Uruguay... mi pais, mi hogar. : )

There is a general sentiment that our weekend in Uruguay was the favorite weekend adventure of all of my friends (at least, before our adventures in Iguazu).  Uruguay, as described by Lonely Planet, is the squished grape between Brazil and Argentina, but to my friends and I, it was so much more.  ISA planned a trip by enormous boat (first class!) to Colonia, which is a small town beside the river delta.  This town is small and quiet, but has unbelievable color and plant life.  

During the afternoon, we wandered through the town, eating and taking in the sights.  My favorite part of this was relaxing on the beach.  I got everyone to hunt for mermaid's tears (glass smoothed by the sand and water flow), and it was a sight to see us all bent over hunting for little chunks of green, brown, white and the occasional blue or purple enveloped by sand.  There was a rock that looked out over the water, and while I stood on it, I met a very sweet, wrinkly and white-haired man.  His named was Alberto, if I remember correctly, and he lived partly in Buenos Aires and partly in Colonia.  He was lovely and seemed to much prefer the calm streets and friendly people in Uruguay to the busy life of BsAs.  In total, Colonia was an interesting place through which to meander, but our time in Montevideo, Uruguay's capital, was much more memorable than in Colonia.  We left the ISA group in Colonia and hopped on a bus to Montevideo.

We had hoped to experience Carnival in Montevideo because it is rumored to be one of the finer celebrations outside of Brazil, which traditionally hosts the craziest Carnival parties.  Unfortunately, this was also the weekend that a torrential downpour ensued through all of Saturday and Sunday before finally ceasing Monday morning.  Hence, the Carnival festivities were cancelled (they take place in an outdoor amphitheater).  

Nonetheless, we had an exceptional time.

We arrived late Saturday night, and I, exhausted from the three-hour bus ride, slept through that night's activities while the rest of the group of twelve or partied and danced at a nearby club.  I have become famous for the things I can sleep through, but that will be a later topic.  Sunday morning will always be one of my favorite memories from this trip because it was so relaxed but full of infinite enjoyment.  We began the morning with a ridiculous romp outside in search of food and activities for the weekend.  It just so happened that we had no idea where the nearest supermarket was, so we spent the better part of twenty minutes running through the pouring rain.  By the time we reached the nearest market (a tiny, unfriendly place) we were all human puddles.  This probably explains why the storeowner was less than pleased with us, but we found what we needed (including some *ahem* beverages) to warm us up and keep us energized for the weekend and continued on our soggy way.

When we arrived back at the hostel, we immediately sought out the kitchen and the nearest blender… with no lid.  Luckily, our daiquiri/smoothie session ensued without any spills, and we were able to enjoy delicious drinks.  While my comrades concocted the beverages, I had gone in search of playing cards.  Along with one incomplete deck (Really?  Who loses the Ace of Spades?), I stumbled across some wayward French guys who were playing guitar and piano and singing American songs.  I, being the music enthusiast that I am, of course became friends with them after I helped them remember the chords to Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”  They of course, were more than happy to befriend the cute American girls and our companions, and the afternoon passed filled with singing, guitar playing, translating and very little card playing.  The guitarist kept trying to find music that we recognized and enjoyed, and lucky for him, we knew every song.  He was especially excited about serenading the cute American chica, my friend Kara, who was sitting next to him.  What’s not to love about the French?

 

We found out later that Kara is especially popular among all of Uruguay, not just the French passersby.  Late the same afternoon, we went exploring through the nearby streets in search of some action and an ATM.  It’s about 26 Uruguayan pesos to the American dollar, so paying 120 pesos for lunch is extremely decent.  We continued to be shocked, however, through most of the weekend at the prices.  I bought a painting for about 1,000 pesos Monday morning and had to do some quick math in the street before I felt comfortable with my purchase.  (Don’t worry, Mom.  It’s beautiful.)  After we finally encountered an ATM, we proceeded to the plaza nearby and through the streets.  The rain prevented us from doing too much, so after finding an even larger supermarket with items for Sunday dinner, we returned to the hostel.

 

During this same adventure, my friend Kara and I wandered into a bookstore while everyone else continued to the hostel.  Here, we had Uruguay Fabulous Memory #2.  We chatted for over an hour with the bookstore owner, Rauil, and even returned the next day with friends.  It was an amazing experience for me to be able to have a conversation completely in Spanish about literature and its importance in my life.  He asked Kara and I about love and humanity and hopes and dreams and a number of things that I could spend all day typing about.  He was an especially remarkable human being.

 

Sunday evening was the third great memory of the trip.  Again, I spent some time resting in my bed due to a stomachache…  However, with a dozen people to cook and organize dinner, it was easy to slip away for a break.  Dinner was a beautiful mix of asado, grilled veggies, salad, juice, mashed potatoes and bread.  It was like having Thanksgiving dinner but with the Multisa Family.  (Multi-country, ISA students…  cute, I know.  You’ll never guess who helped come up with it.)  We invited Bernie from Arizona and Humberto from Brazil to join our masses and our numbers were pleasantly raised to fourteen.  I don’t remember a meal so full of love and merriment in a long time, and it was wonderful to share the night together.  I was honored to give the toast as Mother Multisa and just as happy to join in the dishwashing post-meal.  Bernie joined me in the kitchen, so I had the opportunity to hear about his travels in South America.  He’s taking time from his job as an architect in Arizona to see S.A. for about six months.  Good luck, Bernie!

 

We went dancing after dinner till all hours of the night.  It seems that South Americans prefer to dance (and grope American girls) until they collapse from exhaustion, but I eventually had to call it a night around 5 am.  Being that checkout was at 10 am, it probably would have been better to have returned at a more American hour, but when in Uruguay… 

 

Monday, Monday, Monday…  How I loathe thee.  Usually, my good friend Garfield the Cat (Jim Davis, anyone?) would agree that Mondays are terrible because they bring the beginning of a new week of work and school and the end of a weekend of fun.  Well, this Monday began with sun opening my eyelids to greet the day and the noise of people in the street below my hostel window.  The storms and rain and grey had given way to cotton ball cloud and blue sky.  Since there were no Carnival celebrations to be had that day, we took another stroll through the streets and spent the rest of the day on the beach.  We met two friendly guys in the Uruguayan Air Force and played an energy-filled futbol americano game…  using a dead eel for one of the end zones.  He was happy to be of service, no worries.  I went for a swim in the ocean but stepped on something frightfully slippery and alive, so I retired to the sand and sun for the remaining hour or so.

After our adventures on the beach, we all went our separate ways.  Four of us, Alex, Ashley, Kara and myself, decided to wander along the beach collecting chunks of sea agate and more mermaid's tears before a dinner in one of the beach cafes.  Our meal was delightful and filled with story-telling and bonding.  By the time we meet up with the rest of the group to leave, I had no desire to leave my beloved Uruguay, but we took goodbye photos and made our way to the bus station.  Oh Uruguay, you will be missed.

Y hay el dia que yo caye de un caballo… And there was that one day that I fell off a horse. (Don’t worry, it wasn’t moving.)

ISA plans these great excursions for us (such as Tigre, when all the students returned looking like roasted chicken), and one Saturday, we went to a farm in the country.  “El Dia del Campo” was an interesting day, to say the least, but it was filled with delicious food to enjoy and several enjoyable activities.  The most amusing part might have been the elderly guests who shared the day with us (the farm has senior specials on the weekends) and their antics throughout the afternoon.

 

After a breakfast of coffee, bread, jam and dulce de leche (this wonderful caramel creation made by boiling milk and sugar for hours), we were introduced the head cowboy and his lovely mare.  He explained to us the proper way to approach the horses and mount and dismount as well as how to direct them while riding.  This was something I thought I’d always understood fairly well, but I may need a little more practice.  As I was climbing onto my trusty steed, my saddle slid to the side of his belly and I plopped to the ground.  My pride was perhaps a little bruised but otherwise functional until some random man started yelling at me from the sidelines about my inability to operate a simple beast of burden.  Thank you kindly for your litany of nothing helpful, sir.

 

I proved to be much more successful after a saddle tightening and a second attempt at climbing aboard.  Lucky for me, the other students were much more kind to me.  This might be because there were several other misadventures on their parts, including a friend of mine getting whacked in the head by a tree branch when his horse walked him into it. 

 

Besides these precious moments, we survived long enough to observe the games put on by the workers.  There was a very odd competition where two selected persons had to race to put on an outfit.  The outfit consisted of a wraparound skirt, vest, wig… and plastic buttox and breast ensemble.  I have photos.  The other competition involved two people carrying cups of flour on their heads and racing in a circle.  In both cases, the loser had a water balloon dumped over his or her head or fake snow sprayed on them.

 

Lunch was an enormous and delicious asado (barbeque) complete with salad bar, juice, soda, water and more bread.  (These people love their carbs.)  We all filled plate after plate with veggies and meat and were surprised when we were presented with crepes filled with dulce de leche for dessert.  Very rich, very delicious.

 

I must have enjoyed the asado a little too much because in the pool a little later, a crazy Russian woman asked me if I was pregnant.  (No, I just happen to have a little “more to love” around the edges and ate too much at lunch, but thank you, Ma’am)  I now understand the Cold War a little better…  She was a very interesting person.  Later, we discovered a little frog hiding in the shade of my bag, and when we told her about it, she tried to smoosh the poor thing.  She thought we said “araña” instead of “rana”  (spider, frog).

 

After our swim and playing with the frog, we climbed back on the bus and headed home.  We were all in desperate need of a bath and some exercise after the horseback riding and asado, but I’m pretty sure most of us went straight to bed.

 

 

What level is this anyway?

Sorry I haven’t written in a while…  There was a near disaster that involved a leaky water bottle, my iPod, computer and ALL of my cables.  Don’t worry, I may actually carry a little of the Irish luck associated with my heritage.

I left off with my adventures in Pinamar, but I just realized I never wrote anything about school here.  Let me tell you, it’s been such an adventure.  We began our Argentinean school system experience with an exam to determine what level we’re in—a process which, in total, took several hours.  Finally, I was placed in Intermediate 2 (the third level of four aka 300-level Spanish), and after much debate and e-mailing with my department head from home, found that I would be given credit for this period of my study abroad. 

The class was an intensive month of Spanish.  It was mostly review, but a much-needed refresher course with the added bonus of intense language practice.  I’m not totally fluent as of yet, but my Spanish continues to grow day by day.  Pia, my teacher, was pretty tough on my class.  She felt absolutely no remorse in telling the slower students that they needed to work harder or those of us (*ahem*) who weren’t correctly pronouncing certain vowel sounds (if you ask me, “a” and “o” are very similar sounds).  Despite her frankness, it was obvious that she expected only the best from her students, and I think, for the most part, we had great success.

Ours was the “chica clase” with fifteen students that were all females, so you can imagine the kind of atmosphere my class contained, especially when you have one class for a five hour duration.  By the second or third day, a clique had developed of the “cool” girls—you know, the snotty, uninterested whiney type.  They felt the need to share their party stories and hangover complaints during class time.  Riveting stuff, I assure you.  The other ten or so women in the class were very sweet and mostly focused, so it was easy to ignore the more frustrating attitudes in the class.

The last day of class we said our goodbyes and a handful of us accompanied Pia to the copy center to make copies of our final grades.  Pia hugged and kissed us goodbye and we all went our separate ways.  I really enjoyed the more intimate atmosphere of that class, and I’m hopeful to have a similar situation in my new class beginning tomorrow morning (only six students!).