. After walking in concentric circles for 20 minutes or so I asked for assistance from a sweet young man clearly using all of his youthful determination to sprout a mustache. With a couple sentences and gestures I was able to easily navigate my way to the hotel, climb up the almost hidden stair well and ring the bell.
After sharing nearly all of my personal information with the kind, if downtrodden, woman at the front desk, barring measurements and blood type, and dropping my bags off in room 23 I took a moment. I took a moment to stare, perplexed, at what 60 bucks a night buys you in this town. Moment had. Money is, after all, just paper and there were sights to be seen, so I hit the streets, draped in every article of clothing I brought, including the mustard yellow leg warmers used to help me complete the 2010 NYC marathon, for photos and food. I'm afraid I not terribly successful with either.
After marveling at the interesting lined faces, none of which I properly documented, on the streets and beautifully weathered walls, I began my quest for a meal. Evidently butchershops are plentiful here, yet an actual restaurant, where you can sit down and eat a mixture of protein, carbohydrates and vegetables, is not. Is it that people eat at home here unless in need of deli meat or ice cream? Locating an expansive eatery with a sign boasting it's specials outside and housing an adorable elderly woman inside, I figured I'd take a chance.
What I ended up with was a bottle of room temperature Coca Cola and a cold, condiment-less sandwich of indeterminate origin and indecipherable taste. Luckily it was served in a completely empty, marble floored room with no central heat. In the dead of Winter. The poor old woman was mainlining cafe con leche just to stay alive! Not in the position to negotiate or wanting to be rude and leave, I was left to sit by the window, cold, hungry and terrified I would not be able to eat the rest of the day. Feeling like I was left with few options, I took a bite. Still not able to identify the meat of which this was made or what sort of rippling batter in which it was covered I began to pray.
And then I began to exit.
I just couldn't do it. With the hope that I could find a mini-mart somewhere close by I left the barely touched sandwich and paid up. The barkeep was friendly and asked if I was Brazilian, so the 90 Pesos ended up being well worth it, as I associate Brazilian with Victoria's Secret model. It's pretty much the same thing - is it not? When I corrected him with the appropriate 'no, Estados Unidos' he and his friend replied 'Mr. Obama!' It never ceases to amaze me how little we know about so many others, but how much they all know about us...
Spotting what looked like a place to dine, due to the disproportionate amount of elderly couples sitting in the window, there seemed to be a light at the end of the hunger tunnel. Always drawn to the olds I entered the double doors and discovered it was a butcher shop and a bakery with a small frozen foods section. What the hell! Pringles and strawberry galletas for dinner it was. Having made a summer resolution, after my body instructing me in no uncertain terms to do so by way of paralysis and cellulite, to take better care of myself I was hesitant, but hungry. I never thought I'd be this unable to eat well here. Though I'm not sure why, this is certainly not my first rodeo and I have found in many countries it is either home cooked meals from scratch or total shit in brightly colored packaging from the corner store. New York has spoiled me with it's constant access to ... well, everything. Accepting that my pubescent skin and saddle bags would just have to wait it out for a few more days, I devoured salty and sweet and watched the sky turn golden.
It's cold in the valley here. Really cold. And I was operating on equal parts sugar, salt and fat - so hibernation seemed in order. Moving from one town to the next, each one earlier to bed and later to rise, I'm afraid I'm not getting much late night action, so tonight it me, David Brooks and my heater. Sounds like a threesome made for the books, literally.
Buenos Noche!
