Broken, Beaten, Bruised in Brooklyn (ok, Manhattan but I like alliteration an awful lot)

My life is the stuff of  which movies are made.

Lifetime movies perhaps, but movies nonetheless.

Sure, we all have our crosses to bear but let's be real - some of us are dealt far different hands than others. Now, I was not born into a country where the oppression of women is sanctioned, regardless of how you feel about the recent election results. And I am very grateful that not only do I possess all four limbs, but they all function with a fair amount of ease and reliability.

But sometimes , having your arms and legs is just not enough (see: Lorelai Gilmore).

Life is hard. And when life gets hard you have two choices, you can grin and bear it, it you can run.

My natural inclination is a position teetering somewhere between the two, so after two months spent within the four walls of my Northern Manhattan compound doing nothing but bearing (grinning was far less frequent) - I ran.

Two days ago I booked a ticket to a place that was warm and inexpensive. And today, I am on a plane, dressed in a maroon sweatsuit looking far more ready to enter the hallowed halls of Bada Bing than headed for Southeast Asia.

Cambodia to be exact.

A country known for it's majestic temples and genocidal tendencies, it offers 80 degree temperatures in December, 10 dollar a night accommodation and 9000 miles between me and my real life.

With my life, and my wardrobe, spread across 3 states I was not as prepared for this spontaneous voyage as I typically am, so I had to forego my trusty backpack and go to travel staples for a personalized  LL Bean oversized tote, filled with a smattering of spandex based clothing, a pair of chucks and my camera.

There are many suggestions on how to get over heartbreak; how to grieve the loss of a loved one; how to bounce back from personal tragedy. When you spend a couple months in self imposed isolation you might come across an article or two telling you to eat well or spend time with friends. Start new projects or meditate. My father was always adamant with the adage 'don't isolate.' I can recall his repeating of this simple statement numerous times throughout my life but, without him here to enforce it, I was left to my own devices.

On a plane now, wedged next to a genial man from Virginia, after an early morning ride to Newark, a 6 hour flight to SFO and a 6 second layover before hauling ass to the terminal leaving for Seoul, South Korea I am no longer alone. I'm trapped in a tin box with a thousand Koreans and no access to the outside world. An ancient tin box with no personal television sets built in, a necessity when on a 12 hour flight. Little relief is experienced by watching the single small television mounted to the ceiling playing videos of NKOTB, Hall and Oats and a non-descript girl with a bob and a bralette from the early 90s. The fact that the feed freezes and skips only adds to the excitement. No WiFi and no end in sight.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse and I couldn't get anymore uncomfortable the flight attendants offered a turbulent beverage service all over my new Sopranos inspired threads, which at least shook things up for a moment.

If this is what being back in public is like I'll gladly retire to my couch.

But now I'm in it, half way across the world living my ''Oprah best life,'' trying to make a semblance out of the rubble from the past couple of years, and all I can think about is love lost. 12 hours with no distraction and a mind that spins and wanders even when Netflix and Hulu are only a finger tap away is a dangerous thing.

The poor portly fellow next to me who must wonder how I go from the charming butterfly I am one moment to a woman on the edge of crisis in a tearful cocoon the next. Though he is a man, so perhaps he is oblivious.

After an excruciating 12+ hours fraught with stale air, indifferent flight attendants, repulsive cuisine and a major lack of entertainment we made it - the majestic mountains of Seoul draped in undulating fog greeted us just before landing in a hazy cloud of smog, making it all the more clear why some of our friends from the Far East wear surgical masks as their favorite accessory.

A quick goodbye to my new travel bestie Dexter who was off to simulate war crimes for a living with the government up North and I was headed to the international wing for a 7:30pm flight to Phnom Phen, but not before sampling some udon noodles that tasted of fiery hot pepper and fish - delish.

With mere moments to exchange my paper ticket that said United seat 20 a to a paper ticket that said Asiana Airlines seat 20 and to admire the beautifully cherubic children scurrying around the terminal it was on yet another plane. My third of the day. And my last, hopefully, for a while.

5 more turbulent hours, both emotionally and otherwise and I was in Phnom Phen, where I was met with a 30 dollar visa charge, not one but two Burger Kings and a throng of Cambodians as impatient and unaware of personal space as they were sticky from the tropical night air.

On the road in an open air tuk tuk and I gotta say, as hesitant as I often am to hop a plane to nowhere with no plan and no friends, for the first time all over again. Part of it always feels like coming home.

Guten Tag, Cairo

I'm exhausted, my back aches, blisters have most certainly begun to resist the canvas of my Converse and my mother has already begun to annoy me - have I mentioned that we haven't even left yet?

Hopping on the NJT I had a belly full of bagel and a head full of chaos.

Following what can only be identified as the darkest two years of my life, I am marking the anniversary by making my virgin sojourn to Middle East - and bringing my mother to boot.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like ages about what life has in store, I am ready for another adventure, if not the slightest bit weary of the heat and oppression of my given gender.

Never one to back down from a challenge ... here we go!

They say Baby Boomers are the ones trapped between generations, caring for their aging parents and still housing their recent college graduate children struggling to find sustainable work. But maybe that is simply the cycle of life.

A couple of years back I traveled to Morocco with my youthful, brilliant and in shape father and there were most certainly moments where I felt like I was guiding a toddler through the playground one sandbox at a time.

This time I am with my mother and the destination is the Middle East, Egypt to be exact, and though I am expecting and ready for some culture shock hand-holding, I did not foresee needing to help her properly use headphones, explain how food service works on a jet, or unbuckle her safety belt for her whilst still on the United flight. Literally.

Perhaps child and parent roles are not so clearly defined and one is not always teacher while the other is student. Maybe it is more of a reciprocal relationship through life, or at least it is once you've reached your thirties. Or maybe, as is the case from time to time, it's just me...

Descending upon Munich is a beautiful tapestry of manicured farm land and adobe colored thatched roofs, intermittently sprinkled into the landscape in what I can only imagine are quaint villages in which there still resides a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker.

After taking a whore's bath in the Munich airport, mom and I dropped our bags at the affront to TSA known as the onsite storage center and headed on the S8 train (the yellow line) to Marienplatz, or for those in the know (see: Wikipedia), city center.

Germany seems to be a quiet place, even if my travel companion does not.

Having worked the majority of the lengthy flight editing photos I am now having trouble transferring those images and am left despondent. Mom, having claimed she has not slept a wink in nearly 20 years, remains surprisingly spry.

The S8 train leads us through the rich, lush countryside and the casual conductor took me by surprise when he presented himself to be a well-coiffed hot German dude with a tightly woven sweater and a backpack, ready to hop into an international spy movie at the drop of a hat. He authoritatively checked our day pass prints out and went alone his way, displaying his pert posterior in the process. Who knew Germans could have fatties too!

The bells of New Town Hall filled the square with music and as we rode the escalator up from the underground train. Here we were met with a crowd, gathered to watch the carousels of figurines built into the Gothic structure spin about, delighting the young and old alike. The sun greeted us warmly and it was a new day; a new city. Trying to remind myself that I am actually in Europe, and not an attraction at Disney World, mom and I strolled about the square, taking in the sights, stopping briefly by a beautifully blue fountain where to German men, chorused, said hello. Delighted that I could actually be hit on in Eastern Europe, especially when having the same clothes on for 2 days straight gave me a boost. Upon second glance one of the said hitter-oners was biracial at the very least and it all began to make sense. Existential crisis averted.

A short walk leads you to St. Peter's cathedral where you can, as I did, light candles for your loved ones who have gone on to hopefully a better place (two in every country for me), climb the bell tower which will make you huff and puff but by the time you see the view from the top you most certainly will not want to blow the house down, and purchase slightly inappropriate postcards with sexual content for your underage nephew.

Just beyond St. Peter's is the beer garden known as Viktualienmarkt. A jovial place surrounded by shops selling handmade crafts and handmade cheese. After some debate on where to eat and even more on where to sit we were set. Two bratwurst, one spicy, on not. Some sweet tasting potato salad. A beer of indeterminate name and, the piece de resistance, a handmade pretzel, on which I may be able to subsist for life.

A sunny spot in what can only be deemed old people heaven was located and mom and I sat down to our feast (about which one of us was FAR more excited than the other) among the crowds of smiling, amiable and perhaps slightly intoxicated seniors. Seating is limited and personal space a foreign concept. Illustrated by  the woman behind me used my spine for support and   the elderly man sitting next to me using broken English and hand gestures to heavily imply that I clearly liked my meal, as a bit of hot mustard and single bite were all that remained on the plate. It is good to know I can be fat shamed in all cultures.

With no particular direction in mind we stumbled upon the posh part of Munich where store fronts like Gucci and Ferragamo lined the streets and not much else, so it was back to the New Town Hall for us. The obligatory German doll for my niece purchased at tourist prices neatly tucked into my camera bag and we sat down among the mullets and questionable fashion choices of Europe for a cup of tea.

When the weather began to turn, so did we - toward the subway - and back to Flughafen München. Mom seems to have gotten confused between when we had decided we needed to be at the airport and what time our flight actually departed so we had plenty of time to patronize Airbraus and for me to aggressively fight with my computer in an attempt to deliver images to a client I was now certain would be late. Nothing like the desperate feeling of helplessness and rage of frustration to start off a mother-daughter week of bonding!

After pacing the tiled floors of the airport in search of food we settled at Selmans, an eatery offering everything from octopus to omelets and apparently boasting the most fragrant fake flowers that ever did exist as the look of ecstasy that crossed my mother's face when inhaling a nose full of woven silk almost had me convinced I didn't see the dusty petals.

Ordering a hamburger I was most certainly served a Spam burger, but desperate times call for desperate measures and the mystery meat was consumed with great appreciation and little inquiry.

My mother can be a bit of a prude and the mere mention of the word vagina can cause a litany of reactions. Today it was boisterous disdain and darting glances, looking around for the nuns who were most certainly standing by, rulers in hand, ready to bloody my knuckles and make me a good little girl. Why nuns would be boarding a predominately Muslim flight is beyond me - but there you go. I often wonder if these reactions are generational or personal. That the generation gap between a child of the 50s and a child of the 80s is so great that one is extremely modest and the other not so much is a question I simply cannot answer. The fact that this particular genitalia-related incident was encountered while boarding a plane with women draped in yards of dark fabric to maintain their own modesty most certainly played a role.

Regardless, we were set to bid adieu to Germany and move on to the next leg of our journey...

A Hazy Shade of Winter - The Fat Girl Edition

Up early thanks for a text from a fellow traveling friend (thanks Brandon!) - in a time zone far far away, I was able to make it to the provided continental breakfast downstairs at Hotel Milano which, in this country seems to include deli meat and cheeses. Not my steez.

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!

Pink Cheeks and Dusty Rose Skies

A sleepless night of American television, gradual and sustained jet lag and thoughts swirling through my head like a kaleidoscope of mayhem made for plenty of tossing and turning in my itty bitty bed.

The alarm went off at 8:30 am, but I did not rise until nearly an hour later, waiting for the clean ocean air and bright morning sun to permeate my cavern of solitude by way of room 18 before once again donning my cat suit for a morning run along the ocean front. A travel tradition of mine that continues to be one of my favorite.

I've found that this is the quietest hour in any given city - the morning run hour. My brief experience in Uruguay has shown me that perhaps there is not a noisy one here, or maybe it is just the fact that I have city hopped since I was a teenager and San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles all begin to bustle at some point. Not only does this allow for time to clear my head and get my sweat on, but there are always sights to be seen. 

A lone Guadelupe sits out upon a mountain of shattered shells a few hundred meters past Los Dedos; two blocks over from my hotel. A small shrine built to the Virgin; an amphitheater filled with fake flowers and placards expressing gratitude where this beautiful lady stands. If you've ever had the privilege of visiting my living space you know I have a penchant for religious imagery, Guadalupe in particular. A tattered canvas of her from Peru currently hangs on my wall in New York, the large crucifix from Guatemala put away years ago after my then paramour didn't like the idea of it hanging ominously over my bed. Understood.

So she was a welcomed pit stop this morning. A buenas dia to my soul.

Not too far down the road there was a  fisherman of maybe 45, perched atop the rocky shore flanked by his son, wrapped in a fire engine red coat; his handy assistant riffling through the tackle box. 

My father bought me my own rod and feel many years ago. We would fish on the American River and used vegetarian bait. Needless to say our journeys were not terribly fruitful but memories I have kept close to my heart. Seeing this father and son continuing our tradition without knowing it seemed fitting on Father's Day, 2015. I'm eternally grateful to have had a father who took me on new and exciting excursions and my heart is warmed when I see other fathers who do the same. Sometimes I think i'll be wasted as a mother, as I would certainly have been a fantastic father.

Please don't see this as a cry for help or a reason to call Vanity Fair - that was not a Caitlyn Jenner moment by any stretch of the imagination.

Allow me to paint a picture for you of how mellow an off season Sunday is in Punta Del Este. The street lights, scattered every few blocks are turned off. Not the flashing red or yellow, as you may have seen stateside, they are literally off - evidently trusting your fellow man really means something down here.

Part California beach town part Santorini, the architecture here is confused, but beautiful. Couples come out hand in hand, dog leash laws be damned, carting their mate gourd glasses and thermoses to walk the perimeter of the peninsula seemingly just for the enjoyment of it. Imagine that!

Noisy birds and slow moving cars are the only distraction from the tranquility this town has to offer.

After returning back to Milano I bathed under the rain showewr and gathered myself. Ready to face the day. Retracing my steps from my morning run I meandered the roads looking for nourishment, as I was hungry and chairs were just being set out and dusted off at for business at noon! I made my way back out to the far end of town where I had spotted two statues facing the crashing waves. Upon closer inspection I saw that they were terribly dilapidated mermaids, built from stone and tile into the rock formations that guard the shore. With pert exposed breasts, naked and facing the sun I realized my instincts were right and this was the perfect place to leave a part of my father on this particular journey; on this particular day. Having lived in a childhood home where ladies in various states of undress were either hung on the wall or hanging from his arm I knew my dad would be pleased with my selection and most definitely let out one of his distinctive lion laughs. 

Out on the rocky cliff I dropped bits of grey dust and bone into the ocean. As I watched the sprinkled remnants sink to the sea floor I hoped some fish would swallow them whole and that my father could live on in more than just me (and my sister, of course).

Neil Young allowed me a moment of my own, alone on the cliff with my 'Old Man.'

Back past the Virgin again and I finally located food, and wifi in the way of El Pasiva. I had warmed from the walk, going so far as to take off my jacket for the first time this week but quickly found when seated on the patio at this laid back eatery I would not only need to re-bundle, but exercise patience - needless to say speedy service was not their strong suit.

Served the very specific and unique part of the chicken that seems to consist mostly of oil as skin coupled with a salad, the bulk of which was sliced onion, accompanied by some shredded carrots and an egg - no lettuce in sight - was disappointing. Famished, not having eaten for well over 12 hours I devoured the papas fritas and picked around the healthy parts of the meal, for which I had been immensely proud of myself for ordering. When the bill came and totaled over 800 pesos my pride faded.

Back to the bus terminal I painfully fumbled through my ever decaying Spanish and hopped another COT bus for the low low price of about 3 bucks to head 30 minutes outside of town to Casapueblo.

As a hotel I had seen this Spanish-inspired structure and considered staying here as a hotel guest, but when I saw they were booked until I'd likely be in the throws of menopause I made it a day trip out to see Carols Paez Vilano's masterpiece and get to catch the sunset from the cliffs, a must do when visiting the south of Uruguay.

A handsome man with fantastically bushy caterpillar eyebrows assisted in my exit from the bus along the highway, casually pointing to a blue sign saying Bienvenedos a Casapueblo. I took a right and rambled down a very long, very poorly labeled road in hopes of reaching my destination; of reaching a destination before night fell and the well mannered dogs that roam the streets free here would not have my carcass upon which to feast - lord knows they could eat for weeks!

Finally, I reached my the end of the road, part parking lot, part awe inspiring architecture. A quick right and you're at Casapueblo. To say breathtaking is an understatement. Built into the side of a mountain, on a perfect central coast California day, the water sparkled like tinsel on a tree and the stark white building, Gaudi meets Greece, is both literally and figuratively a work of art.

For 200 pesos you can gain entrance to the gallery and purchase over priced reproductions of Carlos Paez Vilaro's work, as I did. Sadly most of the property seems to be closed off either for construction or for privacy, but the view is gorgeous and you can sweet talk your way into the terrace to enjoy a Coca Cola Lite an an alfajor, a treat easily found in these parts. A merengue covered cookie filled with something icky, so I just pick around it like a petulant child, was delicious. They sell these at my local bodega as well, but I can say with absolute certainty they look nothing like this!

Basking in the late afternoon sun, feeling the freckles multiply on my browning face I consumed massive amounts of sugar, listened to Brazilian jazz, and sat. Sat in the sun. Sat in the quiet. Sat in the solitude.

Tears once again invaded my big brown eyes, as they are wont to do - but for a couple opposing reasons. It is so beautiful here and in this moment I am content. As at peace as I felt, I will admit, my heart yearn for someone with whom to share these moments - a feeling I used to be ashamed of, as I saw wanting a partner as a sign of weakness but a subject on which I have since changed my tune.

The way I see it, I am a compassionate, witty, adventurous  woman and truth be told, a champ in the sack (sorry, Mom). Knowing that I want a man, an equal, a partner to share my already fairly kick ass life with is a sign of strength, not weakness. As I mentioned the other day, I believe in my heart I've already met this man - now we just need to wait for things to fall into place and for his spirit to commingle with mine. It will happen. Of this I am sure. After all, thoughts are physical.

After a few more moments of tranquil peace selfie season began and the Brazilian tourists descended upon my nice little terrace and took a barrage of shots in every combination known to man. Luckily they also have no sense of personal space (insert Lee Greenwood jam here), so the fact that their altered butts and sweatered elbows hit me multiple times not only didn't give them a moments pause, it didn't even elicit a brief pardon. Reading a chapter in Bobos In Paradise about everyone thinking themselves a celebrity couldn't have come at a better time.

With about an hour to spare before sunset, I made my way out of Casapueblo and hiked down the hill to hopefully get a better vantage point of the property and have some moments with the sunset. The deck had been so warm my cheeks pinked but as the sky turned a dusty rose my face blanched a grInga white once again.

Despite some kids smoking a joint (legally everywhere in Uruguay, I might add), the sunset was lovely and I became acutely aware that I have witnessed countless beautiful sunsets all over this planet and for that I was filled with gratitude.

After the show was over, so to speak, a line of cars made their way out and I, the only sunset enthusiast on foot, hightailed it back to the bus stops in Chucks, making it to the parrara just in time to catch the city bus, a significantly lower fair than the posh COT but just as functional.

I drank in the light lined the coast as I headed back to Punta Del Este, knowing with sweet melancholy that this would be my last night in a city I've so thoroughly, if not leisurely, enjoyed.

Back in town I made a pit stop at the local minimart to have my own little corporate picnic back in my hotel room, purchasing goods from a man eager to talk about New York and California (I claimed to be from 'los dos') and, after getting my third converter on this trip, camped out for the evening.

Nerds, salami and sparking water in bed. Who could ask for more?