Being in transition is being a traveler.
You have one suitcase with clothes and an extra pair of walking shoes in the cargo hold. You have a carry on bag in the overhead with computer stuff, headphones, extra pens and paper, schedules, an umbrella, toothbrush, personal items. Your wallet and passport are in your pants left front pocket for safety. You hate to carry items you don’t need because odds and ends make your trek heavier and less simple.
Leaving Uruguay, en route to Costa Rica, our plane is thirty thousand feet up. We fly west out of Uruguay, then up the coast of Chili with the Pacific in view, then cut back towards the Andes for a stop in Peru. There is no such thing as a flight,these days, that goes “straight as the crow flies.”
Transit time is thinking time, sleeping time, re-charging time.
Uruguay is in my rear view mirror and Costa Rica is dead ahead.
All I have left of Uruguay is what went on between my left and right ears and what I got down on paper or on my camera.
Lingering on the past, while barreling into the future, is behavior I don’t want to be guilty of.
I don’t ever want old places to spoil new places.
From the air, oddly enough, I don’t see any dotted lines that mark borders between countries.
I guess we make borders up because we need them.
City buses in Uruguay feature a team.
There is a driver who keeps the bus on the road, makes stops, stays out of accidents, and gets people on and off the transport safely. There is a conductor who collects fares, checks passes, smooths feelings, answers questions, and moves up and down the aisle like a stewardess/steward who doesn’t pass out pillows or drinks.
On any route, there might be a few stops, or dozens of stops. This Termas bus is well marked and though the bus is loud and smells like exhaust there aren’t chickens or sheep and the passengers are like me – wanting to get where they need to go cheaply and safely.
When you think of teams you think of Pancho and Cisco, Tarzan and Jane, Crosby and Hope, Siskel and Ebert, Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.
I don’t know these bus guys names but they take time to ask where I am going and get me off at the right corner, two walking blocks from my hotel.
Riding the bus in Uruguay is not unpleasant.
I would ride them just to be going somewhere, and have.
It is sweet that these working men take the time to get me off at my right stop.
Good happens in the world, but mostly goes unappreciated and under reported.
If I were a cow, the only place I would want to live would be Uruguay.
Much like Arabs love their desert and sailors love their ocean, cows have to love this country. Those of us going to Salto on Monday, and there aren’t many of us, board the bus at twelve thirty in the Montevideo terminal and don’t see anything but green grass for the next seven hours. In many places the grass is knee deep, and, along the way, there are cows, horses, sheep doing what they do best – grazing.
The panorama is expansive rolling hills covered with green under a light blue canopy that supports puffs of white clouds drifting in a gentle wind like small sail boats.
You have cries of overpopulation yet we drive through thousands of acres of terra firma with water, the potential to raise unlimited cattle and crops, and few people.
It is not like there isn’t money in the countryside. You see expensive farm equipment parked in front yards and they are the same expensive machines you find in Ohio or Kansas or Texas. You see nice vehicles and big houses on hills overlooking the highway that have impressive iron gates, tree lined entries, and panoramic views.
Along the way we motor through rolling grass covered hills, wooded areas that grow timber harvested for several large paper mills for a world that is still not paperless. The government is working on the highway and we go through several toll booths that signal different provinces of the country. Little towns we drive through here are trying to stay viable,just like those at home, trying to stay alive as their population ages, kids move away, storefronts shut down, and expenses of keeping city services continue to rise.
They should have named this country Greenland, but that name has already been drawn out of the hat.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There aren’t many bargains for the traveler but one is sightseeing buses you find in large South American cities.
These double deck buses run routes through the city like a regular bus but they stop at multiple tourist destinations where you can exit and sight see, then catch the bus home on its next return.
This big pink bus is parked a half block from my front door and with ticket in hand I follow a bunch of school kids aboard. To the very top deck most of us go and put on headphones that let us listen to guided commentary in our home language.
The kid’s teacher is a short slender young woman wearing sunglasses and a ball cap, a scarf thrown around her neck, pink tennis shoes and a large carry all bag. She has had to monitor her brood the entire ride, especially the boys. There are always high maintenance students. Without them, a teacher’s job would be a walk in the park.
This sightseeing bus is like riding on the broad back of an elephant as natives scamper out of your way, as clouds drift above like laundry caught by the wind.
The kid’s class photo, taken after touring, is cute, and, for some of these kids, this outing will be remembered fondly at school reunions where previous winners look like losers and losers have morphed into knockouts.
This twenty dollar scouting ride gives me hope that Montevideo will be a smooth, exciting, stimulating, enlightening city worth visiting.
Tomorrow I ride this same pink bus to Punta Carrera, the National Museo of Futball and the Botanical Gardens.
We all like bargains.
Catching a taxi to the beach is the quickest way to get there from the Hotel Element.
For thirty bucks each way, I get a local taxi drivers music, pictures of his familia swinging from the rear view mirror, a few questions in Spanish to see if i speak his language, a driving style that saves time for phone calls, deciding which horse race to bet, or checking in with Baby Mama.
“Ocean Drive is over there.” Raul says as he turns a corner and pulls into a parking pullout not far from the Atlantic ocean.There is a green belt parallel to the ocean with sand paths leading through palm trees to the beach. The green belt also has walkways for casual strolling, roller blades and bicycles.
“If you go one block that way you hit Collins Street, ” Raul instructs me. “The food is cheaper there , because, you know, it isn’t close to the ocean.”
Raul taps his finger in the air as he talks, like he is conducting a salsa symphony.
Leaving the cab, I hike down Ocean Drive, immersed in Art Deco architecture that you find in Miami Beach, Havana, Los Angeles, all warm places on an ocean’s edge.
According to Wikipedia, Art Deco is famous for eyebrows, rounded corners, flat roofs, themes in threes, banding or racing stripes, columns, glass blocks, etched glass and portholes.
Enjoying a place I never planned to be, on someone else’s dime, is looking like more than traveler’s luck.
Why I am here, and not somewhere else, is always an enigma wrapped in a conundrum?
It isn’t fifteen minutes until my toes are in the ocean.
Even the best plans of men go awry and the best planned trips get caught in rough currents.
Boarding my plane in Albuquerque, all things are possible. I am scheduled to fly from Albuquerque to Dallas, Dallas to Miami, Miami to Montevideo, Uruguay.There is no doubt this trip will happen, in proper order, until the Captain of our American Airlines jet announces a ” maintenance problem. ”
We are stuck on an Albuquerque runway,our plane’s engines won’t start, so we taxi back to the gate for grease monkeys to determine what the plane’s problem is,and, if possible, fix it.
Sitting in our plane, an hour and a half assessment is completed. Finally, with supervisor approval, techs jump start engines and we taxi back out and get airborne on our second try.
The traveler seated next to me is from Peru. He makes his living explaining mutual funds to South American financial advisers and tells me Uruguay is nice which gives me some comfort that this trip will be better than it has begun.
In the Miami airport, a huge floral design on a wall above an escalator going down to Customs, reminds me that Peace and Love are the hardest words to live by in the English language.
It is two in the morning before a shuttle from the Hotel Element picks up six of us stranded travelers and gets us safe to our airline paid compensatory rooms for having missed our ongoing connections through airline error.
It isn’t an auspicious beginning for this trip, but at least I reach Florida with all my body parts.
Statistically, airline travel is safe, but fear of falling really kills us.
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