A Uruguayan Christmas, recounted in reverse

I can’t recall when exactly Christmas began in the Southern Hemisphere. Intuition would tell me that it started on the morning of the 25th, but like my friend Christina (very eloquently) observed in her blog, among the distance, sun, and sand, my internal compass has sent me off course more than once recently.

Although, I do have the distinct impression that Christmas actually began in the waning hours of the 24th, as my Uruguayan family and I launched wrapping paper and fireworks towards the sky, watching with wonder as each shot through the air with a dull roar--suspended briefly on our breath—and quickly descended back to Earth.

Maybe Christmas started earlier that evening, as I took just one more pull from the yerba mate my friend handed to me on his rooftop terrace—overlooking the city that’s taken me under its care this year--, where I held my breath and tried to suspend reality for just one more instant.

Or maybe it started earlier that afternoon at the Mercado del Puerto, where I joined the masses as we drenched one another in cider and excitement, where young men suspended themselves from fountains and monuments—new targets for the jeers and bottles circulating among the crowd—and where I sighed a breath of relief for having toughed it out: filthy, but alive.

But maybe—just maybe—Christmas started earlier that morning, as I opened my eyes and drew in my first conscious breath of the day, suddenly unsure what to expect from what would have been the most familiar of days.

If ever I intuited that this life would be normal, I’m glad my compass has led me so far off course.

A reluctant idealist

Fernanda says she is a misanthrope. That’s what I understood, at least, when she confessed recently to not liking most people. In fact, I heard echoes of Holden Caulfield as she deconstructed her disappointment in humanity, chiding herself for having once had high expectations.

Fernanda says she is a misanthrope, but I’m not sure I believe her. If anything, she is a reluctant idealist.

This is how I know why:

We met about a month ago, at a tango bar in the heart of Montevideo. I was with a friend. So was she. At some point in the night—although, I can’t remember when exactly—we exchanged a friendly glace, toasted our wine, and began a conversation that flowed with as much ease and grace as the couples dancing around us. Talking to her was exciting and felt, in a way, like a transgression.

She told me about the place where she was born—Tigre, a small town near Buenos Aires—and the origin of her family, which unites the Old World with the New. She referred to America as a concept, a fantasy—a verb conjugated in the future tense—, and admitted to having learned German for a man she once loved. She recounted her adventures as an archeologist in training and traced the circumstances that led her from the northernmost point of Argentina, where Chile and Bolivia share a contested frontier, to the tranquil coast of Uruguay.

In the story of her life, I saw reflections of my own.

And for all of her misgivings about the world—which she confessed to me in secret—I discovered a woman brimming with life, whose heart still beats to the rhythm of new opportunities. Whose eyes focus on the possibility of what is yet to come. Whose arms embrace new friends with love.

Fernanda still swears she is a misanthrope, but reassures that, for me, she’ll make an exception.

Fernanda, another friend, and I spent last weekend in Cabo Polonio, a national park and beach community to the East of Montevideo. There's no running water or electricity, and it is, by far, the most "tranquilo" place in Uruguay.

Cumplimos años

My tattoo turned a decade old today.

I got it in Spain, near the red-light district in Madrid, at a vintage clothing store that also served, to my delight, as a tattoo parlor. I spent weeks sizing up the place, returning with some frequency to revise racks of clothing and thumb through pages of designs, trying to appear as non-committal as possible.

After months of this silent, one-sided courtship, an employee finally approached me and reassured that they could have me pinned down, inked up, and ready for a family lunch in under an hour. I muttered a few unintelligible phrases in Spanish and quickly backed out of the store, just as my fear was giving way to a complete loss of self-control and proper bodily function. It was clear to me: she who hates needles would need more time. So, I considered more designs.

I contemplated a Japanese fish and even glanced at an Egyptian eye.

Finally, though, I settled on a sun. Just a sun. Although, really, it’s a sun people often mistake for a wheel, which is just as good, in my opinion. It reminds me of Apollo in his chariot, dragging a huge, fiery disk across the sky, and thus giving rise and rest to the day. It reminds me of the word revolution: change and continuity.

I can’t attribute my tattoo to any famous artist, or some raucous night of partying. Rather, it was born of the imagination and intuition of a 17-year-old girl who knew that no matter how far she wandered from home—and, at times, it would be far—the sun would always shine on her back as her head and heart faced the future. It marks the decision I made to become a part of the world—the kind of birth I could control.

My tattoo turned ten today. The canvass it graces turned 27.

I pass by this stand on the way to the gym.

For this, and many other things, I am thankful.

Laugh at the lemons

Ok, I confess: I cried today as I rolled up my winter clothes and packed them tightly into the suitcase, anticipating my departure in a little over a month. This year has been amazing, intense, difficult, and beautiful—all at once. Each aspect overwhelmed me, in the span of an instant, as I packed up the pieces of my Uruguayan life.

I’d like to think I’m beyond clichés, and that years of academic training have taught me to avoid them. However, my only consolation in that moment was the saying: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

They are words to live by.

Take my middle name, for example. It’s Millington. Yes, Millington. As you can imagine, having a name associated with a 1960s British porn star has made life a little more, well, interesting. And my pre-teen years? Call it Murphy’s Law or just bad luck, but I always seemed to find myself among bubbly girls with cute middle names like Mary and Michelle, Sarah and Clara. Occasionally there was an Elizabeth. From time to time, there was a Yvonne. I, on the other hand, was no more and no less than Rebbecca MILLINGTON Pittenger. Count ‘em up—that’s a nine-syllable name. It seemed to belong to someone older, stronger and more convicted, which I guess could be true now. At the time, though, it felt like dead weight—worse than baby fat, glasses, and getting hit by a car combined—and only made heavier the pre-adolescent tonnage that was seventh grade.

But, with time, Millington became Millie, and with her, my fabulous alter-ego. Millington, who was once shy and awkward, became a sharp-tongued, Chanel suit-wearing force of a woman. Suddenly, life made designer lemonade.

Plus, if it weren´t for Millington, there would be less of Rebbecca (fewer letters anyway).

And since I’m in the mood to confess and this has been a year that, in many ways, has brought me full circle in life, I think it’s only appropriate to admit that, for me, multiple sclerosis is also shaped like a lemon. I found out ten years ago—the day I returned from Spain—that my mother has it. I didn’t tell anyone at first, and then when I did, only one of my closest friends. It was a secret, another Millington.

Eventually, though, just like my name, I got used to the idea and lightened up about my family’s new reality. We now poke fun at my mom’s occasional lapse in memory—her “blueberry” moments—and the thing that scares us most actually brings us closer together.

So, as I pack up my life, bringing this journey to its natural conclusion, I’m reminded that this decision represents more than just leaving or staying in Uruguay. It’s about an unspoken commitment I made to be an active member of my family, the challenge I accepted years ago to start living up to my name--and, whenenver I can, to laugh as I make lemonade.

Today was one of those days when the Rio de la Plata better resembles an ocean than a river.

Conscientious observer

I become more convinced every single day that one of my roles in life—at least thus far—has been to observe the American zeitgeist from abroad.

No, really.

Exactly ten years ago I was a wide-eyed exchange student to Spain, where I used my limited, poorly-pronounced Spanish to explain concepts I was barely familiar with in English: impeachment, perjury, and dare I say, fellatio. I was in Chile in 2003, when the War in Iraq began. My Spanish was far better by that point, but since my outlook differed so radically from my hosts’, I became uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Now, for the third time in my life, I watched from distant shores as America redefined itself yet again.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous last Tuesday. But as the BBC commentators relaxed and announced Obama the winner early in the night, all I could do was smile and follow suit. As Virginia came out blue and then North Carolina, Hawaii and then California, I knew I could sleep well and wake to a new day in American politics.

And that’s exactly what I did. I got up early last Wednesday, breathing a little bit deeper—head held just a little bit higher. When I went to the store for some croissants and milk, the owner asked me what I thought: victory or tragedy? I just smiled and told him I was “Contenta. Más que contenta, de hecho: contentísima.”

I don’t know if all Uruguayans are as excited as I am about Obama’s victory. People are generally distrustful of politicians here, and some, like journalist Edwardo Galeano, are skeptical a single leader will be capable of dismantling and reassembling our malfunctioning political system. He writes: “¿Podrá cambiar el rumbo asesino de un modo de vida de pocos que se rifan el destino de todos? Me temo que no, pero ojalá que sí.”

What does seem to have people abuzz in Uruguay, where voting is compulsory and everyone seems to have an opinion regarding politics, is that Americans from all walks of life came out en masse (and with so much passion!) for this election. Like most people here and the world over, we were patient and determined as we stood in line for hours and mailed in absentee ballots, just to have our voice heard. Here they seem less concerned about race than the fact that Americans finally motioned for other important changes—in ideology, rhetoric, perspective—and defended the nation’s founding principles. In fact, one friend even told me that, although he resents “Yankee imperialism,” he finds his respect for democracy in America renewed.

I have to say I agree with him. I’m proud that people my age overcame their disenchantment with the voting process, and I’m proud that people my brother’s age made their first experience so meaningful. And as long as I’m away from home and far from the people I love the most—and all things familiar—I’m proud just to be a conscientious observer.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear: yes we can, yes we did, yes we will.

Standing on the shores of the Río de la Plata
I hear America singing.

I hear America singing from the edge of Grant Park to the hollers of Appalachia, from the low country delta to the peak of Katahdin.

I hear America singing the old hymns of democracy to updated melodies, renewing faith in the poetry of today, the possibility of tomorrow.

I hear America singing and the grassroots rustling under winds of change.

I hear America singing in the voice of the voiceless and tears of joy captured in song.

I hear America singing.

I hear America.

A semi-chance encounter with Padre Felipe

I recently had the pleasure of meeting Padre Felipe, a Uruguayan priest who is also my dear friend Joshua’s spiritual advisor. We met in the plaza near my house, where we talked about everything from the tragedy in the Andes (he counseled the survivors and their families) to cold Chicago winters, the worldwide financial crisis to the difference between Evangelicals and Episcopalians.

He asked me not to hold on to his arm as we strolled along the rambla--he claimed it made him feel like an old man--, and I realized in that instant that I was in the presence of Grandpa Tress' Uruguayan doppleganger.

I enjoyed our encounter so much that it inspired me to write this poem. Enjoy!

Padre Felipe

It felt like chance
When I saw him waiting for me
At the edge of the plaza,
Right hand in his pocket,
Exactly where he said it would be.

He smelled of serenity
And ambrosia,
The stuff divinity is made of.

A river runs through Carrasco

I hope I´ve convinced more than a few of you to pull out a map over the past couple of months, if nothing else to confirm just one more time the coordinates of this tiny, faraway country called Uruguay. If you have, you’ve noticed that the capital fans out from the banks of the Río de la plata, which keeping within the parameters of the marvelously real, supersedes the limits of any normal river. In all actuality, it´s an estuary. But no one ever tells you that: it´s referred to here as either river or sea (río or mar), even though everyone knows perfectly well it is neither. And in a country that shuns all things extreme—in politics, natural disasters, love—the Río de la plata represents a sobering exception to the rule.

With a body of water as wide as the one that entrenches this former military stronghold turned port city, it´s easy to find tributaries. In fact, the neighborhood where I live—Pocitos—was founded along the banks of one of the city´s many streams, where immigrant women from Italy and Spain would come to wash their clothes.

More recently—last Saturday, in fact—I became part of a rambling human river that cut through the heart of Carrasco, a wealthy neighborhood to the Northeast of the city center. Donning dark-blue shirts with at least four written references to the race´s sponsor—Reebok—five thousand Montevideanos (and at least three Americans, a Swede, and a Peruvian) congregated to run the city´s first of many spring-season 10k competitions.

The levee wall broke at exactly 5pm, releasing a body of seasoned and less-than-seasoned runners out onto the normally quiet, residential streets. From a distance, we must´ve looked like a river, running through the city, defying logic and the basic principles of engineering as we passed over the Bridge of the Americas.

To maintain my flow of energy, I focused on the ripples, watching the heels of those in front of me as they beat against the river bed, and then rapidly kicked back up--churning the stream, propelling it forward.

I tried my hardest to keep my running face on (which permits even less emotion than poker´s equivalent) during the entire race, cursed my joints and then quickly blessed them for holding out, and sailed past the finish line no less than six miles and an hour and seven minutes later.

And although Carrasco´s river won´t appear on any map you´re likely to find on the Internet, I´ve come to expect the unexpected from Uruguay—this, the most moderate of countries--, which unpretentiously turns rivers into seas over the span of generations, and bodies into currents in the matter of an instant.

Just in case you were wondering, only one person stopped me to ask if I was really from Kentucky.

I found this as I was backing up my laptop, which is finally working again. Yay!!

(Nighthawks, Edward Hopper)

Isolation refracts
against reflectionless
glass walls,
caging the hawks
from the night.

Solitude is
sipped slowly,
kissed by lonesome lips,
silenced in
voiceless throats.

They sit
waiting in mute anticipation
for the new machinery of urban life
to produce better,
more efficient answers

to the question of seclusion,
the new industrial solution
to loneliness.

The fragments of my day, connected by commas and semicolons

*Today I: counseled a friend on my living room couch, went to the ciber café, researched the “Constitución de Cádiz” in fit of mania and nerdiness until 1am, sent birthday wishes to a friend; slept, woke up early (too early), continued sleeping; woke and got up, retrieved dog from walker and thought for a second that both are adorable; *café con leche y pan*… just like every morning; called Florencia to tell her she´s a goddess; another day without my laptop, another second-long, grade-five panic attack; studied, pondered the significance of my name, dressed for gym; lifted . weights, laughed at my orange gym pants; listed to radio, showered, dressed; fixed lunch of fish and potatoes (but not fish and chips); collected coins for thus bus, rode to town; listened to private Tom Petty concert: “She was (I am) an American girl”; resisted urge to sing (typical), tapped feet instead; bought barrettes and headband on street, saw a shirt that read “angle” instead of “angel”; went to favorite ciber and laughed with employees, printed a bunch of articles but forgot them there, resisted urge to blush when I returned; *BLUSHED*; read articles at library for a class I refuse to get credit for, took a 5 (er… 45) minute break with Dave Brubeck; drank coffee while staring at mate machine, read about the philosophical dimensions of suffering; *phantom phone ringing*; read revolutionary pamphlet while waiting for class, left early; kissed a friend on the cheek and gave her three sips of red wine because she was nervous about a boy and poetry; laughed with abandon at bad rhymes, landed job as a graphic designer for a literary magazine called: Paréntesis (______); met up with a friend for beer in the barrio, sang tango, held my breath, and said Good Night to September.

*By "today," I mean yesterday.

¡¡VOTE!!

This is my hand. My hand holds a pencil. The pencil allows me to fill in a bubble on the absentee ballot form. The absentee ballot form counts as one vote.

One vote represents a right and a civic duty.

This is me exercising my right, fulfilling my civic duty.

This is me voting.

Inspirado por Almodovar

A veces, cuando me siento livianita de humor, voy al almacen de al lado y les cuento a los dueños, en un tono imperioso, que mi disertación doctoral se tratará de la alcahueta Almudena de Al-Andaluz que alcanzaba alimentarse exclusivamente de alfajores y alcohol, sentada todo el día sobre una almohada de algodón, cuya forma parecía a la de una alcachofa alucinante, desde dentro de un gran palacio real, que se llamaba: alcázar.

Se miran el uno al otro, y finalmente, sin decir ni mu, se me extienden la mano para que les pague, para que me calle por una sola vez.

¿Será que no les agrada

la aliteración?

Did I forget to mention I went to Machu Picchu?

After my stay in Arequipa, I took an overnight bus ride to Cusco, Peru, former capital of the Incan empire. I heard the change in altitude could cause nausea and shortness of breath, so I prepared myself by sucking on coca candy throughout the night. The indigenous remedy worked, but I still felt sluggish my first day in this ancient city of just over 400,000.

That didn’t stop me, however, from touring the city, getting a quick bite of adobo (a traditional Peruvian dish consisting of… well, I’m not really sure what, but it’s good), and purchasing a ticket to Machu Picchu for the next day.

Cusco, located high in the Andes, is actually several hours from the most recent addition to the Wonders of the World, which is unofficially considered a gateway to the Amazonian jungle. Taking advantage of daylight hours, we departed Cusco around 7am and made our way along the treacherous pass leading to the lost city of the Incas. Six hours later, the terrain had changed radically, and the temperature, too. Mountains green with vegetation now surrounded us, banana trees, and mosquitoes. After a short train ride through the mountains, we arrived to Aguas Calientes, where we spent the night.

No earlier than 4:30am, our guide came knocking on our doors to make sure we were awake. Wiping the sleep from my eyes and dressing quickly, I made my way to the bus that would slither up the side of Machu Picchu, which means “Old Mountain.” When we finally arrived, the ruins were draped with a dense fog, adding to its air of mystery.

Machu Picchu, which served as a kind of university for Incan elite and then as a secret enclave after the Spanish invasion, is made up of hermetic stones, which speak to those who know how to listen.

And excites the imagination of those who visit.

Machu Picchu is more than just an image on a postcard. It’s the flight of a condor, the pulse of a heart, and the last effort of an empire to conceal its riches from sight, from inevitable plunder.

This is an electric baby Jesus I found in one of the cathedrals I visited in Lima, the capital of Peru. I toured the city briefly before heading home to Buenos Aires and then Montevideo.

Omnibus Diaries V - Diarios de omnibus V

After a short stop in Tacna, Peru, I headed to Arequipa, or the "White City," a title that points as much to the city's European heritage as its white colonial buildings. It just so happened that I arrived on Arequipa Day, a yearly festival celebrating the city's foundation more than 450 years ago.

There was dancing in the streets.

And each embroidered skirt was more beautiful and ornate than the last.

I was asked to participate in the procession on more than one occasion.

The city of Arequipa is situated over 7,500 feet above sea level.

I stayed with Aroly while in Arequipa. She was an amazing tour guide and constant source of inspiration. And although she'll never admit it, she also makes the best roast chicken in town.

Omnibus Diaries IV - Diarios de omnibus IV

This installment actually includes a few plane and car rides as well. From Santiago, I headed North to Iquique, where I spent the night, and from there to Arica, Chile, where I finally crossed the border into Peru.

Dunkin Donuts at the airport in Santiago: nothing could make me feel more at home.

Sea urchins are a delicacy in Chile.

On the border between Chile and Peru. The "Campo Minado" sign is testament to the strained relationship between these two countries.

Special taxis take you across the border from Arica. I traveled with a family from Iquique who was spending a long weekend in Peru. We listened to Milli Vanilli and Celin Deon on the way.

This monument, located in Tacna, Peru, is a memorial to the Peruvian and Bolivian soldiers who died in the War of the Pacific against Chile.

Omnibus Diaries III / Diarios de Omnibus III

Chile is a country of constant change. The ground always moves here, shifting slightly throughout the day. Slowly and imperceptibly. At times, though, it shakes with such seismic fury that the country and its people come tumbling down.

Military dictators rise in violent coup d´etats and then gradually fade away… but never disappear entirely.

The most arid desert in the world gives way to a fertile central valley and flows south to the land of lakes, which eventually meanders around fjords and glaciers, at the bottom of the world.

And, in Santiago, a city I left behind five years ago, change is the only constant.

Tall buildings now stand where they did not before, defying the shaky ground beneath them. Business executives circulate among the city´s newest channels, chasing dreams and dollars. A few city plazas have disappeared; a few more shopping malls have been erected.

Even past the walls of the Larrain household—which had seemed so timeless, so cordoned off from change—things were different. My brothers are older now; in fact, I didn´t even recognize a few of them. No feelings were hurt. A new dog now keeps guard at the main gate, and an already numerous family has grown again, almost by the dozen.

Most importantly, though, coming back to Chile and the Larrain family I realize just how much I´ve changed since I was here last. I finally feel at home in this country, which, as Chileans will tell you, is no country for “debiles de caracter,” or the weak of character. I finally see that Chile and I even have a lot in common: We both have a strong, spiny backbone—which throws life out of joint from time to time—and a lovely interior. And amid all this change and transition—as Chile and I move in tandem—I realize that I have finally found a kind of peace at the precipice. From these staggering heights, I can finally see with clarity how far I´ve come and the road that lay ahead.

The Larrain household. In a changing world, the generosity and spirit of this family remains unchanged. Fittingly, the sign above the door reads: Pax, or peace.

These stairs lead to my room, affectionately known as la pieza de Becky, or "Becky´s room."

One of my adopted brothers, Jose Antonio (far left), some other friends, and I enjoy Santiago´s nightlife.

One of my favorite Aquarians, María Jose, and her daughter Martina. It took us meeting at Hiram five years ago to finally meet up inValparaiso.
Valparaiso,

de mis sueños, de mis versos, de mis suspiros.

Omnibus Diaries II - Diarios de omnibus II

I guess if I had to be stranded somewhere in the world, I wouldn't mind it being Mendoza, Argentina.

My original plan was to leave Mendoza early Monday morning, cross the Andean pass by noon, and arrive to Santiago de Chile by early afternoon. However (and I feel like this trip has been defined by "howevers"), when I purchased my ticket and boarded the bus, we were informed that the road leading to Chile had been closed because of inclimate weather conditions (ie snow and high winds). So, what is normally a hypothetical statement--"if I had to be stranded somewhere in the world..."--quickly became reality. Fortunately, I had just enough pesos to get me through the night (I found a few more for the rest of my trip, but not without a day-long battle with the ATMs of Mendoza), and by 9:30 the next morning I was on my way to Chile.

The trip between Mendoza and Santiago is approximately six hours long. That all depends, of course, on weather conditions and traffic. Yes, traffic. The mountain pass is often closed at a moment's notice, which means that tour buses and truck drivers alike must either return to their starting point or wait out the delay, which can last as long as two days. It's not surprising, then, that this quiet mountain pass can quickly become a bustling highway.

This is a small community cemetery I spotted along the way. Just one of the many advantages of traveling by bus.


One of the advantages of waiting an extra day was that I got to see the Andes with a fresh layer of snow. It looked like a white cotton blanket and reminded me just how far from home I really am.

The "W" doesn't have anything on these s-curves.

Omnibus Diaries I - Diarios de omnibus I

If I thought this trip were novel in any way, I would be terribly mistaken. The road that has led me to Mendoza, Argentina and which will lead me soon to Santiago, Chile is already well-traveled, and I’m hardly the first wide-eyed adventurer attempting to pave the ground beneath her feet with the written word. Truth be told, in many ways, Latin America has always been something of a literary creation, fashioned out of the vision of its explorers: conquistadors and chroniclers alike. Christopher Columbus faithfully documented his perception of the New World during his three trips to the continent, for example, exciting fantasies of earthly paradise and material wealth for centuries to come. More recently, Ernesto “Ché” Guevara’s “Motorcycle Diaries” map his wanderings around South America as well as his account of an ideal, unified America, a vision that continues to divide the continent.

I am by no means the first person to chronicle this kind of journey through the south, nor will I be the last.

Accordingly, I find myself adjusting to the footprints left behind in the path before me—some of them belonging to members of my own family—and pages already written.

Like any good traveler, though, I continue to search for ways to make this journey mine--to find my own way and write my own story. So, as I roam along this well-beaten path, which will take me far from home and then back again, I hope to learn from the people who have made this journey before me, relishing in all of the steps and inevitable missteps along the way.

Crossing the plain in Argentina. The bus ride was 24 hours long. I read an enitre book along the way, slept, and was silent.

I stayed with Valentina (to my left) while in Mendoza. Shortly after my arrival, we went to her friend's house for a girl's-only lunch, where we looked at lots of pictures and discussed politics. They were all GREAT!

On my last full (scheduled) day in Mendoza, I went with my hostess, her family (read: mom and dad, grandma, sister, sister's boyfriend), and best friend Natacha on a tour of the city. We even drove high into the Andes and took this picture from this less-than-steady bridge.

Nuevo Amanecer

I invite all of you to check out the website I have created for Nuevo Amanecer, a community center I´ve been working with in Montevideo.

Nuevo Amanecer forms part of a network of community centers in Piedras Blancas (a community on the outskirts of Montevideo) and provides approximately 200 underprivileged children an after-school snack during the week and a small lunch on Sundays.

As well as creating the site, I am also working with my sponsoring club (the Hamilton Place Rotary Club in Chattanooga) to construct an on-site playground.

Check it out, and please feel free to share your thoughts!

Just another uruguayo

So what does it mean to be Uruguayan? Most simply, it means to have been born in the country bearing the name “Uruguay.” However, being Uruguayan is also a way of life, one that includes, at least superficially, sharing mate (an herbal infusion sipped out of a leather gourd) with friends, devouring alfajores, and taking long walks along the rambla. And, as if anyone could forget, eating lots and lots of meat.

Over the past two weeks, Salman had the chance to share with me what it means to be Uruguayan. His first day in Montevideo began with a crash course on how to properly drink mate, a brief history of the alfajor (an Arab pastry dating back to 8th-century Spain), and an introduction to the Spanish of the Rio de la Plata. The days to follow included a trip to Colonia, long walks around Ciudad Vieja, playtime with Lucas, and a family barbecue, where Salman was officially inducted as another member of the Caja/Arocena clan.

Maybe Salman´s most important discovery during his stay in the Republica Oriental de Uruguay, as it is known officially, was that being Uruguayan also means being a good friend and an active member of the family. It means talking about football (the international kind)… lots and lots of football. It means saying hello to your neighbors and chatting with the shop owners from around the corner. It means enjoying the simple things and being equally unpretentious and hospitable.

I guess you could say that, by the end of his stay, Salman figured out that he had come all the way to the end of the world only to find people just like him, that he was just another Uruguayo.

El verbo America

Si la palabra verbo es conjugar los jugos de tiempo, el verbo América es la historia
y los juegos que allí se enjuagan entre el Mediterraneo y lo que la Europa llama América.
Vínculos y culturas del Mediterráneo, que es Asia, Africa y Europa, con las,
conjugares, araucanas, patagónicas, quechuas, incaicas, tahumaras, hopi, zuni, haida, esquimales y milientas otras del extremo occidente del Pacífico (rusias, coreas, japones, chinas, indias, malayas, sepic, maori, pascuences etc.) porque el Océano Pacifico será el futuro Mediterráneo y las Américas su puente de tierra con la Europa.

El verbo América es conjugar participios pasados con presentes condicionales, es reorganizar todos los pretéritos de las cuentas, cuentos, de indios del Mediterráneo con, los indígenas de América y del Pacífico; es poner bien los dedos en lo que los une, en vez de -preciarse con megatónicas megalomanías.
El verbo América es estrujar la cultura tradicional del Mediterráneo con un probable arte nacional de América.
Todo esto es todavía , una arriesgada convicción,
un proceso de construcción,
una concentrada ficción,
un aparato de recuerdos,
un tormento mítico,
un matrilmonío, cósmico,
un mundo tan reciente que parece escondrijo,
una búsqueda de tierras prometidas,
una gana que carece de nombre,
una amenaza de pecado,
un catálogo de nudoso,
una recreación circular como un puente de tierra.
No importa! lo que parece, pero funda y difunda apareceres.
Que se descubran, que se vean sin trapos los unos en los Otros.
El verbo América, es búsqueda de acontecímientos que no se cuentan en el cuento.
Porque el lago de logos que es el Mediterráneo será el lago del Pacífico, el lago global.

Roberto Matta

Neither on nor off the beaten path.

For some reason, when referring to whether or not what we do or see in a day is commonplace, we tend to think of things as being either on or off the beaten path. What, though, about all the random, slightly bizarre things that make up our everyday lives? Do they jolt us from our stroll along the beaten path, or do they do they simply make that well-worn trail just a little less tedious, only slightly more tolerable?

Here are a few pictures of everyday things that just didn’t seem to fit anywhere else.

I love this mural; it leaves me wanting to know more, like what the woman on the right is doing and thinking.

The sign above the tube reads: "Stop. Under repair."

I'm still convinced this is the best way to get around Montevideo.

Carlos Gardel and his impersonator. There are actually several in this city...

An asado. On the street. Next to a construction site.

4th of July rhymes with Uruguay! (I am SO sorry about this title)

It had all of the makings of a traditional Fourth of July celebration: cotton candy, hotdogs and hamburgers with all the right condiments, hordes of Americans milling about, indiscriminately double dipping and discussing pleasantries, like the weather and the potato sack race taking place outside. The only thing that made my Fourth of July different this year was the fact that I celebrated it on a cold day in July (which still sounds funny to me, if nothing else because it’s slightly reminiscent of another saying we have in English) in downtown Montevideo, Uruguay. To be more exact, from exactly 12-3 pm last Friday afternoon the neatly manicured lawn of the US Ambassador to Uruguay, Frank Baxtor, better resembled the setting of a Tennessee-style barbeque than the residence of an international dignitary.

I arrived to the event uninvited but with my passport in hand, ready to prove that, by virtue of being born in the US—and Texas to boot!—I should be granted admittance to the party. I approached the security officers guarding the entrance and smugly handed them my documentation, knowing full well that my name did not appear on the list. They searched for a second among the Pattersons and the Pottingers but could not find me. Finally, sensing that I wasn’t going anywhere, they simply waved me on to the second phase of security: the metal detector. I was suddenly starting to feel at home in my surroundings.

The day’s celebration had a few aspects that were new to me, though. After passing by the hotdog stand more times than I care to admit (those of you who have attended a Lookout’s game with me know what I’m capable of), I made my way back inside for Ambassador Baxtor’s formal greeting, which included singing the Anthem and a short performance by an a cappella group from San Luis Obispo, California. Baxtor then addressed us directly, peering out over the crowd from the stairs of his home. In a speech more reminiscent of a fireside chat than a Fourth of July salute, the Ambassador reminded us of the generosity of the American spirit, something Toqueville observed in his early writings on America and which still stands true today.

I didn’t stay at the party much longer after Ambassador Baxtor’s speech; I had found the food comforting but was ready to slip back into my anonymity as an undercover American among Uruguayans. All the same, though, it was worth crashing the party just to say I had, spending a few welcome hours and inside jokes among compatriots.

They exist!!!

In one of my recent blog entries, I doubted the existence of the afiladores, the modern Pied Pipers of Montevideo, who traverse city block after city block, in search of those in need of sharpened knives. Well, I’m here to confirm that seeing is believing, and afiladores really do exist.

I was working at the ceramics studio on Monday, when I heard the sound of a flute in the distance. One of my classmates mentioned, offhandedly, that an afilador was passing by. I think everyone thought it was strange (if not slightly rude) when, all of a sudden, I jumped out of my seat, flung open the door, and yelled out: ¡vení! I was only slightly embarrassed when the sharpener turned his bike around in the direction of the studio.

As Flor searched for something to sharpen, I asked permission to take a few pictures and explained my interest: This profession simply doesn’t exist where I come from, and I doubt people there would believe me if I couldn’t let them see for themselves. I guess we’re just kind of cynical like that. Plus, I fibbed and told him the pictures would soon appear on a Yankee website, making him instantly famous. He was suddenly willing to comply with my somewhat strange and totally unexpected request to document his work.

The movement generated from pedaling his bike turns a small metal wheel, which the afilador uses to sharpen everything from butter knives to household scissors.

Afiladores are really few and far between, my classmates tell me. This just happens to be a street where they commonly make their rounds.

This is my first lesson towards becoming an afiladora. Don't worry, Mom and Dad, I think I'll keep my day job.

Winter's solstice

The word “solstice” derives from the Latin words sol (meaning sun) and sistere (meaning to stand still). Winter solstice, which occurs on the 21st of June in the Southern Hemisphere, is known as such because, during that day, the sun is as far as it will ever be from this half of Earth and its movement at a virtual standstill.

That doesn’t mean that life stops during winter months; rather, it just slows down a bit, giving us the time we need to catch up with ourselves.

And in our frenetically modern lives, which only continue to estrange our bodies from our souls, winter begs us to remember what makes us fundamentally human—the aches, pains, and occasional discomfort of existence…

while allowing us to better appreciate the things that really give our lives color and warmth.