After a 7-hour layover in Miami sin internet and a 12 hour flight into Montevideo, I arrived in Uruguay to a brand new airport—fluid and modern under a cloudy sky. Not having to pay any sort of entry fee (which was weird after my Chile experience) the passage through the small airport was short and muy fácil.  After passing through customs, I was greeted by a crowd of expectant parents, children, and cab drivers holding signs.  Not seeing my name anywhere, I just kept walking along the barricade hoping that the Barrios family would recognize me with my chunky Ray Ban frames on.  Just before I passed the last of the crowd, a young Uruguayan looked at me and asked, “Grant?”  I nodded a bit and he responded in perfect English, “Hey, I’m Martin” (with the accent on the “a” and not the “i,” mind you).

Thus began the Uruguayan adventure.  Since then, I’ve decided that I love my host family, the city, and pretty much everything Uruguayan—the “shhhuuu” sound that they use for the double “l”, their quirky expressions, the TV commercials, the word “ta” which is pretty much the same as “yah” in the U.S.  I tried my hardest to come without expectations, but inevitably I had a mental picture: something like a cross between Valparaiso and a European country.  I’ve got to say that it’s met and then exceeded any of my expectant musings from Tennessee.

The city is full of color and action.  Each neighborhood has a character of its own.  There are tall apartment buildings lining the shore of the Rio de la Plata with wet clothes hanging across porch railings, doing their best to dry themselves in spite of the heavy air carrying leftover moisture from the river.  Instead of a concrete jungle as would be expected of any America city, there are towering, vibrant trees, foreign to my American arboreal lexicon, lining each street.  Empty lots boast green grass and old brick walls covered with deteriorating street art.  But what I love best about this city is its use of space.  Even outside of the more densely populated centro, I can walk a couple of lively blocks to the grocery store, a fruit stand, or the pharmacy to take care of daily shopping needs.  And of course the public transportation is easy and fluid.  Competing companies operate different colored “omnibuses” that service every part of the city.  If I don’t feel like riding the bus, I can easily walk to where I want to go and enjoy the perfect weather that we have here every day.

And if this weren’t enough, the rambla, an extensive, oversized sidewalk that winds its way along the coast of the city, awaits just four blocks away for morning runs, Sunday walks, or a quick trip to the beach.  The brown waves of the Rio de la Plata emptying into the Atlantic seem strange to someone who thinks of the Florida panhandle when he hears the word “beach.”  It’s common to see couples walking with a mate in hand, carrying refills of hot water in unique thermoses tucked underneath the arm like a football (the American kind).  It just so happens that my host father sells artisan mates (the actual cup is called the mate), bombillas (the funny-looking metal straws that keep the loose yerba out of your mouth), and various other high quality Uruguyan things.  So, as I am writing, my very own mate está curando, or curing for its first use—a process that involves leaving soaking yerba in the mate for three days.

That’s enough for the first post.  Hasta pronto de Uruguay.

Un beso,

Grant