The noise draws you. With stands visible, and walls keeping people out, this spectacle is a city road race. There are cameras and cameramen strategically placed and, in retrospect, the best way to see the race is to see it on television.
Despite what Juan Carlos says, the cars are loud and there is the smell of burning fuel. I get a General pass in the nosebleed section, way around on the opposite end of the track from where I buy my ticket, and show the little blue band wrapped around my wrist to a gate guard in the D section.The stands are full and a warm up car is leading all competitors around the track in a get to know you lap.
Fans are ready for action, standing at the rail, lounging in chairs in grass areas near the grandstands. There are portable toilets, a food concession, parking, and if you want shade you can find it under the grandstands. It is a long oval track and sheet metal walls containing it are tall enough that you can’t see the race unless you are looking down from a second story balcony of one of the hotels across the street.
My ticket calls the race the Grand Prix of Punta Del Este .
Beautiful models get out of a van. They are gorgeous. All made up and dressed in official racing outfits, they are walking to the finish line till a winner is declared and then they will get their pictures taken for the newspapers and honor the winner with multiple hugs and kisses.
Kisses are powerful motivators.
I haven’t been to Greek islands but they must be similar to this place.
Following the Rambla past the port, past expensive homes, you reach the end of the Punta Del Este peninsula. At the end is a parking lot with exercise equipment, two mermaids, a flagpole with a Uruguayan flag flying, and an old man standing perilously close to incoming waves as he tries to fish rough waters while a friend watches.
These two mermaids are made from a concrete mix but they have been damaged. The tail of one has been severed from her body. There are limbs missing from both .
The statues look alive from a distance and you have to watch to make sure they aren’t moving to realize they are just sculptures. You can walk up to them and that is their problem. It doesn’t take much alcohol for someone to get carried away and vent frustration on two Goddesses who can’t fight back because a workman has anchored their tails in concrete.
The two old men fishing are being bold. Wind is kicking up waves and the one who is fishing is very close to being caught in one and becoming whisked out to sea.
At the end of land, I look for Neptune to rise out of the water with his seaweed fouled trident and demand to know what offerings I am making.
I haven’t been to Greek islands but it is easy to see how they came to have Gods and Goddesses.
There are forces in this universe we don’t control.
Building temples and worshiping God’s is not a bad precaution.
The Rambla is a good place to walk.
On this morning’s jaunt, I come across a table and chairs out in the surf. The narrow path out to a concrete table and concrete chairs, in the midst of waves, turns into temptation.
Making sure my Passport is buttoned up, my cell phone is buttoned up, the keys to my hotel room are in my front shirt pocket, buttoned up, I take a side trip. The table looks inviting, surrounded by water, waves crashing to make a sound that drains out all other sounds.
It is shaky walking over metal planks that make the first part of the path. Water moves underneath, triggering thoughts of pirates walking the plank and knowing, as they walk off with a pistol pointed at their back, that being able to swim ain’t going to save their life.
Once over the iron barnacle encrusted planks, the going is easy, just climbing a few stone algae covered stone steps and finishing by taking a seat at the little concrete table out in the water.
It is relaxing being in the eye of a hurricane.
This is what a conductor must hear in front of an orchestra.
I am way down Alice’s rabbit hole.
This young man cleans shellfish he harvested earlier this morning.
The shellfish are on the bottom of the bay and he uses a net to bring them up, a net weighted heavy that he casts out by hand, lets sink to the bottom, then wrestles up and into his small boat with shellfish captured in it.
He cleans his catch in a homemade sifter made from two by fours with a screen mesh nailed to the underside. On the concrete steps this morning he pours sea water over his catch and moves shells around in the bottom of the sifter with his hand to make mud stuck to the shellfish dissolve. It takes him three different pours before he scoops clean shells out of his sifter and puts them into a five gallon plastic paint bucket to sell to his customers.
While he works, seals swim to the edge of the walkway and bark. They are begging, but getting no response, from either of us, they take a breath of air and disappear back into their murky water.
There are plenty of steps one has to go through to get shellfish from the sea onto your plate.
These shell fish will end up on a local restaurant menu, part of a lunch special for visitors wearing diamond earrings and Rolex watches.
For some people, time and money mean the same thing and you don’t want to waste either.
The sun is barely awake.
After a hotel continental breakfast, it is time for me to hit the road.
The beaches on this marina side of the peninsula are non existent. The shores here are lined with rocks that create tide pools where multi-colored birds are hunting critters caught in the shallow water. Some of the docked boats are big, sleek, expensive and geared up for long ocean voyages. Others are less well taken care of and are used for transport, fishing, or other work by working class owners. It is early, but, on a few yachts, deck hands are bustling about while their Captain is below deck nursing his hangover with a bloody Mary.
Near the biggest pier in the city, fishermen lock their cars in a big parking lot and line up to board charter fishing trips.
The fishing grounds here are, according to multiple guidebooks, some of the best in the world.
Walking wears better than fishing this morning.
My experience with fishing is that it is hard to get the smell of cut bait off your fingers and you don’t always come home with fish.
All the fishermen I pass are smiling though, leaving terra firma for a peaceful ocean with nothing but sky, blue deep waters, a pole and tackle box, and great hopes.
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It costs me six dollars to go by taxi from Ciudad Vieja in Montevideo to the Tres Cruces bus terminal in Montevideo, and only eleven dollars to ride a brand new air conditioned bus from Tres Cruces to Punta Del Este, one way, an hour and a half ride away.
Leaving the congestion of Montevideo, middle class neighborhoods whisk past, malls and industrial parks visible through the bus windows as we wind our way into the countryside. Cities look much the same the world around, once you leave tourist stops. Many tourists choose to just stick with guide book stuff, statues, museums, parks, national historical sights. However, we can design any kind of trip we want, linger if we wish, jump ahead when we get bored.
A trip, after all, is only as small or large as the inside of your skull and the limit on your credit card..
I am going to the beach and not shedding crocodile tears to leave big city Montevideo and all it’s big city bustle and bluster..
As our bus follows the highway out of town, buildings become scarce and cows start popping up like targets in a shooting gallery.
I’ll be back to urban Montevideo, but, right now, sand and surf is calling me with the crook of their little finger.
Changing venues is what travel is all about.
Deciding whether you like or dislike a venue is what you are all about.
My bus arrives at two fifteen in the afternoon in Punta Del Este and one of the bus cleaners finds my hat and brings it out to me at a taxi stand which is unbelievably kind.
A taxi driver pulls up quickly, loads me and my stuff, and whisks us all to the Hotel Playa Brava which is only a short cab ride from the bus terminal.
Unpacked and checked in at my new home, I take a short stair climb to the observation deck on the hotel roof.
The surf is just blocks away.The sky is blue, lighter than the blue water, diffused with light, clear, endless. Water stretches to the horizon where it meets sky and the line there is like a wall meeting a floor.
The owner of the Hotel Playa Brava, Juan Carlos, told me, in English, about a tourist bus I can take to see Punta Del Este sights as well as the famous sunset at Casa Vilaro.
This city is another room in the Uruguay mansion and it is light, airy, and contemporary.
From this rooftop I can see what pirate’s saw from their crows nest, scanning the horizon for land, hoping for ships flying Spanish flags filled with gold and silver.
While I’m not likely to find gold and silver here, except dangling on tourists necks, I am pleased to be in a place for real that used to be just an internet vacation dream.
Being from the desert, water always gets my full attention.
Punta Del Este, moving into its tourist season, is a movie set waiting for a movie crew.
It is hard to find fault with beach towns full of light, openness, a relaxed attitude and water in every direction, at the end of every street. This morning a few souls are on a little beach at the end of the street from Hotel Playa. The beach is named Emir Playa after a local family.
In Montevideo, streets are narrow and buildings tower like giants looking down shaking their fingers at those of us who dare to move without the proper password. Here, I can breath.
Going from the big city to the beach feels like ditching a heavy jacket and changing into a pair of swim trunks.
This is a reputed playground for the rich and well connected but the season hasn’t started yet and I’m one of the few out walking today.
Whether I will be viewed by others on the street, as rich and famous, is unlikely, but how exactly do you tell a person is rich by looking at them in just their swimming trunks? When you strip away all their jewelry, clothes, cars, perfumes, makeup, how do you really know that who you think you see is really how they are?
I expect to be seen as a senior tourista, healthy enough to walk, not on a schedule, with enough time and money, in the correct proportions, to see the world, going where the winds blow me.
How people see us, strangely enough, is quite often how we actually are.
Reading between the lines is, apparently, not as difficult as it first seems.
There are car wrecks every minute, somewhere in the world.
This is the first one that almost hits me.
Taking a walk down the Rambla, this accident happens on the roadway at a spot I just passed. I hear braking,turn, and watch a white delivery van moving crazily down one lane of traffic, swerving, balanced on two wheels, looking like it will hit parked cars on the curbside, which it does. It is like a stunt man driving in the movies except this is an average Joe who is going to be lucky if he walks away without a scratch.
People converge on the accident scene to make sure the drivers are okay, talk about what they see or didn’t see, who is responsible and who isn’t, and wait for police. I don’t know what caused the accident but the cops will take interviews, pictures, piece together a truth that will be torn apart by lawyers if it goes to court.
A police car almost loses control as it passes me with lights and sirens operating, dodges a car that doesn’t get out of their way, does a U-turn, then shuts down the roadway at one end of the accident scene. An ambulance,already here,tends to an older man in a small car involved in the accident.
The one they need to check on is the working man who climbs out of the upside down delivery van and slaps himself on the top of his forehead with two hands, lucky to be alive.
This could have been a disaster instead of a photo op.
This is my next to last day in Montevideo, and, it looks as if it it didn’t come too soon.
Travel is not always safe.
A picture is worth a thousand words, some say, so here are fifteen thousand words.
Colonia Del Sacramento, new and old, is quiet, peaceful, scenic, and makes for rambling, sightseeing, day dreaming. There are many Europeans who come here to live and the entire city population is under 30,000. Here, on one small boulevard, is an Apple store so you know that new has conquered old.
This town dates back to the 1600’s and some of its original still standing buildings are churches and whorehouses which speaks volumes about human motivations and needs.
This old town, full of history, is like old people sitting on the front porch watching people passing by and with-holding judgment.
There is enough history here that eccentricity can be tolerated.
This jewel is how Montevideo used to be before it got too big for its britches.
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