beheard

Uruguay - Disneyland for Dogs

Lustrous coats and full bellies. Untethered, unbothered and beautiful, dogs seem to rule this country.

Never before have I seen such well mannered well taken care of dogs roaming the streets of a foreign land. Fancying myself a bit of the South American dog whisperer I must say I've thoroughly enjoyed communicating, if only with a glance (ok, maybe I talk to them too) with this cast of characters.

After an extraordinarily late night of lord knows what in my cozy cabin, while some sort of frat party was doing lord knows what across the hall (one of the kind gentlemen at the party gave me a candy bar for no evident reason which may, in these parts constitute a marriage proposal so stay tuned) I went to sleep.

I stayed one night in Casablanca at a hostel that I was quite certain had been the seen of multiple lascivious acts and this was a step up. But only one. Hesitant to rest my weary head directly on the linens in places such as this, I used a towel as a pillow and my scarf as a blanket. Resourceful and ridiculous, I know.

Waking the following morning felt like Christmas. Not because of the eager anticipation of candies and gifts, an anticipation I sadly never experienced - not due to lack of effort on my parents part but lack of childlike wonder from the get, but because of the smell of active fireplaces and the clear crisp cold of winter. The type that cuts right though your spandex and fat to the bone.

It was time for a run and, like many before, I loved the quite time alone with the city but ached for my Canon tucked neatly away back at the hotel.

The mix of wood burning fires, lingering mist that sits in the chilly valley at night and bright clear skies makes for the most beautiful light in Minas mornings. I decided to leave my duffel at the hotel and wander before blowing this pop stand.

The quiet beauty of a small town, though not a draw for living, is never lost on me. Apparently Lorelai Gilmore and I don't share all qualities.

Maybe it was the loud print plastered all over my ass, but the animals knew. They knew I was an outsider and took the opportunity to squawk, chirp, bark or bellow at me to adequately protect their home. Or maybe they were just hungry.

I passed a group of boys on their way to school who would have barked at me if they could but instead continued their 12 year-old conversation that read the same in Spanish and it does in English despite the fact that I couldn't understand a word.

As you make your way further outside of the city centre the town becomes more rural, and more beautiful. Though there are smatterings of fuchsia and mint green on walls and doorways, the wardrobe here is seriously lacking.

I mean, does anyone own a single jewel tone down here? Maybe a pastel? Missoni would make a killing introducing the Crayola world of color to the tiny South American country.

I made my way further and further out of town, discovering the problem with living in a basin is no matter which way you walk, it's up.

The air was cold, but the sun was warm and I felt as though I was able to really breathe, if only for a minute.

Never one to pass up a good cemetery (insert Irish melancholy here) I entered a beautiful white marble mausoleum, with headstones and boxes, plastic flowers and brass vases stacked haphazardly, high as the eye could see. It was beautiful in its disarray and I took my time meandering about.

As I made my way even further out or town the people weren't cold or distrustful, they were fascinated, the menfolk in particular.

The more I wandered the more charm this city exuded. I'm telling you, if there were places to eat or attractions of any sort here, I would most definitely consider staying a bit longer.

My stomach was telling me it was time to eat and my watch was telling me it was time to find the bus station.

Passing what was either an old folk's home or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory's grandparents watching The Price Is Right, I felt a pang of sadness for what I imagined were the infirm and a pang of guilt for my grandmother, who passed away in December, just 6 months after my dad in one of those establishments.

Getting old can be scary and confusing, and no one wants to do it alone. And I say that at 33.

As I passed through the Plaza Independencia, I was almost distracted by a 17 year-old telling me I was hot - thank you young man, by the way, but then I saw it - like an apparition - a restaurant!

I eagerly entered, expecting heating - I was sorely mistaken. I devoured pages of menu fantasizing about the meals I could consume, typically a large array of pastas, hamburgers, salads and sandwiches made of meat that I want to say means wolf but I'm guessing not - I was sorely mistaken. Either because of the hour or because God is playing a cruel cruel joke on me, there were very few items from which I could actually choose, none of which sounded terribly appealing, and I was forced to get tea and a sandwich with no bells or whistles, including papas fritas - apparently thats how things are run 'round here (the only good Counting Crows song, FYI).

Nothing says top of the morning like a cup of hot tea and a hamburger. Not a red meat eater I decided to relax and make some international Skype calls figuring if I were to fall ill from this mysterious meat, i'd rather do it not while on a bus. While chatting with a friend in New York a man walked in, discarded his bright green scarf and sat down to dine alone.

After hearing me speaking something other than Spanish, he asked me where I was from and, once finished with my phone conversation, asked me to join him.

Between his broken English and my kitchen Spanish I learned he was 35, had one daughter who lives in Canada, is obsessed with Cuba and hates the United States.

Emphatic and expressive, his points about culture and politics were made, even if the language posed a barrier.

After resisting the offer to share in his mashed potatoes - a feat of epic proportions for me - I setteled for chatting over some tea.

Hearing the musings of what someone who has never visited the states, but has powerful positions on it thinks is wildly amusing, if not totally accurate. Hearing someone tell me about Cuba, soccer and his love of photography is mildly intoxicating.

Once he told me I didn't have the face of a North American (whatever that means), insisting it was a 'normal face' and not a 'shit face,' which apparently he thinks all Americans must have. Charming, no? Once family photos were shared - his of his beautiful daughter mine of my beautiful sister I was sold and I had a new and strange friend in Marcelo.

After drinks were finished and the bill was paid - entirely by him I might add - he told me he was going to the north and asked if I would change my flight and stay a day or two longer with him.

Now, I just met this man. And I had no intention of spending money to change my flight and spend two days with a strange man in a strange land, besides I was in love with someone else, but I will be lying if I said it wasn't nice to be asked...

Flattered but not swayed, I had already missed the 2 pm bus I had planned on taking back to the Capitol and figured, if I had hours to burn, why not spend them here with Marcelo? After all, this is what traveling - especially solo - was about. Meeting people from different places with different cultures and seeing how they lived.

And see how they live I did. In the most fantastically banal way imaginable. From what I can surmise, with language and context, Marcelo is a traveling paint salesman and had a few calls to make while in Minas. He asked if I'd like to come along, and I obliged. The truck was warm and the world unknown.

I'll often say that part of what I love about being a photographer is the ability to be present for or involved in worlds I wouldn't otherwise, all because I had my camera - a ticket to the other side.

Conversation and not cameras were the impetus here but the result was just the same. Who else do you know that got to witness paint salesmanship in a small southern Uruguayan town? Exactly!

After traversing the city, making stops along the way, we parted ways for him to finish some business and for me to pick up my bag from the hotel as grab one last regalo that I now hope has not broken in my luggage.

I left a note on his car to meet me at Porky's, a Porky Pig branded pizzeria which was a bit beyond me, but I often find America's influence in other places to be convoluted and confusing; lost in translation.

Some tea and a meal of questionable origin and a decision was to be made were had. I could continue with my 10:45 bus ticket to Montevideo, arrive at nearly 2 am and take a cab directly to the airport, where I would attempt to sleep in public for a handful of hours - not my first or last time doing so - or I could stay one more night here, change my bus ticket to a 4:20 am departure and (fingers crossed) make it to the airport just in time. I crossed my fingers.

Marcelo had been peppering me with questions all day long, often in relation to my father. My answers were brief, appropriate and said in a vague, present tense.

As evening became night we continued to chat, this time him taking his turn to eat dinner, evidently we were doing it on shifts. I had been relaxed and contentedly distracted by my new company throughout most of the day, but had just received a message from a former flame and it had left me feeling off, not really for any particular reason, just uneasy. My mood had clearly dampened.

Marcelo proceeded to ask me about my father, this time about his love life - perhaps a sensitive subject though I didn't realize it at the time, and I began to cry. Now, for anyone who has known me more than a week, or who reads any of my writing, you know I'm a crier. There is no shame in my game, I'm an emotional woman and, for a number of months now, with good reason. That being said, I do usually try to wait until someone learns my last name before breaking down on them. His Latino forcefulness pushed the subject of why, and when I gave a very succinct and perfunctory answer he asked why I hadn't told him, and expressed how awful he felt.

I'm new to this game and though in a pretty transparent (once again, not in the Caitlyn way) person I'm not sure the protocol on when you drop that bomb on someone. Or, if I need to at all. It is certainly not a shameful secret, but it is very much a private and personal experience.

Needless to say my slightly dampened mood had turned stormy and the evening was over.

It's so interesting how spending a handful of hours with the wrong man makes you realize just what it feels like when you're with the right one...

I set my alarm for 3:30 am and I was off to another restless, dream filled state.

Pulling on my only clean clothes left, like a delayed birthday present I save for myself on trips such as these, Marcelo met with me in the morning and drove me the short distance to the bus station in the frigid dark of the morning. His density became more evident as he brought up why I became upset last night, but he had been extraordinarily kind and gentlemanlike and I knew he, like those friends at home who keep sending me supportive text messages, meant well.

We bid adieu, with declarations of love on one of our parts - i'll let you guess who - as the luxurious Nunez bus bound for the Capitol rolled into the station, with promises to stay in touch.

There is something sexy about a night bus, even more so for a train. It's like the champagne room of travel, your own personal viewing of what happens after dark, or before light, as the case was here

We were at Tres Cruces before long, and before the sun bothered to greet me and warm my freezing ass. I usually steal a blanket on international flight to carry with me on my journey, and this night bus was exactly the reason why. They are always cold and I am always uncomfortable - being a woman is so much fun! With a little insider intel, and likely the use of some common sense, it's come to my attention that no where is heated here because it's expensive. Not shocking, but painfully plapable.

Making my way into the bus terminal, just long enough to take out 1500 more pesos, which I assume with cover my cab ride and to leave my ATM in the machine. A nice silent man promptly returned the card to me, as well as my faith man. Strangely, that waivers little regardless of space or time, but with two separate woman inhabiting my apartment yet not feeling the need to pay for such a luxury this year - it can be tough. Karma's a bitch. And so are they.

A teeny tiny smoke filled cab awaited me outside of the automatic doors and, with a little coaching on his part, as far as proper pronunciation, we headed to the aeroppuerto.

My paralysis has subsided and stroke face has greatly improved upon this trip. I can't help but wonder if it is because I may have relaxed in the last 8 days. Something I have not done in what seems like ages and something I need much more of in my life.

With a mind as brilliant as mine ( please read proper tone here), it functions efficiently and luckily, I am able to process information rather quickly, usually evidenced by witty quips or repartee - really changing the world stuff. It can also create a cacophony of voices in my head, rounds of questions and theories and concerns all singing in sequence, overlapping one another like a never ending Christmas concert housed in my brain, but without the hot cocoa or gingerbread cookies. Occasionally, taking a step back from 'real life' can offer perspective, and quiet.

Though a bit on the quiet and cold side for my liking maybe Uruguay was the perfect place to escape this time of year for it's unexpected tranquility.

According to my very shallow research, Uruguay has been called the Switzerland of South America. I can see why.

It's expensive and boring, yet beautiful and safe - just like all of those girls you slept with in college and the trophy wives heard round the world.

Gracias, Uruguay.