La Mano y El Corazon

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...

The Most Beautiful Woman in Uruguay, Or At Least The Tackiest

In a city of browns and greys I was hyper-color.

A hip hop journalist sent from a far off land to blend in with brown eyes and freckles yet a strange woman in a strange land, not accustomed to their winter wardrobe.

With a cozy down comforter and light eliminating blinds in my humble abode I slept in and slowly dressed in every layer I brought with me, having opted for my less is more approach to packing despite my travel into another season.

After a fairly uneventful first evening of wandering, and grocery shopping I retired early and decided to make today my day to explore.

Arbitrarily choosing my direction after exiting the hotel's front door, I set out around noon to a crisp, clear winter day. I found my way to San Francisco Cathedral that appeared, from the outside to be an abandoned building and, from the inside, appeared much the same. With no candles to light and an eerie sense of emotion creeping up into my throat I made a quick exit and was back out on the pavement heading no place in particular.

By chance, I landed on Avenida 18 de Julio, a street a quick perusal of my guidebook listed as a must-do. Julio is a street, not only named after my birth month, but a major thoroughfare lined with shops echoing America and consumerism.

Having missed out on the hotel's breakfast I was jonesing for some fuel and when I saw Cafe Copacabana I said why the hell not.

It always feels good to walk into an establishment such as Copabana, request a table for 'solo una' and get 'sola una?' with questionable indignation. Yes bitch - just me in my newsboy cap and pain spattered leggings. Just me. Sigh.

After filling up on a single egg and toast I felt properly nourished and was ready to traverse this city of Montevideo.

With a quick stop into the Museum of Contemporary Art, that mirrors a undergrad art show held in the basement of the student center more than a city sanctioned cultural hub, I saw my first meme exhibit before heading to the Artisan Market where I couldn't resist an mother of pearl ring and a pair of earrings for Mom.

Further down the road I began my quest to find a converter for a laptop charger. Not realizig I could not fit a 3 prong plug into the converter I brought along I was in deperate need of some laptop juice and nothing was going to stand in my way. Except for food.

Locating Cafe Tortuga I felt it was a sign, as turtles have a very special place in my heart. Witht the accessible wifi I googled a a name on the menu, ordered it, and was promptly served up a dish of pasta with chicken. It was at this moment that I realized one should really not order Italian food outside of Italy. And, to add insult to injury, this seems to be a salt-free town. My blood pressure was getting scarily low and I was in need of some sodium. Stat!

Luckily I was offered a little distraction by two young woman who sat across from me who sat, silenced by the the world-wide epidemic of total engrossment in one's mobile device whilst totally ignoring their real life companion. Equal parts disgust at overcooked noodles and tech-obsession and I was out onto the chilly streets of Montevideo once again.

There are a handful of handsome men, with dashing dark South American good looks wandering the streets. And though those are rarely the ones that pay me any mind, stateside or otherwise, I like the way the men here look at women. I like that their glance lingers, like a heavy hand resting on your shoulder. They hold your eye contact just a moment too long, to let you know they think you're beautiful. Or, at the very least perplexing enough for an extended look.

Days are cold and short here in Montevideo. Allowing for early bedtimes and late rises.

Street vendors seem to set up around noon, as the city comes alive and once the sun sets behind the buildings people scurry like roaches with the lights on.

Never one to shy away from a good, solid melancholy moment, as the night started to nip at my nose, I wandered back through the hood in which I am staying, listening to Leonard Cohen and savoring the warm tears streaming down my frost bitten face.

A quick visit back at the Frog Supermarket, that I discovered the night before located around the corner from my hotel offered me the opportunity to dine once again in bed to charge up and rest up, preparing me for a new day to come.

I Slept in. Way in

The early morning light crept out from under the blinds but the weight of the down comforter kept me warm, safe and protected from the day ahead. I have a new love in my life, and it was this bed. Used to staying in hostels where languid mornings are frowned upon, as well as just plain old uncomfortable, this time I splurged on a pillbox sized room with hot water and clean sheets. Though still preferring to travel on the cheap, I am a far way away from two months I spent in Europe post-college shoving free bread and sugar cubes at the hostel breakfast in my backpack for sustenance. 

The morning felt cold, both literally and figuratively and I was in not rush to meet it. I tossed and turned until my body ached from laying down far too long, at which point I threw on my very well loved pair of Sauconys and black spandex head to toe - either ready for a late morning run or to fight crime in this exotic metropolis - it was all very TBD.

While dodging the pot holes and dog shit that litter the streets of the ciudad vieja I saw the water, sparkling in the bright light and once I reached the promenade it was just me and Donald Glover, alone in the world and it need of a good sweat.

It's funny. I look just like everyone else here. My olive skin and chestnut locks blend in seamlessly. That racial ambiguity I rely on so much in the states rings true here as well but there is something off. I look just like everyone else but something about the way I present myself is just .... Other.

It is either I am the most beautiful woman in Uruguay, or maybe just the tackiest.

Either way - I am getting some strange looks.

The night I arrived, I had ducked into a cool art and book store briefly, as as it was almost quitting time and I decided to revisit later. The store had a pungent smell, though a nice one. It smelled uncannily like my paternal grandfather's den. Damp eyes were instantly elicited. 

Memory is such a sensory experience. 

You cannot describe what someone smells like but you know it when you smell it again, for the first time; the sound of their laugh. The taste of a chocolate bar can bring you back to a family vacation in one sweet bite. Before you know it you're holding that Skor bar in your hand, listening to Pearl Jam and growing breasts. Then, just as quickly you're transported back to reality. Back to the current day where you're breasts came in long ago and you're not afraid to say you never really like Pearl Jam, always knowing they were far inferior to Nirvana. But I digress...

After a long run along the water, past graffiti strewn walls and fisherman I made my way back to the ho-tel to shower, change and locate a post office. With today being Natalicio de Artigas I had some hopes of locating a parade or celebration of sorts, but what I was met with instead were deserted streets and closed up shops. I did later find out that the city is quiet year round, as the population is just around 1 million, mere peanuts for a New Yorker like me! 

Taking a few minutes to fill out purchased postcards in the crystal clear sunshine I went to do a little window shopping and, what else - some more eating. 

Finding a little hole in the wall I ordered chicken and salad and fell in love with Latin America all over again. Unlike their Northern American counterparts I find the ordering of food to be quite literal here so, when I was handed a plate of lettuce - no dressing even offered - and a hunk of chicken, no garnish in sight I had to smile. I'm a straightforward girl - and a simple eater, so I can dig it. 

Billy Joel and I decided to walk off the paleo meal in which I had just partaken and threaded our way through the streets, all lined with trees and partially dilapidated buildings in various stages of disarray. 

Having purchased a ticket to a Tango show later that night, I made the decision to stay out and avoid walking the streets late at night. Also to keep me awake past sunset.

Eager to finish Foreign Tongue,a book I was hoping would have a happier ending - as I am in need of more of those in my life, I was searching for a place to read. With nary a Starbucks to be found I stopped into Sportman Bar and Cafe to defrost and drink some tea before the 8:30 call time at big show. 

Americans get a bum rap. We are known as the loudest and fattest people in the world, but the two morbidly obese women sitting next to me, listening to their music audibly on the blackberry they passed back and forth between the two of them proved to me that fat, stupid and annoying people exist all over the world. 

Of course I witnessed this when devouring my own plate of churros.

So my judgement is limited.

Nowhere near the location google maps had intimated, El Milongon was located at the corner or rape and pillage. Luckily the drunken vagrants and icy winds helped guide me along my way...

Once inside El Milongon it was like a theme park- but for old people. Perhaps that is what dinner theatre is. I was promptly seated at a table of what I believed to be Brazilians though they don't hold up the beauty standards the Victoria's Secret models have set for them. Nor did they offer any of that Latino warmth. Luckily I'm not in need of strangers approval and, after ordering off of the prix fixed menu I was perfectly content to look at the checkered dance floor, stare into the colored lights and occasionally steal glances at an elderly man who resembled my Grandpa Benevento so much I could have sworn he stole his windbreaker.

This trip seems to be the trip filled with the ghosts of loved men past.

A salad of South American spam and mayonnaise was the first course. As I picked at the cabbage, careful to avid any questionable food product, coupled with the silence at the table, I realized just how long a night I was in for. 

When I completed the NYC triathlon in 2014, a few weeks after losing my father, I felt like a badass. When 6 short months later I packed up  my life and moved cross country, ready to make a change and take a huge risk for love, I felt like a badass. And when I sat at a table in a ballroom two thirds empty at a table fraught with frigid strangers to match the winter weather, slight traces of pity and confusion in their stolen glances wondering who this lonesome American girl is, I felt like a badass. 

I have mentioned this before, and I will likely do so again, but I too used to pity the lone diner. After years of enriching, worthwhile experiences alone, I now not only don't pity the lone diner, the lone traveler, or the lone survivor (Marky Mark and Taylor Kitsch - a must see!), I respect them. For those people who have the balls to do what they need to do; what they want to do without the permission,acceptance or scheduling of another - they know true freedom. Don't get me wrong - I'd like a partner; a family. My heart tells me I have already met this person - my match - but in the interim - hell even after we are blessed with 2 children and a blissful union - I will maintain a level of independence, of freedom, to occasionally sit alone at a table of frigid strangers.

Fear will not dictate my life. It's that simple.

Soapbox relinquished. 

The table warmed and a few pleasantries were exchanged in English, which apparently I speak very clearly according to my table-mates. The courses were served and my 'authentic' Uruguayan meal of orange-something stuffed chicken and silencio de perros (see hush puppies) was sufficient at best. 

As the performances began, some more culturally sound than others  I very quickly discovered this was not only dinner theatre, but bad dinner theatre, replete with middle aged crooners and poorly fitting costumes. The kitsch factor was high and the talent level varied - and I loved ever second of it. 

I expected the experience to be like watching flamenco in a cave in the south of Spain. This was absolutely not that. I would liken this more to the time I was 9 and my grandparents took me to see Sammy Davis Jr. and Red Buttons at a Harrah's in Tahoe. Rife with class. 

Things began to look up as the tango portion began, even more so when noticing that dancing does a body good and one of the male partners had an ass that wouldn't quit. 

When the candombe performance closed out the show, ie. when the Afro-centric part of the program took place, the party really got started and for some reason the singer, and 800 year old man in a sparkly red jacket made me sort of fall in love with him. However, it was the 17 year old drummer who had me thinking impure thoughts and wondering just how I would look in prison coveralls because that is most certainly where I would be headed. 

After the emcee gave a shout out to each table and their country of origin (I was the ONLY person there from a non-Spanish speaking country) ladies in pasties and fishnets came out to shake a bon bon, inviting guests who most likely imbibed during dinner to get up and join in the celebration. Though not one to either imbibe or shake my groove thing in a room that is too well lit I enjoyed myself immensely and would absolutely recommend you check out the show if you find yourself in these neck of the woods. 

A quick cab ride home and some catching up on my writing finished out my last night in Montevideo. Tomorrow I am off to Punta Del Este, apparently a particularly famous part of the country that I just caught wind it even colder than here...

No sleeping in for me tomorrow. I've got a bus to catch!