Prologue: This post
covers events that are over three years old. As usual…sorry.
My previous post detailed the frustration I felt trying to do almost anything in Buenos Aires. As I waited to board my
overnight bus to Uruguay, I thought I had finally left that behind. While boarding
the bus, the driver checked my passport and told me I needed a stamp. I wasn’t
sure what kind of stamp he meant, nor where to get it – I’d expected to deal
with that at the Uruguayan border. But it was clear I wasn’t getting to the
border until I had the stamp he was looking for.
So it was that my
final moments in Buenos Aires found me at a full sprint, running back through
security and the length of the bus terminal to a second floor of which I was
previously unaware to get a stamp I didn’t know I needed from a ticket agent I
didn’t know could give it. It was a fittingly frustrating, bewildering and
stressful finish to a challenging portion of the trip. Buenos Aires had
frustrated me one last time. Heart still pumping from the stress and the
unexpected workout, I collapsed into my seat on the bus and prepared to wake up
in Uruguay.
My interest in Uruguay had grown gradually over the years, stirred
at random intervals by various news items. There were occasional stories about
President José Mujica, who donated a large portion of his salary to charity,
continued to drive his 1987 Volkswagen Beetle throughout his presidency
(2010-2015), and – my favourite part – condemned the necktie as a “useless
rag.” Truly, a man after my own heart.
Uruguay also made the news for their progress on renewable energy, LGBTQ rights and their legalization of marijuana. I think I’ve always
felt a fondness for small countries that pursue unique and progressive agendas (e.g.
New Zealand, Iceland). I wouldn’t have flown across the equator just to see such a place, but once in
the area, I wanted to make it happen.
As it has now been more than a toddler’s age since this trip
actually happened – seriously, my youngest nephew was born after this trip and
is now walking* – I will offer only my strongest memories of my time in
Uruguay. There are a few:
Mellow Montevideo
In five days in Montevideo, I developed a bit of a fondness
for it. After the sensory overload of Buenos Aires, Montevideo’s slower rhythms
were a welcome change. The streets were lively and interesting, but no vendors
tried to force their products on me. Indeed, unlike cities in both Chile and
Argentina, Montevideo has organized an artisan market with regulated pricing
and paid staff. It didn’t have the thrill of haggling with an artist on the
street, but it was less stressful for all concerned and (I think) helps ensure
fairer prices. The general feeling was very relaxed throughout my time in
Uruguay, which was just what the doctor ordered in my case.
You Can Take the
Traveller Out of Urban Planning School…
…but you can’t keep me from noticing cool urban
planning-related stuff when I travel. Here are three quick points:
- La Rambla, a 20-kilometre seawall and promenade along the
Río de le Plata in Montevideo
 |
| La Rambla - note off-season weather |
- Public art throughout Montevideo, and brightly-coloured
building façades (if you choose to paint your house in a colour this bright,
you have my support)
 |
| "How are we supposed to tell our houses apart?" "Oh wait, I know!" |
 |
| Yes, that's Uruguayan football legend Luis Suarez. Yes, he has gigantic teeth. |
- Punta Carretas, a former prison that has been converted
into a shopping mall. I tend to avoid shopping malls, but this one was worth
seeing as an incredible example of adaptive reuse.
 |
| The old prison gate now guards a shopping mall. |
"¡El mejor carne de Uruguay!"
I spent my final two days in Uruguay in the town of Colonia
del Sacramento, which is a quick ferry ride from Buenos Aires. Colonia is a
relatively small, sleepy place, best known for its old quarter, which dates to
the 17th century. In the final days of my trip, it was a pleasant
place to enjoy views of the water and wander the cobblestone streets.
 |
| I did say it was a sleepy place. |
In my wanderings in Colonia, I poked my head into a little
restaurant that I liked the look of. It reminded me of a hunting lodge, or my
great uncle Ted’s cabin in Muskoka: an open fireplace with a rifle hanging above, a wood pile for the evening's cooking and hunks of meat on prominent display. To
paraphrase the 52nd-best movie quote of all time, this place “had me
at hello.”**
It was early by Uruguayan standards, so the place was empty,
but the middle-aged woman behind the bar showed me a menu and I made my
selection after trying to figure out which one was the steak (they all were). I
took some photos with the proprietor’s permission.
When my order went in, a short middle-aged man with an
impressive moustache (if memory serves) came out and began cooking. He looked
as if my order had interrupted him in the process of chopping wood for that
evening’s dinner rush and frankly, it might have. I surmised that he was
married to the woman behind the bar, and that they ran the place themselves.
Upon reaching the fireplace, he grabbed one of the gigantic hunks of dead cow,
slapped it down on the cutting board and sliced off my dinner.
As I’d found throughout the trip, side dishes are deemed
unnecessary next to steak, so when my meal came out it was as simple as you can
imagine: a piece of meat grilled over a flame, presented on a wooden plate. As
the chef placed it in front of me, he said, with great gusto, “¡El mejor carne de Uruguay!” (The best
meat in Uruguay!)
 |
| The aforementioned best meat in Uruguay. Note: I ordered the fries separately, but I should not have. |
He may have been right. I don’t know, I don’t usually eat
beef. The memory of that steak’s taste has long faded. But the memory of that
place, and that chef, has not.
The place started to fill up as I ate, and the chef – whose name
I learned to be Mario – was busy on the grill. He seemed to know most of the
customers, who just called their orders out as they sat down. One table of
regulars realized how busy their host was and simply helped themselves from the
(non-alcoholic) drinks fridge, telling Mario what they took. He or his wife
noted them down and kept up a steady stream of banter from behind the bar. They
took turns rearranging tables for new arrivals, saying hellos, and shaking
hands. The two of them covered the roles of maître d’, server, cashier, chef,
and presumably countless more that I didn’t see (dishwasher, for example).
I could have watched this social ballet continue for hours,
but I didn’t want to deprive others of it either. I left, and my table was
quickly taken over by new arrivals. I returned to my hostel and relaxed with a
book in one of the chairs near the main entrance, vaguely wishing I had waited
until later to eat. In fact, the hostel staff were just phoning in their own
dinner order as I returned. When it arrived 30 minutes later, it was none other
than Mario himself – add “delivery boy” to his job title - who had arrived on foot to deliver two freshly
sliced and grilled servings of “¡El mejor
carne de Uruguay!”
I don’t know why this anecdote sticks with me, and I won’t
use space here to brainstorm an explanation. I’ll just say that Mario and his
wife ran the kind of place I hope to find everywhere I go, whatever the purpose
of my trip.
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| Playa de los Pocitos, Montevideo |
Done!
It has taken me three years to write about a trip that took
five weeks, but I did it! There is no more to write about my time in South
America (I’ll spare you the story of the stomach bug I got on the way home, for
which I DO NOT BLAME Mario). Watch this space for an update on the future of
this blog…when I get around to it.
*When this trip happened, Barack Obama was President of the
United States. Ouch.
**52nd-best according to the American Film
Institute, as listed here.
