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.
The Rambla is a paved course way that runs from Ciudad Vieja to Pocitos and beyond.
It runs along the sea where humans go to walk and talk, show themselves off to the world, build sand castles on the beach. There are animals, bike riders, skateboarders, old couples, young families, and tourists strolling and playing here this morning.
Buildings along the beach in Pocitos are unimaginative as if beaches all over the world have been given up to developers who see things only in cost per square foot and know instinctively that boxes are the cheapest and quickest geometric forms to build.
A dog chases a Frisbee thrown for him onto the incoming waves.
When he comes out of the sea, he brings his Frisbee back to his human companion and refuses to let go of it, shaking his head and keeping the toy from an outstretched hand.
His human wrestles the Frisbee out of his dog’s mouth and then throws it back into the surf. to keep the game going. The dog chases it again, happy as a clam.
Dogs have a good handle on what they need.
Getting your master to love you is their ultimate prize and catching and bringing back a frisbee seems a small price to pay for love.
One evening, as the sun is falling, it makes sense to stroll down to the water’s edge, follow a concrete pier that juts into the water like the end of a fishing pole left discarded by a disgruntled fisherman.
The pier is edged with giant stones and this is where fishermen and fisherwomen stand and cast out bait to try their luck.
There is a slight wind, the sky is clear, and the water of the Rio de la Plata is light brown. You cast as far as your heavy weight, heavy line, a twelve foot pole and open faced reel will let you go. There are cars parked with open trunks as men unload tackle boxes, plastic bags of bait shrimp, coolers with beer and soft drinks. At the very tip of the pier, young men crawl over rocks to cast out where it is deepest. The water is deep here and, not far away, cargo ships come into port to unload containers full of a cities needs.
Walking the course way, one sees poles bend and fishermen keep lines taut as they turn their reels, shorten line, and beach their pescado. When the hooked fish gets close to the rocks, it is lifted into the air and swung, like cargo , further up onto the rocks where it is pinned with work boots and then put on a stringer or into a plastic bag, or cut up for bait. The fish are mostly light skinned catfish. They have two long whiskers, broad mouths, and the soft looking white belly of bottom feeders.
Several of us strollers go all the way to the pier’s end and sit, feel the wind and watch the sun drop.
Colors appear on the city that make it seem less harsh. After a half hour, it is time to head home and leave anglers to their mission. They won’t be out long. They either catch their fill and pack up early, or get bored and go home.
Fishing is where rubber tires meet the road, where hopes and dreams meet hooks and sinkers.
When you are looking for produce in the Port area you are not near the grand shopping palaces you visit in the United States.
Groceries in the U.S. display well groomed produce as you walk down waxed shiny floors,choose fruit and vegetables from clean bins with sprinklers that mist to make sure the product always looks fresh.There are plastic bags to wrap your choices and stocked product is carefully unpacked from boxes and inspected with blemished items thrown out. You would never suspect vegetables came out of the dirt, or fruits came off trees from the way they are lovingly presented.
In Montevideo, around the Port, there are small fruit and produce stands on the streets. Tourists and residents buy out of these wooden boxes under tarps that protect from too much sun and rain.
Uruguay is famous for wines and beef production, and has one of the world’s largest underground aquifers, but citrus, fruits, and other vegetables are shipped in from Central America, South America and beyond.
This stand has basics – cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, chili’s, lettuce, potatoes.
There is something comforting about buying bananas, apples, carrots and lettuce out of beaten up, chipped, scarred wooden boxes. The beauty is you only have to walk a block to buy what you need.
I’ve been told that you should, in foreign places, eat only things you can peel so I’m careful about my purchases.
Time, that moves too fast the older you get, slows to a more comfortable clip when you have to walk to do your shopping.
“We were in the eighties last week,” Jesper tells me, pouring us a Monday afternoon cup of coffee at his desk in a Ciudad Vieja office close to the Port. He talks about the old city versus the new city, how he and his wife are now moving into commercial sales in addition to property management.The studio where I stay for this journey is owned by one of his clients and Jesper manages it as a favor.
The old city of Montevideo, he says, is a hub of economic activity, a place where ships bring goods, government buildings abound, museums are on most every street and lawyers, accountants and young professionals snap up every place that is renovated. This Port area has been neglected but his investment group is bringing people and business back to the neighborhood.
“I am from Denmark,” he continues, “and my wife is from Argentina. She is in New York on business …”
The office is spacious. There is art on the wall and Gabriella told me, when I walked in, in English and Spanish and hand gestures,that a woman will be in to clean my rented studio on Friday, the 7th.
I pay my rent and settle in for this piece of my journey, get a receipt, and catch my bearings.
Travelling and weather hold hands like high school sweethearts.
” Call me if you have any problems, ” my new landlord says.
I leave feeling like he really means it.
There is much concern in this country about skin damage.
There is, on this beach, a lot of skin that will be damaged and this is a perfect poster for a Dermatology convention in Miami Beach.
Two big bodies are prone on the sand, turning their backs to the world and telling it to go to hell.They have claimed their part of the beach but there is still room left for the rest of us on a day like today.
The sun is warm, the breezes are cooling.
What else would one want to do on a balmy afternoon than lay on the sand and show the world their best side?
Recent Comments