Piriapolis is a small Uruguayan town an hour bus ride from Punta Del Este.
A one way ticket on the bus lines COT, or COPSA, runs ten dollars. This is one of those side trips that gives a bigger vision of the country.The beaches at Punta Del Este are well spoken of but the beaches in Piriapolis are smaller, more accessible, with calmer waves.
Walking a wide boardwalk that runs parallel to the beach, I look down and see, peeking out of the sand, the head of a young woman. Her body is completely buried. I don’t know if she is asleep or her partner covered her while she was awake? I don’t know if she protested?
He is about to pounce when he looks up and sees me. I point at my camera. He kneels down and gives me a thumbs up.
It is a beautiful day and this couple has time to do whatever they choose. He chooses to cover her up like a kid playing in the sandbox and she chooses to let herself be covered up because it means he is paying her the attention she wants.
They have the beach to themselves.
Precious moments whiz past our heads all day, like bullets. A few hit us hard enough to be remembered,and, even fewer, get written down.
Right across from the bus terminal in Punta Del Este at Parada 1, Bravo Beach, is ” The Hand.”
It is difficult not to see the outside beach sculpture if you are anywhere near it. The” Hand” is only the tips of three fingers and a thumb rising out of the sand, but the fingers motion to you to come closer.
This sculpture was created in 1982 by a Chilean sculptor Mario Irarrazabel as part of an art competition and it wasn’t, at first, his most favored project.
It has remained here, since then, intact.
The fingers rise out of the sand higher than most people stand.
The art work has been called “Men Emerging to Life,” “Monument of the Fingers,” “Monument to the Drowned,” “The Hand.” The artist didn’t like the third title much, according to Wikipedia, but once your works are on their own you can’t say much about how they are received and what is done to them.
This afternoon visitors pose, touch the fingers and hang out.
One morning, the Hand might rise from the sand a bit more, exposing its massive wrist.
We would then need a ladder to climb up to pose for our picture sitting in the huge open palm. .
From any angle I look, I can see that the ” Hand ” will always be a manicurist’s dream job.
Artists always make us pay attention when we start to drift into numbing routine.
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.
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.
The first two or three antique cars I see here seem like anomalies.
After four or five, though, I wonder if this place attracts people who love old cars, or just turns them that way?
Walking around stone paved streets of this old city, one sees old cars parked under carports, in driveways, along alleys, abandoned on curb sides, even acting as giant flower pots in vacant lots. Some of these transports appear to be running while others have long ago given up their ghost.
One flashy vehicle in a residential driveway features a couple of fish who could be right out of the book “Wind in the Willows” except that there are no fish in that whimsy, just a loony amphibian. A red 60’s VW is parked in front of an office building. Around town, still driving, I see rust buckets that spit out dirty exhaust but still get their un-self conscious drivers from point A to point B.
Old cars in this older town are excessively big, heavy, generous with big metal bumpers and shiny chrome. When you turn on their radios you hear big bands, early Elvis, Hank Williams. These bad boys are big lumbering dinosaurs that wear their hearts on their sleeves and I especially love it when their engines growl, pop open their hood and see real distributor caps. These antique cars were made when Detroit was King and are still licensed and ready to roll.
Old cars and old cities go well together.
I’ve never been in a hurry to erase the past but these old cars suggest that the hands on the town clock are moving in the wrong direction.
Going back to the past, I am continually reminded, in Colonia Del Sacramento, that looking backwards doesn’t always have to be painful.
The first stop on our day trip is a farm and museum off Route 1 that takes you from Montevideo to Colonia Del Sacramento through some of the best vineyards and cattle country in Uruguay. The Museo and farm are the creation of Emilio Arenas who not only has a world record pencil collection but sells cheeses, jams and jellies, in his little country store.
People collect anything. It can be ashtrays, matchbook covers, ceramic animals, music, books.The list is endless. Most collections,though,never end up in world record territory.They end up on shelves in the living room, or occupy a garage or shop where no one but the addict can be affected by his compulsion. In his case, Emilio’s pencil collection is the world’s biggest and brings customers to buy in his gift shop.
Out in the yard, not far from our tour bus, I sit in a chair under a shade tree and let the world zip by.
It is comforting to be in the countryside and dream about staying in a little house surrounded by chickens and goats and a milk cow. At night a window will be open and the stars will look like little pencil pricks of light, white sparkling dots on a black canvas.
Next time back, Emilio will get a pencil from New Mexico from me.
He will always find a place for one more.
On Sarandi Street are groups of people, dressed to the nines, standing in my way as I pass on a sidewalk past a woman’s fashion store,
Happy couples exit a bland doorway, into the sunlight. They are jubilant.
When more smiling couples come out and take photos, throw rice, hug and toss flowers to the next lucky man or woman, it is certain this extravaganza is about marriage, a traditional and good institution, if there ever was one.
A closer look at a little bland sign on the bland building confirms that this office, next to an upscale clothes retailer, is the City’s Office of Matrimony
As brides and grooms pose outside for their wedding pictures, some with professional photographers, others with friends or family who have phones or fancy cameras, some couples do dramatic hugs and kisses. Others are subdued.
On this occasion it would be a sacrilege to remark that not all of these newly joined couples will be together in five years.
The search to find someone who will live with you, for better and worse, is worth the effort no matter how it ends.
The next historical development in weddings will be to get married at a drive up window, in street clothes, with a cooler of beer in the trunk and passes to the opera in the glove compartment.
Most marriages begin happy but their success rate is still only fifty percent, regardless of who marries you, where you get married, how much money you have, what God you worship.
Odds, as Las Vegas knows, are hard to beat, but odds don’t stop people from getting married.
Surrounded by dogs, all on leashes, this long hair consults his map.
It isn’t certain whether this group is going on a field trip, going to relieve themselves, headed for a romp on the beach, or just following their leader, who holds their leashes. They are stopped and the dog walker takes out a plastic bag and picks up a present left by one of his charges. It is certain he is the only one doing this nasty chore in this port district because you find dog presents on most streets and are surprised there aren’t more.
The sun is going down and it would be unexpected that all these dogs belong to this young man. Whether they have to be registered and need checkups and shots is an unknown but a vet supply place is near so there is a need here that someone is making a living catering to.
Putting his map away, the dog whisperer clutches all the leases in one hand and strides away, a pied piper.
Animals love their people.
This pack knows who their lead dog is even if they don’t know where he is taking them, and don’t care.
What I’m asking is – why would you have a dog if you don’t want to take it for a walk?
It is mentioned in guide books that there is petty crime in Montevideo.
The young woman in a next door boutique, who speaks English and tells me about Montevideo when I have my expresso, is standing and talking to motorcycle cops as I come out my apartment door onto the street. There are three cops and two motorcycles and one of the officers is sitting on concrete steps leading into the boutique, writing his report.
I go around the corner and enter the back door of the shop, order a coffee in the cafe part of the business. When my friend comes back inside she tells me her whole story, from beginning to end.
“We had a shoplifter,” she begins, “the same one who did it before. We called the police and they took her away. She was putting things in her dress.”
“How do you say the past tense of steal,” she asks me?
“The past tense is stolen, someone has stolen our stuff,” I reply.
Petty crime sticks with us. This petty thief will spend a few nights in jail but won’t learn any lesson except not to get caught.
if there wasn’t crime these cops would be out of work.
The best thief is the one that steals from someone else.
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