Uruguay

Pulling away into the Delta it's hard not to think, or better yet, question what I'm doing here. I'd perish the thought that I'm wasting my time, but nevertheless, the thought still lingers.

Blue skies overhead, brown, mucky water. Thinking about a ten hour bus-boat-bus-bus ride is painful. Near the shores I see half-sunken ships, rusty old cargo vessels. They exist as memories of a recent past. Memories that still exist in the present, as seen through the newer ships, docks, and cranes dangling along the shores of the Rio de la Plata Delta.

Just nine more hours. Nine hours, a nap, snacks, music, and a cocktail left to go. We'll be in Punta Del Este soon. It's the pearl of Uruguay. At least that's what everyone says. For me it's an escape. An escape from what, I don't know. I've already escaped to Argentina. Now I'm escaping from Argentina. Either way the prospect of tanned asses, salty steak, and a mid-spring jaunt on the Atlantic entices me.

Meret wants to go even more than I do. She's got less than a week before heading to her new house in LA. I think the concept of change scares and excites her. I think she takes it out on me sometimes. Oh well, what's a man to do? C'est la vie, as they say. We'll have fun while we can.

We arrive in Punta Del Este tired and ancy. The 1949 Hostel is not far from the station, but the baron streets lead me to believe that the city's still in the slow season as far as tourism. Much like Miami, the buildings are new and adventurous architecturally. Almost everything is painted white, some cleaner than others, as to reflect the sun and give the prototypical bright wash of a beach town skyline.

The hostel is not far away. Like most hostels, it's cozy, laid back, and full of mostly English speaking international tourists. The Brazilians are the best. They're probably the closest thing to a local geographically, but in their own right, they're a world apart. I've never met a Brazilian I didn't like, and this trip only reinforced that notion.

The local beaches were sparsely populated by beachgoers. There were no fashion shows (which are typical there), no swarms of hot women, no all-night beach parties. There was tranquility. There was great sun. There were fun and interesting people. At a youth hostel, everyone has a story. Everyone has a goal. Everyone is hungry for their own cultural fix.

The nightlife is adequate for the off-season. After Buenos Aires, I'd almost prefer adequate to out of control. Meret and I quickly bond with our fellow travelers. We eat cheap, we drink cheaper, and we never run out of conversation. It's obvious after 2 days that 3 days won't be enough.

After 3 days neither of us wants to go. Meret's pleading to stay. I have obligations to teach English in Buenos Aires. The return trip looms as painfully as it did coming out here. It's a hard choice but we have to leave.

Leaving was a tough one. We missed our bus in Montevideo and were stranded at the bus terminal for 10 hours. Our multi-transport journey back to Argentina is nothing less than painful. I don't sleep, Meret catches a few winks, and I can't help contemplating what I had on the way down there. Why am I here? What am I doing? Who am I doing it with?

We get back to Buenos Aires after 20 hours of travelling. Our small vacation is palpably over. More importantly, our Buenos Aires vacation is nearing to its end. Meret to LA in 3 days, and I know I have to actively find more work. It's the beginning of summer. My money's running low, but my drive's getting higher. It's time to discard the unusable and embrace the new. Much like the ships on the Delta, I've got to keep moving.