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?
Tango began in the early 1900’s in Buenos Aires and Montevideo.
Beginning in brothels, like American jazz, it was refined and adopted by middle and upper classes, cleaned up and turned into a respectable music and dance form.
Dance competitions usually contain the tango, a sensual dance with complicated movements and hypnotic music.
In front of one of the cafes near my studio, there is a demonstration of tango with a lady who is much older than her partner. She is dressed in black with net stockings and clipped black hair. The couple move over rough tiles as music plays loudly from a little black speaker.The traditional tango is played by an orchestra that has a piano, two accordions, two violins and a double bass. This recorded music is just violins.
For an entire song, we in the audience watch the pair move in ever widening, and then contracting, circles in front of the restaurant. She makes most of the movements, dipping her shoulder, lifting her knees, tossing back her head, letting the young man lead.
The themes of Tango are unrequited love, betrayal, the passage of time, and death.
A famous local poet, Enrique Discepolo, called tango “the sad thought that is danced.”
Tango came from poor neighborhoods in Buenos Aires and Montevideo where money runs short and emotions run high.
Cutting edge art flows from those who live closest to their emotions and have empty wallets.
On my way to a lavenderia, electricians are installing a new electrical service to the front of a residential/commercial building on Main Street.
Like most of the homes in this neighborhood, there is a retail space on the bottom floor. Atop the retail space,accessible by a door and stairs, is an apartment.
In this refurbish, the retail space serves as a staging ground for conduit, PVC pipe, bags of mortar, tools and lunch boxes. In our modern times,all buildings have to have water, sewer and electrical capabilities meeting city codes. These building exteriors, protected by Historical Site designations, are brick or adobe plastered with a cement veneer and will stand for another hundred years if they are kept repaired.
Electric was provided, up to now, through the splicing of two large thick wires joined and carelessly wrapped with electricians tape dangling down the front of the building. After the new panel box is anchored and wire pulled through legal conduit, power will be reconnected.
Inside,new occupants will be able to power more gadgets from more places in each room, have power to run things that weren’t even imagined in the days this building was first built. When these buildings were built people were heating with fireplaces, lighting with candles. Horses and carriages were the rage.
It is a simple job, this installation of a new electrical service box.These guys have tools ,wear hard hats, and act like construction guys anywhere in the world.
Working construction for decades, it is hard for me to watch other people work without wanting to lend a hand.
Retirement is difficult if you are used to doing things.
There isn’t anything new about pizza.You find it all around the world. What is refreshing about this pizza is that it is made outdoors, you watch the guys prepare it, the ingredients are natural, the taste is great, the price is a bargain.
“What would you like,” my personal chef asks?
I spot a toaster oven with a miniature tomato and cheese pizza on its top cooling. On a linen tablecloth, on the folding table in front of me, are bowls with fresh cut ingredients. There are chili’s, peppers, tomatoes, ham, onions. lettuce, cheese, and other typical choices.
“What are you making, ” I ask?
“We are making you a special pizza,” the young man dressed in black says, “you pick your toppings.”
“How much?”
“60 pesos.”
That is about three U.S. dollars which sounds pricey but yesterday a pollo sandwich with bacon cost six dollars U.S. at McDonald’s with no fries and no bebida.
Elias, the brains behind this operation, scoops his starter pizza off the toaster top with a spatula and puts it on a piece of wax paper on the tablecloth in front of me, then loads on the toppings I tell him I want. It looks like a salad by the time I am through and he finishes by slicing the pizza into fours for me.
This pizza stands up to my taste test.
I get lunch plus entertainment for three dollars.
Small cheap surprises are some of the best.
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.
The Urban Heritage group are Old City real estate developers.
Jesper and his wife Olenka, partners in the Group,host an art exposition on the evening of November 7th, 2014 to promote their vision for the area to investors and business people and lovers of the arts.
At seven, art lovers, friends, associates, clients, friends of the band, hired help arrive to celebrate art, business,and throw a grand party. In addition to art by local artist Roberto Ybarra, there are posters of Urban Heritage properties prominently displayed that show what can be done to change abandoned industrial properties into good looking functional living and business spaces.
Roberto works with wood, string, metal, paper, leather, and found objects. He is an older man but does young art, Roberto’s show blurs differences between reality and art.
When does an object belong in a museum? When does art become just a bed you can’t sleep on? Is art more than materials that make it? Is art a way of looking, or a way of living? Is art what we see or what goes on in our own head when we look at it, or both?
” Violinista”, a small work I buy, is now hung on my dining room room wall at home and brings back memories. I swear sometimes that the violinists bow moves and makes a trill so soft it would make a conductor cry.
When I see my violinist and remember Montevideo, I start to hum a slow sultry tango.
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.
For two days, hot water has not been working.
The landlord has been attentive, sent someone by who thought it might be something it wasn’t, then sends his maintenance man to troubleshoot.
Hugo comes prepared with a tape measure, apartment keys, an electrical voltage tester, screwdrivers, and instructions that if he can’t get it fixed it will require an electrician or plumber and no hot water for several more days.
Hugo, a short man, stands on a chair and tests power to the electrical box into which the electric hot water heater is plugged. It is getting juice to the box, but no juice through the switch to the hot water heater. He shows me the switch after he pulls it out of the electrical box.
“No bueno,” he says.
“Puede repairo?” I ask.
Hugo says he will be back in 15 minutes, takes the dead switch and leaves to a neighborhood ferreteria, comes back in thirty minutes and completes his job.
A green light comes on at the bottom of the hot water heater when he is done and indicates all systems are functioning properly.
I check the hot water fifteen minutes after he leaves to make sure I have hot water, and I do.
In this world, it is Hugo’s who keep wheels turning.
Cold showers, any time of the day, aren’t hot.
Walking towards Constitution Plaza from Independence Plaza, there are bronze Generals on horseback every block, as well as little plaza’s and parks.
There is something sad about memorializing heroes in bronze and then placing them outside where pigeons squat on their pointed military hats and defecate on their medals. It is an unfitting end for men who have contributed so much to their country.
There are plenty of fountains on this boulevard too, mostly in the center of plazas with water pouring from jars held by Roman Goddesses or shooting from the pursed lips of cherubs. These fountains sometimes have no water, waiting for maintenance men to hook up lines, clean the pond, paint the walls of the pool. Occasionally, in front of well financed government buildings, you find ponds with water lilies and colorful fish.
In Constitution Park the fountain is generic and empty of water and I am startled because it appears one of the statues from this fountain has been moved by delinquents in front of my McDonalds.
There is a small jar filled with money at the statues feet.
Stepping back and watching, I watch the statue lips move and I see her breathe.
The makeup on her face is thick and her hair is perfect. She remains still and doesn’t make eye contact until I drop a bill into her jar. Then she bows and smiles, reaches into a pocket and hands me my personal fortune written in Spanish, which I have since lost, but am sure it wished me a long and prosperous life with a wife that loves me and seven or eight children who get good grades in school and go to bed on time.
I wave at her, she smiles at me, her palms opening and closing as she clicks two wood castanets. She finishes with a bow, to me, and returns to her statue position.
It is easy to get mentally lazy.
She has made this day spicy, and, for that, she is a real Goddess.
Big cities should be a worker’s paradise with good wages because there is too much construction and maintenance needed to match equally with people who will work a long hard day for little pay and no recognition.
Walking near Constitution Plaza, on Sarandi street, Gustavo, a fellow painter, is working in a doorway. He has applied paint remover and is scraping softened varnish off a door jamb with a scraper that won’t damage the wood.
Gustavo’s next step will be to take sandpaper and smooth the wood surfaces. Then, after cleaning, he will apply a thinned down undercoat of polyurethane, lightly sand and wipe everything down with a tack cloth, and finish the project with two full strength coats of exterior polyurethane with a flourish of his three inch sash brush.
Painting is not without honor but, at the end of the day, it was, for me, always a relief to clean my brushes, fold drop cloths, seal up paint cans and load the van.
New doesn’t last long in a city of several million and paint makes glamour girls out of a lot of plain Jane buildings, offices, kitchens,bathrooms and bedrooms.
Working men keep this world operating.
It takes an even bigger crew of painters to keep the stars sparkling.
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