Vacation: Pt. 2 - Meet Me, My Love, in Uruguay

By midday on Sunday, Jeff and Dadok had left for (as we would learn later) a steamy trip into the jungle of Iguazu, leaving us with their assorted gear, no real plan, and only the vaguest of directions. Diego, Alex White, and I wanted to go to Uruguay, not for any real reason, but it was cheap, close, and promised relaxing afternoons at the beach to the East. But by midday on Sunday, we had missed the (relatively) inexpensive ferry across the river, and lacking a tenacious grip on our plan, took a tip from our innkeeper. We gathered our possessions and headed for the train station...

No one can fault us for our ever-evolving scheming: barred from catching the ferry from Buenos Aires, we then planned to take commuter rail to Tigre, an unknown suburb of the city, where we could "hire a boat" - or so the hostel owner told us. The taxi driver to the station claimed the boat would take five hours, a dubious figure but a dangerous one. The police officer we asked said it would take an hour, at maximum. Stuck between these extremes, we huddled together beneath the Victorian spans of the retiro; do we go ahead to Tigre (an hour away) and risk it, or do we wait and take the expensive boat to Montevideo? A slight pause, a small hush, and the answer was simple: Go with the one that could lead to the better story.

Three tickets to Tigre, please.

An uncomfortable hour later, we emerge from the Tigre train station to see...gingerbread pavilions? A distinctly Delft McDonalds? A tree-lined canal with punters? Where the hell are we? Belgium, more or less. We never found out why Tigre looked like the Low Countries, or why the outlying areas looked like Martha's Vineyard swallowed by the jungle, but there, in the wood-paneled ferry terminal, with the rowboats gliding by, the sun at its height, Diego found true love.
She had blue eyes, but they weren't a singular ocean; they were the afternoon sky, bright, transparent, as if you were looking through her, something vast, awesome, and terrifying. There she was: a tight white shirt, tight black slacks, a coiffure dissolving beautifully around her face. I don't remember her being particularly tall, but her posture sent her gliding across the room to a spot not two feet from us, and leaning forward slightly, quietly asked us, "How may I help you?..."

"...because this is the last ferry of the day, and I can't guarantee you a seat."

It was love at first sight.

The other ticket agent - a dark-haired girl with a seductive look but, having only brown eyes, could not be called equal - revealed our latest predicament: the ferry docked outside was the last until 8am the next day, and wasn't going to Colonia (our preferred destination) or Montevideo. It was going to Carmelo, a town we knew nothing about and, from the looks of the '70s travel photos mounted proudly around the terminal, nothing was all there was to know. Oh, and there may not be seats for us on standby. We prepared for a night in Tigre.

But then the love began. Having nothing better to do but talk to these young women, Diego slowly won their hearts. We asked about Tigre. They asked about us. We told them all we knew, and then some lies to keep them talking. Diego had a thousand dinners within those azure eyes, a thousand and one sunrises over the pitched roofs of Tigre, but - like all great and true love - it wasn't to be. There were three seats on the boat, and three of us, and we punched our ticket to Uruguay.

As we went through immigration, Diego turned and shouted, from the bottom of his heart, that he would buy both of the girls chocolates upon his return. And, as if planted by the sour saints themselves, a faceless voice opined "Shhh!" Later, I consoled Diego by saying that somewhere, out in the void, a parallel Diego misses the ferry, stays in Tigre-by-the-sea, and is happy, forever. Small consolation.
Three hours later, I'm standing in the immigration line in Carmelo. To my left, across the river, is nothing but jungle. To my right, empty cinderblock streets leading into the distance. In front of me, an old man is about to have his passport stamped. And, in a scene no doubt repeated thousands of times across America's borders, the passport control agent leans forward, warmly kisses the man on the cheek, and stamps his documents. Welcome to Uruguay! (None of us gets a kiss.)
Carmelo, at least the ten blocks from the river, is deserted. The light, though supplemented by a full moon, is fading, and we have no map, no bus schedule, and no clue where anyone - if there is anyone - is. And then....music. A few notes, reflected off the concrete, then more, then finally words..."You're beautiful.....you're beautiful, it's true....I saw your face, in a crowded place..."

Carmelo, in the four hours I was there, did its best to impress me. After weaving our way around the stage where two men armed with guitars belted out James Blunt, and finding the main square, we waited for the bus to Colonia. Carmelo's square is quite large, with a giant forest tree of some sort in the center, and everyone in town took turns relaxing in the Sunday evening air. But, like nothing on this trip, could even waiting for the bus be a simple exercise. Because then, from behind us, came the noise of drumming, and it was coming towards us.

Naturally, like most of Latin America, Carmelo decided to have an impromptu parade around the square, one featuring hundreds of drummers, flamboyant costumes, old women all in white doing the hully-gully, and pre-pubescent (and one definitely post-pubescent) girls in bikinis shimmying around a man in black face with a top hat. And that was just the first segment.

To be fair, I have no clue if the parade was planned or not. I base my opinion on the long line of cars stuck on the perpendicular streets to the route, patiently waiting for the procession to pass. In the end, our bus (now thirty minutes late) whisked us away to Colonia, where we greeted the next day.

After eating brunch in Colonia, and buying ferry tickets for the next day from the terminal, we took a bus to Montevideo in search of beaches. The plan, vague as it was, called for us to sit on a beach, soak in the sun, drink heavily, and enjoy the good life as only young, tan, drunk men can. But first, we needed to cross the entire nation of Uruguay to reach the blue water of the ocean and the white sands of the ocean's beach.

Uruguay, for as little as everyone knows about it, is quite lovely. It looks like Tuscany, with bright yellow fields of grain waving to the sky. Very beautiful, beautiful enough to make me think of real estate prices in pesos.

Montevideo, where our bus ended up, is beautiful in its own right, much like Buenos Aires but smaller, greener, and quieter. Eventually we decided that if Argentina was once the United States of South America, then Uruguay was Argentina's Canada.

Another Fiat later, we find ourselves on the Rambla de Peru, staring out on the white sands of Montevideo's closest decent beach. It must be nice, I decided, because of the Miami Vice high-rises across the street. Three beer bottles later, I've forgotten my mis-hewn lumber, Alexander has forgotten to apply his sunscreen, and Diego - well, Diego may never forget those eyes.
Twelve hours (and a dozen games of ping-pong later) we're back on the streets find of Colonia waiting for the ferry. Colonia is, and I do not kid, a smuggler's port. Or was, back when there were things to smuggle, and though I didn't fall into a Hardy Boys mystery, we did admire the well-preserved ciudad viejo, which was very postcard friendly. My personal highlight was not the church, the museum, or the bastions but the black-and-white mint condition 1958 Ford Fairlane, the last car I saw before heading out of town.

Again the last passenger on the boat, which was practically empty, we noted that of the eighty or so passengers, a vast majority held American passports. As we neared Buenos Aires, with the first skyscrapers in view, a man and his young sun pressed their faces against the big picture window on the front of the boat:

"Look at the city, do you see the big buildings, son?"
"Yes! Is that where New Jersey is?"
"No son, that's Argentina."

Somewhere a Camden tourism man's heart leapt, and somewhere in Perth Amboy smiles spread uncontrollably, and the Palisades shined in the December winter, but for us - the pampa, and nothing but new sky.