I spent the weekend of March 19th – 20th in el Punto del Diablo: another vacation, relaxation, warm sand sensation sort of place east of Montevideo. I’m writing now two weeks after the fact but a few of my adventures are still fresh in my mind.
The early mornings of Saturday, March 19th, and Monday, March 21st, were devoted to the five-hour bus ride and my recovery from it. Five hours on a bus can be absolutely terrible: meandering like those five minutes before class dismissal. But great traveling partners make a world of distance. I traveled with Manue from France, Daniela and Manuel from Germany, and Julia from New York. We spent the time sleeping when we could and talking in Spanish when we couldn’t.
Travel Tip 011: Take advantage of your travel time. Studying abroad or vacationing in another country, it’s easy to forget about the essential requirements like sleep and homework. Travel time, no matter how extensive, should be utilized in whatever ways possible. Use the time to sleep (possibly even saving the need for a hotel or hostel), or for studies, practicing the language, building relationships with friends, or, and indeed this may be exactly what you need, relaxation.
Saturday, by in large consisted of taking in the small city of el Punto del Diablo, relaxing at the beach, and posing for/taking photos. El Punto del Diablo is tiny: a rough splotch of colorful, titled buildings set up for tourists and travelers. The few local residents live on a separate side of the town, their precarious, leaning homes harboring the ocean. El Punto more or less reminded me of my hometown of Pepin except with many, many more wild dogs roaming the countryside and the coast: It was small, the people were friendly in a reserved sort of way, and there was a definite sensation of the stale energy left behind from summer tourists. Because it was near the end of the summer and beginning of autumn, there were few people walking about the town. Like walking into an empty movie theatre, el Punto felt more personalized for me and my friends and we had a great time.
Sunday, I went on a horseback riding adventure. Although I’m from Wisconsin, I have never been real comfortable or confident around horses. Put simply, they’re huge. Manue, Daniela, Cecil from France, and Megan from Wisconsin accompanied me on the adventure along with our guide (whose name I’ve managed to forget) and, although timid at first, I quickly warmed up to the rhythm and tempo of riding a horse. I was comfortable with the slow pace and my calm horse (whose name I’ve also forgotten but wouldn’t have know how to spell anyways as it was in Portuguese – the horse also only understood vocal commands in Portuguese and, although I managed alright by directing the horse with the reins, I could only hope my horse understood I meant well when I spoke to him in Spanish) but I soon learned that I much preferred galloping. It wasn’t until we were nearing the end of our journey that I had the chance to gallop on the coast of the ocean. The canter of galloping felt much more natural than a bumpy trot and my horse and I easily broke into a comfortable, but rapid pace. It’s an experience I would recommend for anyone.
Returning back to Montevideo on Monday (at 2 am) was sad but I needed the rest offered by the bus ride. Classes that day were difficult as well but well worth it for my weekend of adventuring.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Class Tactics: The Will of Armistice Breaking Down
I’ve been struggling with thinking of a way to introduce my first week of classes in Montevideo, Uruguay. How do you make a full day of classes more interesting? Rowling threw in a little magic, Jeff Kinney through in a socially unaccepted kid; Boy Meets World introduced … a boy to the world. I suppose I have la gorra charrúa.
La gorra charrúa was something I didn’t learn about until my Uruguayan Culture class on Tuesday, March 15th but once I learned it, I’ve been applying it to the entire week of classes. It’s a term of indigenous origination that technically means “the claws of Charrúa.” The Charrúa was one of two major indigenous groups (the other being the Guarani) that lived in la Banda Oriental, or the area of Uruguay, before colonization. The Charrúa kept fighting Spanish conquistadors and other invaders until their complete distinction. Ironically, the first Republic government of Uruguay exterminated the last remaining indigenous but today, Uruguayans continue to refer to themselves as descendants of the Charrúa, the people that never gave up, never surrendered, and never stopped fighting.
College classrooms may not look like typical battlefields but don’t be fooled. They are. I’ve been applying the term “la gorra charrúa” to the majority of my classes and, so far, the term fits. My first class of the week was the Spanish Language B1: an intermediate class on Spanish for those students who need a lot of work to become fluent. I was frustrated about being placed in lower class level (the other option was B2, a more advanced class) but more importantly, I was frustrated about the enigma that is my professor. One minute she’s speaking to my peers and me like we’re nine-year-olds, the next she’s popping completely random questions out at specific people, and then she’s clearing her throat and shaking her head like she’s never worked with a bigger pack of imbeciles in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I respect her as a professor but I’m coming to realize the class as warfare: you do your homework, you never give up, and you come to class prepared with the vigor of “la gorra charrúa” to answer any question and pay the utmost attention.
“La gorra charrúa” is typically a term Uruguayans use in fútbol or soccer games. If a Uruguayan soccer team is down on points, they continue fighting their hardest with the unending will to fight of the Charrúa. I have since had classes in history, culture, and literature and, although each professor is completely different from the other, the term remains the same: when the teacher asks you a question, you answer. When you can’t think of the right word in Spanish, you speak circles around the word until you manage to explain it. No giving in; it’s part of the culture.
The insufferable Uruguayan independence and strive to fight for number one continues outside of the classroom. Many of the native students form close-knit groups of study buddies and friends but rarely do they allow new amigos into their groups. The cantina or cafeteria, a more condensed area that you might normally think as a cafeteria and including a small café, rows of tables, a ping pong table, and an enclosed office, a bookstore, and a printing service wrapping the borders of the area, is typically packed with these groups of students hunched near each other talking and hardly sparing a glance to the typical foreign exchange student. Even with these guys, “la gorra churrúa.” I’ve been asking a number of random people to play a game of ping pong to slowly work my way into an understanding of the social rules and unwritten customs of the University; to keep fighting the peaceful fight.
Travel Tip 010: Learn the basic history and culture that defines the local people and attempt to put yourself in their shoes. How do they move about? Why are certain clothes so popular? How do they get by in class, with friends, and on the street? Adapt to those customs and … oh goodness crap mountain of all the cheesy clichés: Do as the Romans do.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Ex-Vegetarian Says
Travel Tip 009 Twofer: Watch your money and watch your spending. So you’d think that if you had your money concealed it would be safe, right? You’d think that if you carried around a calculator and converted prices to amounts you understand that everything would be happy fish and daisies, right? Wrong. There’s an entirely different element to spending money some people don’t take into consideration when they travel to new countries (at least I didn’t). Willingness to pay. It’s a basic economic device that can make all the difference. Uruguayans love their meat and dulce de leche (a sweet caramel-like spread used on bread and fruit). In result: high quality meat and dulce de leche are incredibly expensive. Cultures in free trade societies set their own standards for what things should cost based on how much people are willing to pay for them. Especially in nations where tourism is on the rise, local residents figure travelers’ have a higher willingness to pay than your average citizen and the sad fact is that foreigners pay the big bucks.
Uruguay is the same. On Friday, after taking a Spanish proficiency exam in the morning (easy), I went along with a few other foreign exchange students to visit la Ciudad Vieja in the western side of Montevideo. La Ciudad Vieja is the older part of the city with ancient statues, archaic buildings, street vendors on every side, and expensive restaurants catering to tourists in particular. We took a business bus to travel to that side of the town and we were charged twenty-five pesos for admittance onto the bus. Twenty-five pesos is a little over a dollar and it may not sound like a lot but, for a fairly short bus ride, it adds up quickly. Uruguayan locals affiliated with la Universidad República del Uruguay are granted cards, special deals with buses, and five peso service fees for internal city transport. Five pesos!
Upon arrival to La Ciudad Vieja, I had to admit the old buildings, massive yet archaic hotels, the plaza, and the epic statue of the Latin America liberator Jose Artigas were impressive. My friends and I took our time walking around and taking pictures. We had to be careful to watch our backpacks, camera, and wallets because of the heightened amount of theft that was common for the area. Sitting on a bench and people watching, I had backpack under the bench and between my legs but a local Uruguayan still warned me it would be a better if I had it in my lap. The sad truth was that we were targets. Our picture taking, backpacks, undoubtedly slurred sounding Spanish, and our way (I have since tried to get Uruguayan friends to explain this to me but I have not yet understood the “way” that makes it obvious I’m from the US) made us targets for any and all thieves. We were tourists and, according to common knowledge, tourists have money.
The same common knowledge applies to restaurants. Hot, tired, and hungry, my friends and I decided to have a late lunch at la Estancia del Puerto: a well known circuit of restaurants and grills that specialize in preparing meat. Knowing the meat could be expensive; we decided to try out the restaurants anyways for the experience of doing so. A restaurant near the back had six waiters running back and forth and greeting customers to be seated. The fact that they spoke some English should have been our first warning but it wasn’t until we sat down and opened our menus that we saw how expensive the food was (thirty to forty U.S. dollars for a piece of chicken). We went to another open grill which was more or less like a bar with seating all around it and a huge grill right at its center. We ordered a combo meal intended for three and received a feast of food that could have fed ten easy. Once again, it was fairly expensive but not nearly as bad as other places. Tired, overheated from the cooking grill, and stuffed, we left the restaurant and headed for home. Once again, we had to be careful.
Later that night, all the international students got together at a pizza place to hang out. After having been awakened to the reality of prices I decided not to order anything and to do my best to watch my spending. After walking down la rambla or boardwalk near the beach and dancing at a boliche or dance club for some time, I ended up heading for home around 4:00 am. Once again, the nagging feeling that the taxi would cost too much nipped at my better judgment and I ended up walking and running the forty five minutes or so to get home, dodging homeless people sleeping near the streets and keeping my eyes front and center as not to attract too much attention.
The following day, my fellow apartment resident Elisa and I headed to la Punta del Este. We had purchased tickets for a departure of 8:15 am and a return set for 10:15 pm. After three and half hours of glorious sleep in my room and another two on the bus ride, I felt more-or-less prepared to enjoy the day. La Punta del Este is a resort city where the rich of Uruguay and of the world come to stay for a weekend or longer. Everything there is big: big hotels, big beaches, big lawns, big waves, and big Wal-Mart like stores. We stopped at El Devotó, the Wal-Mart of Uruguay, and bought a few snacks for the day. Also in the pharmacy I found the first bottle of contact solution I’ve yet to find; the only problem was that it was 860 pesos or $46 US dollars for the one bottle. Like any unsuspecting foreigner, I bought the bottle out of necessity. Willingness to pay strikes again. Uruguayans don’t often wear contacts; the majority of the people I’ve seen wear glasses. Letting it go, I was able to enjoy the rest of the day by relaxing at the beach, seeing the sights, and speaking to some newfound friends.
Elisa and I returned to our apartment by ten pm that night. My host mother cooked pizza and it was the most glorious, delicious food knowing I had already paid for it and need not worry about making another ridiculous payment. Take me as an example and watch out for additional prices based on willingness to pay. Yes you may be on vacation and yes it may be worth it for the experience but watch out for people who would take advantage of that.
On Living in a Yellow Submarine
I had my first day of orientation this past Wednesday, March 9th and I’m happy to say it didn’t go the way I thought it would; everyone was not completely separated based on where they were from. United States high schools are well known for their clicks: jocks vaulted off on one side of the lunchroom, the scholastic team hugging the walls, and cheerleaders at front and center. I was worried the students from Spain would keep to one side, those from the United States near the door; those from other parts of South America would keep toward the front of the classroom and so on. Instead, orientation was much more of a mixture of cultures and, despite our language barriers, we made cross cultural communication, references, and shared in cultural facts that would have take hundreds of years to collect in a time before the computer.
This cultural spread is possibly one of the best parts of the study abroad experience: you’re not just studying the country you’re placed in but people from all around the world. You can’t get that kind of experience by traveling on your own time and without the structured cushion of study abroad. I walked into the culture mezcla or international melting pot of la Universidad Católica del Uruguay five minutes before the orientation session was set to begin and sat next Elisa towards the back of the class. All students were sitting in a circle. Luck being on my side, I ended up sitting right next to a group of students from Spain.
Travel Tip 008: If you want to learn the language of the country you’re traveling in, it’s a good idea to get to know some other travelers or people close to you own age who speak the language. Spain had been my number two choice for the study abroad experience and I wanted to know more about the country. So by sitting next to a group of students from Spain, I had the opportunity speak with a few of them and to learn a little bit about them (them being Isabel, Gines, and Mónica). This part was tough because I had already been struggling to learn the Uruguayan accent. Communication can only be a barrier if you forget how to use your hands, facial expressions, and charades skills (no joke) along with your speaking abilities.
During the first orientation session, all of the intercambios or international students spent the time playing ice breakers and getting to know each other. We played a number of somewhat embarrassing and occasionally awkward card-based communication games that forced us to get up and talk to one another. I had the “privilege” of standing up on a chair and talking about myself for a while because I failed to grab a piece of cloth in time. Before that, we played a game in which I believe among the Spanish directions I didn’t understand, Nacho (our amigo and volunteer assistant) explained that the object of the game was to entertain him by forming chains of people by sitting on one anothers’ laps.
By the time the session was over, I was nervous but exhilarated to spend some more time hanging out with these people and learning about their different backgrounds. Therefore it was a little saddening when most people headed directly for the exit and left the building. As we were heading out, I was speaking with Manu from France and Manuel from Germany about getting cell phones in Uruguay. I had already purchased one so I offered to accompany them to Tres Cruces: a large shopping and travel ticket center. My amigos from the Estados are great, but there is something unique about forming a group made up of three nationalities and going on an adventure as small as four blocks in one of Montevideo’s city districts. Speaking only in Spanish, we were able to talk a bit about ourselves, plan some future outings, purchase a cell phone for Manu, a sim card for Manuel, and also to learn a lot more about Uruguay from the cell phone seller who claimed he could tell the difference between a U.S. accent in Spanish, a German accent in Spanish, and a French accent in Spanish after hearing only a few words. We parted later on to return to our individual residences but I had the same feeling of restlessness and was forced to pace in my apartment room. Not sure what the anxiety was about, might have been a culture shock sort of thing because the next day I was feeling amazing.
But despite my renewed energy, orientation the next day, March 10th, was like a giant slob ball of information in Spanish and, even if it had been in English, it would have been confusing. The orientation leaders were great, truly, but it’s tough understanding tedious school rules and procedures to begin with. Gina was once again my savior and she helped out by giving me the summarized low down on essential, need-to-know facts: fill out this paper with class A, continue with class B, speak to your professor, write down the class number, etcetera, etcetera. Afterward, there was another session intended for business majors and somehow I ended up staying (there was some confusion involved). But hey, perfect joke material starting with “A creative writing major walks into a room full of business majors and…” The next session was intended for Communications majors and I stayed for this one as well. In a University that offers no classes on creative writing, communication is the next best thing.
Later that day, I ended up among another melting pot of cultures at la playa de los pocitos. Earlier, we had spread the word among many of the intercambios that we were going to meet up but Manu, Manuel, Gines, another girl from France, and her brother were the only ones to come to the beach. Nonetheless, we had a great time talking, playing soccer, jumping into el rio de la plata, and catching some rays. Gines, Manuel, and I are big fans of soccer and we found it easy to get a few games going with some Uruguayan kids. In a country where soccer defines la pasión, we all had something in common: soccer, the heat of the sand, and the excitement over scoring goals. The kids were big fans of Manuel – we weren’t entirely sure if it were because there weren’t many Germans to travel through Uruguay or because the German soccer team played well in last year’s World Cup but, either way, the Uruguayans made sure to get some pictures taken.
Later that night, we ate at a restaurant called El Chivorito: also the name of a popular sandwich stuffed with meat, peppers, mayonnaise, and olives. Over the food (which was somewhat expensive) we shared more stories about our own cultures and backgrounds. For example, Manuel explained that the word frankfurter actually isn’t used in Germany and Manu told us some of the many words in French that were extremely close to words in Spanish. I attempted to explain my deep seated love for peanut butter sandwiches but it was difficult to put into words. Everything we said was in Spanish: our unifying language and common link.
It can be easy to forget that you’re talking to people whose first language isn’t your own when you’re getting along fine in Spanish. At times we spoke slow and used gigantic hand gestures but conversation never fell dry. I did a double take when I found out a guy from France and I knew the same person: a person who had gone to my high school, attended my college, had a major in creative writing, and had also studied abroad in Scotland where he met my friend from France. Small world, my friends. It’s a very small world we all live in.
The Dirty Corner of Rock and Roll
Last Monday, I went to el teatro del verano in el parque rodo to celebrate las llamadas or las murgas as a part of the carnaval (end-of-summer) celebration. Las murgas are typically theatric performances or parades displaying extreme costumes, vibrant colors, and popular music. A major part of las murgas is the celebration of black peoples’ arrival into the Americas. The next day, Tuesday, was el dia internacional de las mujeres: a day celebrating women’s rights. These two events directed my attention to the countless faceless of Montevideo, Uruguay: the beggars, the thieves, the street vendors, the garbage-picking-horse-carriage drivers (for cereals), the con artists, the ice cream sellers, the bus musicians, the man selling hand knitted doilies named Paco Viejo, and the man sleeping on the corner of the street – out my window and underneath a sign reading the dirty corner of rock and roll (“the dirty corner of” in Spanish and “rock and roll” as is).
As I said, on Monday I visited el teatro verano: a huge, out-door theatre opening up to a series of concrete seats. There were three different rows of seats in the stadium; those nearest the stage were the most expensive at 200 pesos ($10), the central area a bit further back was around 150 pesos ($7.50) a seat and the furthest back were 100 pesos ($5). To be honest, I didn’t understand many of the comedy routines, songs, or skits performed on stage. For me, the stage was setting the background noise while I spent time watching the crowd and following the progress of popcorn, churro, potato chip, and cotton candy sellers as they worked their way through the crowds. I was cheap and went with the 100 peso seats a long distance off from center stage but I’m glad I did. In the 100 peso section, you find rich Montevideo businessmen intermingled with the middle class and the extreme poor. People propping up a bag of popcorn on their laps while setting the zoom feature on high powered cameras sit elbow to elbow with those who have never held a camera, who would steal one first chance they got and sell it for food.
The snack sellers typically make their way through the more expensive sections, likely in the hopes of targeting consumers who could afford more. But, these vendors had to pay the entrance price as well and many of them kept to the cheaper sections because they couldn’t afford to move about. Selling anything in Montevideo is an art. Vendors call out the name of their product in ascending and descending volume to catch the most ears while they move about. Typically they repeat a certain pattern of phrases. For example, the potato chip seller called out “Papas fritas, papas, papas, fritas, papas fritas, fritas at an incredibly fast accelerating pace, breaking off for moments to catch his breath and to move on to the next row of seating. Sometimes, the volume and energy the vendors put into their calls can make or break their sales. The man selling popcorn was calling out a halfhearted “Pop” every three to four minutes and I noticed that by the end of the show, he had sold maybe five measly bags in total. The potato chips guy, an energetic man closer to eighty years of age than to sixty had to refill his cart of chips several time. Long story short: advertising works.
The songs and skits kept continued that night from 9 pm until 1 am in the morning. Elisa and I left the theatre exhausted, backs sore, and a little dissatisfied by the performance (seeing as we didn’t understand everything) but I kept help but wonder how those snack sellers felt or how many people they were working towards supporting. I thought the same thing when, nearing our apartment in the center of the city, Elisa and I saw a few haggard looking people sitting around the curb, eyes wide but in a tired, strained sort of way. In my entire time in Montevideo, I have only ever seen maybe two homeless people sleeping during the night. The other eight or nine I’ve seen have all been sleeping during the day. I can only guess that nights are more dangerous, colder, and more of a prime time for other activities and thievery. I don’t mean to judge these people but I’m only trying to understand them. That’s also why I read the thousands of graffiti messages on walls and buildings like “The dirty corner of rock and roll,” or political messages against certain presidents, or “Get out foreigners,” and so on and so forth. My translation are likely a little off and sugar coated but they are there: messages for me and ignored by most.
My first day in Montevideo, I was amazed to hear the sound of horse hooves out on the streets of Montevideo. I realize horses can be common police mounts in populated cities but, it being my first time in a new city, I thought it was part of some new and fantastical cultural trend I had never heard of; maybe an attempt at reducing carbon emissions – a cleaner way to live. I was only partially right. Excited, I asked my host brother Mauro why horse were out on the streets and he explained that they were among the many poor people of Uruguay who ride horse-bound carts through the city looking for garbage containers. I didn’t understand everything Mauro said but I have since found out that there are two types of garbage searchers: some are looking for recyclables like plastic bottles and glass while others are searching for food. The men, women, and children riding horse bound carriages are often and sadly doing both. They attach huge woven and re-stitched containers on the back side of their carriages, put blinders on the horse so they won’t be as afraid of the many cars of Montevideo, stash children old enough on precarious perches of the cart, and make their ways searching for half eaten food and beer bottles, horses coconut clapping against the pavement all the way.
Horses aren’t the only popular animal among the poor. There are also dogs almost everywhere among the crevices, parks, houses, abandoned buildings, and sidewalks. The dogs are not completely wild because they have owners but many of them are fed from the trash and left to wander in long radii near their owners. Curious, I have been doing some asking around about the popularity of canines over felines and I have since heard a popular explanation: dogs are warm. Even though Uruguay had a very temperate climate and typically stays between 55 and 80 degrees F, the wind coming off the Ocean along with the scarcity of heated units can make for cold nights. Dogs are popular among the homeless because, along with being faithful companions, they keep their owners warmer at night. I have since seen some cats but always on their own and prowling through the city trying to make a living like so many others.
Travel Tip 007: On getaway vacations and in temperate climates, limit your escape-the-world beach time. I only write this because I understand completely the temptation to spend all of one’s time at the beach soaking up rays, jumping in the water, listening to some tunes, and face down reading a good book. My advice is that if and when you do go to a beach in a culture new to you, do some people watching. Beaches, besides being great places to veg out, are the perfect places to investigate cultural traditions like those in Uruguay: pickup soccer games, pickle ball without the net, sand castles, conversations about the traffic and, of course, the walking sand vendors: some selling ice cream, others hotdogs, hats, dresses, rugs, towels, key chains, and more. These guys are the epitome of tan: dark skinned wanderers who pull refrigerated containers, carry hiking backpacks filled with odd adornments, haul a long pole on their shoulders with clothing or cloth waving in the wind and all underneath the pounding some and over relentless sand that, in my experience, gets over everything. Despite the sand, the heat, the sun, these guys walk for miles across the beaches of Uruguay only to turn around and do it all again. They do charge somewhat ridiculous prices (three dollars for a super skimpy ice cream sandwich) but I have deep respect for them.
Another faceless group, the bus vendors for which every Montevidian (my term) has a certain scorn or impassive nod reserved. Anywhere for a twenty-three year old selling his music to eighty-year-old Paco Viejo with his doilies, these guys work around the clock jumping on crowded city buses to first offer a sample of whatever they’re selling for free and then jump into a fast tirade and peso equivalence to whatever they’re selling. The musicians work a little differently and rely on the free and giving spirit of passengers but all of them have to be energetic, motivated, willing to advertise, and especially willing to accept the scorn and empty handedness of the occasional bus. I’ve been having a hard time not giving some of these people pesos because I respect that, in their own way, their working hard and getting their own street-life education.
Last Tuesday was el dia de las mujeres and, in respect to the event, President Jose Mujica had a televised speech broadcasted to the Uruguayan people in which he paid his respects to and encouraged the development of women's rights. I was reminded of the countless and faceless poor I have seen, both men, women and children, and especially one woman who, among other car-side street entertainers (another group of street vendors who wait for red light to jump out into the streets and juggle or do other tricks to win over a few pesos from the drivers), stopped in front of the bus on one of my travels and whipped multicolored socks through the air with a huge smile on her face. It was one of the worst car-side demonstrations I've seen but she kept up that smile even when most of the nearby cars refused to offer up any pesos. Even after Mujica's report finished and I was frustrated that I couldn't understand everything he had said, I thought of that girl's smile and hoped for the best.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Las Noches de la Carnival en Uruguay o The Birthday Weekend of the Lost Ninja
(Note: this post is long but I'm bribing you to read it by including a picture at the end) Quite the title, right? This past weekend was a major adventure and a sensible title wouldn’t have done it justice. Where do I begin? You know like the golden birthday you had when you were young and everyone had to dress up in cowboy outfits because you said so or, if your golden birthday fell later in the month, your parents or loved ones surprised you with an extravagant gift like a car, a weekend getaway, a star named after you? Well, my 22nd birthday was nothing like either of those.
It started Saturday afternoon. After having communicated via email with my friend and fellow study abroad traveler far south of her native Wisconsin, Megan, I planned a trip to see her in Lagomar: Another barrio or neighborhood twenty-ish miles west of central Montevideo. We had been planning this earlier in the week but it took a while to figure out each other’s locations and the best forms of travel from place to place. I should also note that on Friday, a girl from Houston, Texas named Elissa joined my host family to live in the same apartment as me. She will be studying at La Universidad Católica along with Megan and I. So I invited Elissa to accompany me in my expedition to Lagomar and I was incredibly glad to have the company.
Elissa and I spent some time visiting le feria early on Saturday afternoon. La feria is very similar to the farmers market in Eau Claire except all the produce and goods are set up for display on wooden shelves right in the middle of the street. After half an hour spent inspecting the different fruits (and failing to figure out some of their names in Spanish) we headed for la avenida italia, a central street in Montevideo, to find a bus. I carried my backpack with a towel, some books, a camera, and some money while Elissa carried only a purse. I note this because these were our only supplies for the next two days. Finding the bus was easy after Elissa stepped up to a group of people and asked for directions to Lagomar. Having spent the last week going on adventures of my own and refraining from speaking to many people, I was amazed at how easy and comfortable it was to speak to native Uruguayans. The first person we asked gave us a long explanation we didn’t entirely understand (minus “red bus”) but then another person pointed at a bus and we waved it down. We asked the driver where he was headed and, within a matter of a few simple seconds and an exchange of pesos, we were headed toward our destination.
The bus was packed, but a native Uruguayan serenaded the passengers with an English song called “Angel.” Some of the verses didn’t make sense but it was oddly comforting to hear a song in English. Well worth the two pesos I dropped in his hat. I had drawn out a rough imitation of the area around Lagomar and once we neared our destination, I recognized some of the street names from my drawing. Elissa and I got off (a little too early, mind you) and walked an easy half mile to la Tienda Inglesa: a large shopping center; still much smaller than a Super Wal-Mart but compared to the dense inner city it was huge.
After Elissa and I had explored the store and the surrounding area (a much nicer and higher class neighborhood than the buildings closer to the city) Megan arrived at la Tienda Inglesa with her host sister, Natalia. Natalia is regular student at la Universidad Católica and she is also completely bilingual in Spanish and English owing to a semester spent studying abroad in Seattle. Natalia drove us back to her house: an amazing two story building painted a crisp yellow that matched a few of the caged birds residing in the backyard. A backyard! This was the first backyard I had seen and, even though smaller than the area of a volleyball court, it felt luxurious to stand in that much open space. Natalia also had three dogs named Luna, Jackie, and Chloe; the first two rottweilers and the last a daschund all colored a similar black and rustic red. Natalia’s sister and her grandmother were also home; they were kind, welcoming people open to speaking with los tres estadounidenses. It was comforting to be a group of three people who spoke English and imperfect Spanish while at the same time it may have made us less approachable. When we went to the beach a short while later, and when I attempted conversations with three different people and even tried helping a kite surfer who we feared was about to unwillingly fly off into the sky, I was ignored every time.
Natalie’s friends, on the other hand, were great. Later that night (Natalie had invited Elissa and I to stay over and, after I incidentally said something small about it being my birthday the following day, she declared we were going to have a get together and there was nothing I could say to change her mind) maybe seven or ten of Natalia’s friends came over to help celebrate my birthday in high energy, fiesta fashion. The city comes alive during the night and it’s common for people to continue the festivities of the night until 6 or 7:30 the following morning. Since dinner is typically served at 9 pm and since the favored drink, Mate, is loaded with essential vitamins, minerals, and super caffeine, people keep going until they drop. We spent the night talking, playing card games, and laughing. Somehow as I got more and more tired, I felt as if I understood more Spanish. I don’t know how this worked out, but I remember vividly understanding and learning about Chevi’s goal to become a lawyer, Juan’s (was it Juan?) interpretation on what it takes to become an Uruguayan, Sebastian’s jokes, and what to do in a figurative situation in when the keys are locked in the house. Suffice to say, I went to bed exhausted and not feeling quite up to the Uruguayan standard. Even though it was 5 am, I’m sure the night continued for many others.
Sunday morning, I felt great. I was pleased that I managed to hold a few conversations during the previous night and I had a lot of energy. I waited for a while for Megan, Elissa, and Natalia to wake up, drank some juice, stood in the sun, and basked. Somehow, maybe because of the card games we played during the night, I wanted to play ninja. It was a small inkling that spurned and flared as the day continued and, even later, I ended up spending time thinking about how I might begin to make the game popular in Uruguay; how I might change the country with a small game popular with college students. If you don’t know, ninja is a game played with a group of people in which, in incremental motions, players stand in a circle and take turns trying to smack the hands of people nearby. So later, when Natalia declared (she has an energetic way of declaring the next event as if no other option existed) that we were going to go to Atlantida: a vacation city where we planned to visit the beach and possibly go dancing (I was terrified of that part and, luckily, it never happened) – they mentioned something about my birthday party continuing but I was too afraid to ask for details.
A short drive later we, los tres estadounidenses, arrived in the beautiful city of Atlantida along with Natalia and five or six of her friends. Once again, and maybe this is typical of the areas west of Montevideo, the area was lush with big houses surrounded by iron gates, beaches with clear white sand, large stores, and buildings serving as entertainment like theaters and arcade centers. This was a place where the rich families of Uruguay go to celebrate, relax, and take a vacation away from work. We spent the day walking, taking lunch at an out-door café, playing pool and air hockey, and sitting nearby the beach of Atlantida. Too scared to ask in Spanish, I attempted to get Elissa and Megan to take part in a game of Ninja but my dastardly plans of changing Uruguay as it is known were doomed to fail.
Instead of playing Ninja , a few of us (myself, Natalia, Elissa, and two of Natalia’s friends) ended up going on something like a boat ride except we all sat on a floating apparatus shaped like a hotdog while a person driving a jet ski tugged us quickly across the water and attempted to force us to fall off the flotation by taking sharp turns. Natalia called it a banana and, for only 100 pesos or roughly 5 dollars, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time: the speed, the ocean water, the air time we got off of waves, and the moment where we quite literally flew off the flotation were incredibly exhilarating.
Later that night, we ended up going to a house that a few of Natalie’s friends were renting for their vacation getaway during la carnival. I should have mentioned this earlier but la carnival is the Latino celebration of the end of the summer and the start of the fall and school year. Many people take the weekend, Monday, and Tuesday to travel, relax, or go on vacations. It was another great excuse to celebrate. We feasted that night on carne asada: rich meat seasoned and broiled, bread, salad, and cheese. I’m not going to lie, the meat tasted delicious even though I had spent the last three years as a vegetarian. The sight of raw meat still makes me queasy but, cooked, it tasted amazing. Later that night, we played Mafia and charades but all in Spanish. I had never played Mafia before so it was difficult to learn based on Spanish directions but Natalia was a huge help by translating. Charades, I knew how to play, but you try acting out “El Siniestro en la Calle 13” without using any words and without being certain on the meaning. Nonetheless, it was a great time.
After and during the feast of broiled meat, we had a few great conversations about tattoos, vegetarianism, poverty, and drugs. As it turned out, a number of Natalia’s friends were more-or-less fluent in English and we had an interesting exchange of broken Spanish, English, and mixtures in between. I was amazed that, in a culture and location so different from my own, I had a lot in common with native Uruguayans. And even though my birthday was nothing like a golden celebration with rich gifts, even though I felt as if I had absolutely no control or comprehension over these two days, I had a great time not knowing; being surprised. Like believing in Santa Clause or Santa Claus once again.
Later on Sunday night, Natalia drove Elissa and me to Portones, a city in the neighborhood Carrasco and dropped us off at the bus station. Within seconds (que suerte), a bus showed up and it was headed in the right direction. Being both exhausted and a little overwhelmed with the interactivity within the last two days, we were happy to return to out apartment in the city of Montevideo and call it quits on our adventure. Reluctantly, I gave up on the lost and forgotten game of Ninja but those up for it should be warned: you’ve been challenged to a game of ninja, ping pong, and ultimate Frisbee the next time I see you state side.
It started Saturday afternoon. After having communicated via email with my friend and fellow study abroad traveler far south of her native Wisconsin, Megan, I planned a trip to see her in Lagomar: Another barrio or neighborhood twenty-ish miles west of central Montevideo. We had been planning this earlier in the week but it took a while to figure out each other’s locations and the best forms of travel from place to place. I should also note that on Friday, a girl from Houston, Texas named Elissa joined my host family to live in the same apartment as me. She will be studying at La Universidad Católica along with Megan and I. So I invited Elissa to accompany me in my expedition to Lagomar and I was incredibly glad to have the company.
Elissa and I spent some time visiting le feria early on Saturday afternoon. La feria is very similar to the farmers market in Eau Claire except all the produce and goods are set up for display on wooden shelves right in the middle of the street. After half an hour spent inspecting the different fruits (and failing to figure out some of their names in Spanish) we headed for la avenida italia, a central street in Montevideo, to find a bus. I carried my backpack with a towel, some books, a camera, and some money while Elissa carried only a purse. I note this because these were our only supplies for the next two days. Finding the bus was easy after Elissa stepped up to a group of people and asked for directions to Lagomar. Having spent the last week going on adventures of my own and refraining from speaking to many people, I was amazed at how easy and comfortable it was to speak to native Uruguayans. The first person we asked gave us a long explanation we didn’t entirely understand (minus “red bus”) but then another person pointed at a bus and we waved it down. We asked the driver where he was headed and, within a matter of a few simple seconds and an exchange of pesos, we were headed toward our destination.
The bus was packed, but a native Uruguayan serenaded the passengers with an English song called “Angel.” Some of the verses didn’t make sense but it was oddly comforting to hear a song in English. Well worth the two pesos I dropped in his hat. I had drawn out a rough imitation of the area around Lagomar and once we neared our destination, I recognized some of the street names from my drawing. Elissa and I got off (a little too early, mind you) and walked an easy half mile to la Tienda Inglesa: a large shopping center; still much smaller than a Super Wal-Mart but compared to the dense inner city it was huge.
After Elissa and I had explored the store and the surrounding area (a much nicer and higher class neighborhood than the buildings closer to the city) Megan arrived at la Tienda Inglesa with her host sister, Natalia. Natalia is regular student at la Universidad Católica and she is also completely bilingual in Spanish and English owing to a semester spent studying abroad in Seattle. Natalia drove us back to her house: an amazing two story building painted a crisp yellow that matched a few of the caged birds residing in the backyard. A backyard! This was the first backyard I had seen and, even though smaller than the area of a volleyball court, it felt luxurious to stand in that much open space. Natalia also had three dogs named Luna, Jackie, and Chloe; the first two rottweilers and the last a daschund all colored a similar black and rustic red. Natalia’s sister and her grandmother were also home; they were kind, welcoming people open to speaking with los tres estadounidenses. It was comforting to be a group of three people who spoke English and imperfect Spanish while at the same time it may have made us less approachable. When we went to the beach a short while later, and when I attempted conversations with three different people and even tried helping a kite surfer who we feared was about to unwillingly fly off into the sky, I was ignored every time.
Natalie’s friends, on the other hand, were great. Later that night (Natalie had invited Elissa and I to stay over and, after I incidentally said something small about it being my birthday the following day, she declared we were going to have a get together and there was nothing I could say to change her mind) maybe seven or ten of Natalia’s friends came over to help celebrate my birthday in high energy, fiesta fashion. The city comes alive during the night and it’s common for people to continue the festivities of the night until 6 or 7:30 the following morning. Since dinner is typically served at 9 pm and since the favored drink, Mate, is loaded with essential vitamins, minerals, and super caffeine, people keep going until they drop. We spent the night talking, playing card games, and laughing. Somehow as I got more and more tired, I felt as if I understood more Spanish. I don’t know how this worked out, but I remember vividly understanding and learning about Chevi’s goal to become a lawyer, Juan’s (was it Juan?) interpretation on what it takes to become an Uruguayan, Sebastian’s jokes, and what to do in a figurative situation in when the keys are locked in the house. Suffice to say, I went to bed exhausted and not feeling quite up to the Uruguayan standard. Even though it was 5 am, I’m sure the night continued for many others.
Sunday morning, I felt great. I was pleased that I managed to hold a few conversations during the previous night and I had a lot of energy. I waited for a while for Megan, Elissa, and Natalia to wake up, drank some juice, stood in the sun, and basked. Somehow, maybe because of the card games we played during the night, I wanted to play ninja. It was a small inkling that spurned and flared as the day continued and, even later, I ended up spending time thinking about how I might begin to make the game popular in Uruguay; how I might change the country with a small game popular with college students. If you don’t know, ninja is a game played with a group of people in which, in incremental motions, players stand in a circle and take turns trying to smack the hands of people nearby. So later, when Natalia declared (she has an energetic way of declaring the next event as if no other option existed) that we were going to go to Atlantida: a vacation city where we planned to visit the beach and possibly go dancing (I was terrified of that part and, luckily, it never happened) – they mentioned something about my birthday party continuing but I was too afraid to ask for details.
A short drive later we, los tres estadounidenses, arrived in the beautiful city of Atlantida along with Natalia and five or six of her friends. Once again, and maybe this is typical of the areas west of Montevideo, the area was lush with big houses surrounded by iron gates, beaches with clear white sand, large stores, and buildings serving as entertainment like theaters and arcade centers. This was a place where the rich families of Uruguay go to celebrate, relax, and take a vacation away from work. We spent the day walking, taking lunch at an out-door café, playing pool and air hockey, and sitting nearby the beach of Atlantida. Too scared to ask in Spanish, I attempted to get Elissa and Megan to take part in a game of Ninja but my dastardly plans of changing Uruguay as it is known were doomed to fail.
Instead of playing Ninja , a few of us (myself, Natalia, Elissa, and two of Natalia’s friends) ended up going on something like a boat ride except we all sat on a floating apparatus shaped like a hotdog while a person driving a jet ski tugged us quickly across the water and attempted to force us to fall off the flotation by taking sharp turns. Natalia called it a banana and, for only 100 pesos or roughly 5 dollars, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time: the speed, the ocean water, the air time we got off of waves, and the moment where we quite literally flew off the flotation were incredibly exhilarating.
Later that night, we ended up going to a house that a few of Natalie’s friends were renting for their vacation getaway during la carnival. I should have mentioned this earlier but la carnival is the Latino celebration of the end of the summer and the start of the fall and school year. Many people take the weekend, Monday, and Tuesday to travel, relax, or go on vacations. It was another great excuse to celebrate. We feasted that night on carne asada: rich meat seasoned and broiled, bread, salad, and cheese. I’m not going to lie, the meat tasted delicious even though I had spent the last three years as a vegetarian. The sight of raw meat still makes me queasy but, cooked, it tasted amazing. Later that night, we played Mafia and charades but all in Spanish. I had never played Mafia before so it was difficult to learn based on Spanish directions but Natalia was a huge help by translating. Charades, I knew how to play, but you try acting out “El Siniestro en la Calle 13” without using any words and without being certain on the meaning. Nonetheless, it was a great time.
After and during the feast of broiled meat, we had a few great conversations about tattoos, vegetarianism, poverty, and drugs. As it turned out, a number of Natalia’s friends were more-or-less fluent in English and we had an interesting exchange of broken Spanish, English, and mixtures in between. I was amazed that, in a culture and location so different from my own, I had a lot in common with native Uruguayans. And even though my birthday was nothing like a golden celebration with rich gifts, even though I felt as if I had absolutely no control or comprehension over these two days, I had a great time not knowing; being surprised. Like believing in Santa Clause or Santa Claus once again.
Later on Sunday night, Natalia drove Elissa and me to Portones, a city in the neighborhood Carrasco and dropped us off at the bus station. Within seconds (que suerte), a bus showed up and it was headed in the right direction. Being both exhausted and a little overwhelmed with the interactivity within the last two days, we were happy to return to out apartment in the city of Montevideo and call it quits on our adventure. Reluctantly, I gave up on the lost and forgotten game of Ninja but those up for it should be warned: you’ve been challenged to a game of ninja, ping pong, and ultimate Frisbee the next time I see you state side.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Autobuses or The Night Buses of Harry Potter in Reality
There’s not quite anything from the United Stated I could use to compare with the bus services of Montevideo, Uruguay. The rules and regulations for driving, the whistles, the honking, the sudden stops, and the condensed population are only the beginning, and even then, almost everyone in the city uses the bus service to get around.
My first ride through the city was with Jose, the taxi cab driver. I didn’t mention this earlier but as we rode into the heart of the city, groups of people were standing near the road waiting to clean windows, or toss up bottles in the air as a juggling act, or join partners for duets in the middle of the street – all in an attempt to win over a few pesos.
The bus services are the same. They are a business and although the 18 peso (roughly one dollar) faire isn’t too bad, the price adds up. The rules are roughly the same in driving: The Rule of One. Drivers do not yield to pedestrians; they are in a hurry to get to their destination. Buses won’t even pause for you if you can’t dish out the pesos. Vehicles on the road are in constant competitions with each other; if an opening in the roads opens for a heartbeat, a car will make the dash to pass around the vehicle in front of it.
My first bus trip was with Mauro: a short jaunt down one of Montevideo’s central roadways. That time I simply followed his lead, passing the money and sitting down in the back of the bus. No sweat. (Note to self: I noticed an odd basket-ball shaped handle on the top of the stick shift. I’ve since then noticed almost every bus with the same shape. Not a soccer ball (fútbol), mind you, but definitely a basketball. Possibly, a definitive factor of the culture? A new take on the flying spaghetti monster? Must look into this for creative material.)
On Thursday, March 3rd my bus trips were entirely different journeys. First, I needed to find a sign that filled me in all of the different buses’ destinations. Bus 14 goes to la playa de los pocitos, bus 152 does not, and so on. Then you wait until you see your number flying down the road and you stretch one straight arm as far out in the road as possible (Remind you of anything?). Sometimes the bus driver notices you, sometimes he doesn’t. He’ll open the door and, depending on the time of the day, either waves of people will pour in and out or a slight trickling of people will make their way through the bus’s portal. One again, time is money and the bus driver is making his stops as fast as possible; if a large amount of people clump at the entrance, the driver will ask that you squeeze in so he can shut the door – otherwise, he’s going. I had to quick step and mash myself in before the doors were closed.
One minute, in rapid Spanish, the bus driver wants you clumped in the entrance so he can close the doors and the next, more rapid Spanish and he’s telling you to work your way to the back of the bus to make more room for passengers. More passengers = more money. I stood around waiting at the entrance until the driver told me, with this cold, course, and cutting voice and while keeping a hand on that basketball shaped stick shift, that I needed to make my way to the back (And thanks to my friend Gina for translating). The buses are often packed and sense of space and personal bubbles is out the moment you step inside.
Getting a seat and watching out the window is great. The sights, the exciting driving (never a dull moment), the literal dodging in and out of traffic (magic has got to be at work because there is no other way that no accidents happen), and the people standing around wrapped up by their own thoughts are mesmerizing. So much so, it can be easy to forget to watch out for your stop. Passengers need to stand up and hit a buzzer above the buses portals to communicate that they want to get off. Stepping off from the bus, holding onto that first sigh and welcoming the solid ground, you can’t help but feel, despite the negatives, that this culture is great.
My first ride through the city was with Jose, the taxi cab driver. I didn’t mention this earlier but as we rode into the heart of the city, groups of people were standing near the road waiting to clean windows, or toss up bottles in the air as a juggling act, or join partners for duets in the middle of the street – all in an attempt to win over a few pesos.
The bus services are the same. They are a business and although the 18 peso (roughly one dollar) faire isn’t too bad, the price adds up. The rules are roughly the same in driving: The Rule of One. Drivers do not yield to pedestrians; they are in a hurry to get to their destination. Buses won’t even pause for you if you can’t dish out the pesos. Vehicles on the road are in constant competitions with each other; if an opening in the roads opens for a heartbeat, a car will make the dash to pass around the vehicle in front of it.
My first bus trip was with Mauro: a short jaunt down one of Montevideo’s central roadways. That time I simply followed his lead, passing the money and sitting down in the back of the bus. No sweat. (Note to self: I noticed an odd basket-ball shaped handle on the top of the stick shift. I’ve since then noticed almost every bus with the same shape. Not a soccer ball (fútbol), mind you, but definitely a basketball. Possibly, a definitive factor of the culture? A new take on the flying spaghetti monster? Must look into this for creative material.)
On Thursday, March 3rd my bus trips were entirely different journeys. First, I needed to find a sign that filled me in all of the different buses’ destinations. Bus 14 goes to la playa de los pocitos, bus 152 does not, and so on. Then you wait until you see your number flying down the road and you stretch one straight arm as far out in the road as possible (Remind you of anything?). Sometimes the bus driver notices you, sometimes he doesn’t. He’ll open the door and, depending on the time of the day, either waves of people will pour in and out or a slight trickling of people will make their way through the bus’s portal. One again, time is money and the bus driver is making his stops as fast as possible; if a large amount of people clump at the entrance, the driver will ask that you squeeze in so he can shut the door – otherwise, he’s going. I had to quick step and mash myself in before the doors were closed.
One minute, in rapid Spanish, the bus driver wants you clumped in the entrance so he can close the doors and the next, more rapid Spanish and he’s telling you to work your way to the back of the bus to make more room for passengers. More passengers = more money. I stood around waiting at the entrance until the driver told me, with this cold, course, and cutting voice and while keeping a hand on that basketball shaped stick shift, that I needed to make my way to the back (And thanks to my friend Gina for translating). The buses are often packed and sense of space and personal bubbles is out the moment you step inside.
Getting a seat and watching out the window is great. The sights, the exciting driving (never a dull moment), the literal dodging in and out of traffic (magic has got to be at work because there is no other way that no accidents happen), and the people standing around wrapped up by their own thoughts are mesmerizing. So much so, it can be easy to forget to watch out for your stop. Passengers need to stand up and hit a buzzer above the buses portals to communicate that they want to get off. Stepping off from the bus, holding onto that first sigh and welcoming the solid ground, you can’t help but feel, despite the negatives, that this culture is great.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
On getting lost
On Wednesday, March 2nd, I got lost in the city of Montevideo, Uruguay. This wouldn't have been much of a problem if I had a map, or if I could have worked up the courage to ask someone for directions, or if I took the bus. As it happened, I was maybe one street off from where I needed to be, but I walked a number of circles before I could figure that one out.
I wasn't the only one. A lady came up to me and asked for directions to somewhere else in the city. Either she was asking what direction another barrio (neighborhood or district) was or she was completely lost just like me. In that moment, I wanted to explain my predicament: how I had been at one beach, and then went running to find another beach, about the large group of people wearing red shirts and chanting something about what they were about to tell the police, about this one landmark I had marked my passage by (a tall blue building) - but then I would have had to explain that I'm not good with directions and I didn't know all the street names, that I was more of an audio-visual learner and that detailed pictures and translations in English might have been the only way in which I would understand. Nope. I told her "I don't know" in Spanish of course and coming as close as possible to the truth. And then it dawned on her - maybe a set expression in my face, the mismatched clothing, the backpack with an English title, the slight tinge of red around my face. She said thank you and left me to ask someone else. Strangely enough, I knew exactly how she felt.
Later, when I thought I had found the right road (which ended up being the right road but I was walking down the wrong direction), a group of men sitting on the corner of a street called out to me. In the cacophony of six or seven people speaking to me at once, the only thing I could understand was "pesos". They were begging and, in one of those moments that slip by faster than one could begin to consider the politics, the pros, and the cons, I had said "no" and walked on. Now this might be false retrospection, but I'm pretty sure one of the men said "Come on" in English as I walked down the road. At the time, I thought the entire exchange of words had been in Spanish but now I realize that I don't really know how exactly to say "come on" in Spanish while I'm fairly certain that was what he said. I walked away with ten or twelve pesos clinking in my pocket and fearing I had turned my back on the country. But hey, right afterward, I found a street I recognized.
Travel Tip 005: When in doubt, stay calm. "When in Rome ..." they say. Traveling websites and study abroad advice will suggest you "blend in to the culture." I don't always agree. In those moments when you feel like you're about to panic, ignore the common advice, calm down, stop thinking about what someone in that country might do, and consider what you would do. I found this helpful because I didn't know exactly what local citizens would do if they got lost. Keeping a level head, planning your next step, even writing down what you are certain of (and in a language you completely understand) can be the best steps in worrisome situations.
I wasn't the only one. A lady came up to me and asked for directions to somewhere else in the city. Either she was asking what direction another barrio (neighborhood or district) was or she was completely lost just like me. In that moment, I wanted to explain my predicament: how I had been at one beach, and then went running to find another beach, about the large group of people wearing red shirts and chanting something about what they were about to tell the police, about this one landmark I had marked my passage by (a tall blue building) - but then I would have had to explain that I'm not good with directions and I didn't know all the street names, that I was more of an audio-visual learner and that detailed pictures and translations in English might have been the only way in which I would understand. Nope. I told her "I don't know" in Spanish of course and coming as close as possible to the truth. And then it dawned on her - maybe a set expression in my face, the mismatched clothing, the backpack with an English title, the slight tinge of red around my face. She said thank you and left me to ask someone else. Strangely enough, I knew exactly how she felt.
Later, when I thought I had found the right road (which ended up being the right road but I was walking down the wrong direction), a group of men sitting on the corner of a street called out to me. In the cacophony of six or seven people speaking to me at once, the only thing I could understand was "pesos". They were begging and, in one of those moments that slip by faster than one could begin to consider the politics, the pros, and the cons, I had said "no" and walked on. Now this might be false retrospection, but I'm pretty sure one of the men said "Come on" in English as I walked down the road. At the time, I thought the entire exchange of words had been in Spanish but now I realize that I don't really know how exactly to say "come on" in Spanish while I'm fairly certain that was what he said. I walked away with ten or twelve pesos clinking in my pocket and fearing I had turned my back on the country. But hey, right afterward, I found a street I recognized.
Travel Tip 005: When in doubt, stay calm. "When in Rome ..." they say. Traveling websites and study abroad advice will suggest you "blend in to the culture." I don't always agree. In those moments when you feel like you're about to panic, ignore the common advice, calm down, stop thinking about what someone in that country might do, and consider what you would do. I found this helpful because I didn't know exactly what local citizens would do if they got lost. Keeping a level head, planning your next step, even writing down what you are certain of (and in a language you completely understand) can be the best steps in worrisome situations.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Walking the streets of Montevideo
It being my second day in the lovely Montevideo, Uruguay, I thought it prudent that I get out and see the sights. After waking up around 8:30 am (curses upon the comfortable bed) I found myself alone in the apartment and figured, what the hey, and I planned a few adventures outside.
Travel Tip 004:
Google maps is like one of those friends who merit Facebook friendship but not so much a party invite. Be careful. Google maps is reliable but can lead you astray and force you to beg random strangers for assistance (which is a learning experience in itself). I got lost because I thought my building was on the other side of the street and a then a few of my directions ended up being completely incorrect. Trial and error is sometimes the best way to go.
So I managed to find my way to the University (La Universidad Catolica del Uruguay), a park (el parque Batlle, a shopping center (Los Tres Cruces) and the beach (La Playa Ramirez). I did all of this alone and I must say, traveling alone can be a rewarding experience. Most of the other walkers flew by me while I had my head up in the skies. I attempted matching their pace and I was out of breath after three blocks. My favorite adventure of the day was the beach: White sand, 80 degrees F, around 6:30 pm and no chance of losing daylight for another 2 and a half hours, a family playing soccer on the coast, groups of men playing something like bean bag toss and crochet combined (money and betting was probably involved) and a light breeze. It was great. I didn't quite work up the courage to speak with anyone at the beach but there's always room for progress.
Later Tuesday night, I went with my host brother Mauro and his friend Santiago to watch an Uruguayan soccer team take on a team from Argentina. We took the bus (my first time doing so) and road to the apartment of another one of Mauro's friends, Nicholas. I can honestly say I hardly understood any of the exchanges these guys made during the soccer game but it was fun nonetheless. Every goal scored by the Uruguayan team (a total of three goals) was celebrated in epic fashion. Gol! Gol! Gol! It was great and I at least understood that part of the night. We ordered pizza and had a great time. From glimpses into their language, I could tell they were mostly talking about the game but they drifted in and out of conversation about professions, homework assignments, and pizza places. The Uruguayan soccer team ended up winning 3:1. All in all, a good day.
Ciao,
Travel Tip 004:
Google maps is like one of those friends who merit Facebook friendship but not so much a party invite. Be careful. Google maps is reliable but can lead you astray and force you to beg random strangers for assistance (which is a learning experience in itself). I got lost because I thought my building was on the other side of the street and a then a few of my directions ended up being completely incorrect. Trial and error is sometimes the best way to go.
So I managed to find my way to the University (La Universidad Catolica del Uruguay), a park (el parque Batlle, a shopping center (Los Tres Cruces) and the beach (La Playa Ramirez). I did all of this alone and I must say, traveling alone can be a rewarding experience. Most of the other walkers flew by me while I had my head up in the skies. I attempted matching their pace and I was out of breath after three blocks. My favorite adventure of the day was the beach: White sand, 80 degrees F, around 6:30 pm and no chance of losing daylight for another 2 and a half hours, a family playing soccer on the coast, groups of men playing something like bean bag toss and crochet combined (money and betting was probably involved) and a light breeze. It was great. I didn't quite work up the courage to speak with anyone at the beach but there's always room for progress.
Later Tuesday night, I went with my host brother Mauro and his friend Santiago to watch an Uruguayan soccer team take on a team from Argentina. We took the bus (my first time doing so) and road to the apartment of another one of Mauro's friends, Nicholas. I can honestly say I hardly understood any of the exchanges these guys made during the soccer game but it was fun nonetheless. Every goal scored by the Uruguayan team (a total of three goals) was celebrated in epic fashion. Gol! Gol! Gol! It was great and I at least understood that part of the night. We ordered pizza and had a great time. From glimpses into their language, I could tell they were mostly talking about the game but they drifted in and out of conversation about professions, homework assignments, and pizza places. The Uruguayan soccer team ended up winning 3:1. All in all, a good day.
Ciao,
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