A month ago Ryan came to play, two weeks ago Sarah Potts left. With both of them I was able to spend time in Jose Ignacio, Uruguay’s (not-so) best-kept secret. The Wall Street Journal and NYTimes have been writing about the fishing town for months; international jet-setters have vacationed there for years. Thanks to the graciousness of her cousins, Sarah and I experienced Jose Ignacio in its peak—and by peak I mean, all-white Chandon parties and reservation-only meals; incredible sunsets off rooftops and the chill of the wind whipping off the Atlantic onto the deck of the Chivas Studio, where we drank more free whiskey than we care to recount. We “took sun” on private beaches and took walks to distant points. In contrast, Ryan and I were there when there were no lines in the supermarket, nor at La Huella (a resturant that during the off-season may be a life-favorite). We ate fruit salad every morning, and in the afternoons we would go to the beach, which was scarcely populated by us and a few beautiful Argentina families. I did yoga on the terraza and he took jogs through the architecturally stunning streets. We read more than we talked, and we talked more than we checked our email. My body felt free of tension, and for that one week, we were full of melon and fish a la parrilla, agua con gas y instant cafe con leche.
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My last post worried some of my most devout readers. Fear not my loves, my heart really is fine. I am mostly perfectly content here, but like life in all cities, I have my moments. I now know this might not be the most nuanced space to share the details of such moments.
A kiss from MVD. -TINA
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I went to the movies alone last night, because I was sick of being alone in my home, and because I felt sad suddenly. I thought I could lose said sadness if I lost myself in an Italian movie and a pop dulce / coca-cola combo. But as I exited the movie, it all rushed back and I just started crying. I cried all the way home–walking by various smiling families eating at Il Mundo del Pizza and the parrilla on the corner, which I have never tried. I was glad to have my thick-rimmed glasses on, which, as Nick’s dad pointed out, hide my face. Sometimes that comes in handy. And sometimes in moments like this (when I am all weepy in public) to make myself feel less pathetic I try to imagine music accompanying my tears, which transforms the whole episode from a sad night in my life into some scene from an independent movie (where my boyfriend is Garcia Gael Bernal). I also try to have conversations with myself, “Tina, why are you crying?” “I don’t know,” I respond. So I just walk quicker, as to arrive home to an empty house, where I frantically turn on really sad music (Bon Iver usually does the trick), which only makes me cry harder…and then I think, “Maybe it is because in English we say New Years, focusing on what is to come, but in Spanish they say Fin del Año, which makes me think of all that is ending, and well, endings are sad.” “Yes, Tina, I think you are right,” and then I sway a little to Nirvana in my living room before showering it all off.
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I am not sure which it was, the 7,000 miles between myself and my family’s Christmas tree, the 77 degree weather, or the dancing until 7am, but something told me yesterday that I was not in Seattle for navidad. A visit to the Port Market on the 24th exposed me to a ruckus of a Uruguayan tradition—liking it to a street fair would be too tame. It was cider-pouring-smoke-bomb-throwing-fireworks-exploding- reggatone playing madhouse. Men hanging off lamposts, women being sprayed with cerveza, me at a safe distance from the crowd. Then the evening of the 24th, La noche Buena, was spent with Florencia’s family,where even her very, very elderly grandmother ate dinner until 2am. I witnessed the 12am cacophony of city-wide fireworks—with nearly everyone in Montevideo lighting off bomb-type explosives at nearly the exact same time, filling the streets with smoke and luz. I realized that firewords en-masse scare me, especially with adolescent boys at the helm. Post-Christmas Eve dinner here is for going out with friends, and going out we did, until 7:45am! Up for Christmas lunch at another friend’s family’s house, where they forced-fed me, Italian style, to near explosion. “Christina, why don’t you have more Russian Salad? Did you not like it? Take some more.” “No, I am okay, thank you.” (enter third party intervention) “Christina said she would like more Russian Salad.” This happened with all food and drinks served: salad, el lechón (which is pork with the skin still on it. I saw hairs), wine, champagne, ice cream cake, turrones, cafe y azucar. My ‘no’ meant ‘yes,’ and my polite, “yes, but just a little” meant, “yes, please give me a lot more of whatever it is that you’re serving.” I came home, called my family, and to recover from my first Uruguayan Christmas, I went to sleep for nearly 12 hours!
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Today the air is thick. I think it will rain this evening. I am sleepy from a long night of wedding dancing. Last night, with her silver Rosary in hand, my dear friend Teresa was married to Eduardo. They promised to love one another faithfully and to raise their children in the church. They unclasped their hands just once, to take communion. Their grip, under the vaulted ceilings, was a vision, as was their presence on the d-floor until 6am! We celebrated at an estate outside of Montevideo with an array of pre-dinner tapas, 6 kinds of cakes (!), water&whiskeys, parrilla, and make-your-own chivitos at 3am. I woke up today and sent off Ryan with my heart so full–to have witnessed a Union so lovely, to have had a friend so dear with me, and because I have another wedding on Friday and get to do it all over again.
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The wind is blowing through the patio and I am sitting next to my open window,which is also playing host to my agua con gas. I am frantically putting together a list of prices and photos for a very quick-and-dirty Christmas Catalog that each of you should check out (once it is done). Oriana (roommate #1) is in class, Rosina (roommate #2) is taking a nap, and I am taking advantage of the quiet. I have decided as of yesterday that I am going to stay in Uruguay until next winter, with the hopes of putting together an e-business with my dear friend, Christina Mae. The site will feature carefully curated (and fairly traded) textiles, texts, and textures. I am very glad to be staying here for more than a few more days; I like it here. There is much to like: the summer is coming and my skin is browning, I am dreaming and scheming, and every once and awhile I say complete sentences that people actually understand.
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To know me is to know that I love to dance and love a good bargain. I will dance even when I am tired and grouchy, and most likely after dancing I will be less of both. Yesterday I realized that I love dancing so much, that when considering dancing shoes, I even disregard my love of bargains. I am in Buenos Aires having come to see the one, the only Material Girl, Madonna. I was to see her Wednesday but the concert was suspended until tonight. So yesterday I walked to the MALBA in the warmth of the Argentine sun, with a latte in hand, and eventually wandered back to Palermo to check out what was happening in the retail world. I ended my purchase-less tour with a stop into Nike. And there they were. A University of Iowa inspired pair of Dunks. I tried them on with my inside-out dress, tirelessly weighing my impending cutoff from Rotary and whether I could really afford such a buy. But in the end, with pink laces and a salesgirls´ steady reassurance, I went for it. I purchased a new pair of dancing shoes. And since Iowa is my Papa Anderson’s Alma Mater, it was practically a family investment. Tonight at 20:00 I will try them on for the first time, in River Plate Stadium, in the section furthest away from the stage, but as close to Madonna as they will ever be.
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- Her two black braids joined together by one black ribbon. Her red woven cardigan. The crown of her head barely visible over the corn stalks to which she was attending.
- The sip of coca tea at 5:30am burning my lips, bringing me out of my shared tent and into a new day.
- The porter’s cracked heels. His sandal-clad feet calloused and worn. The kilometers he had to climb with chairs and butane, jelly and vegetables, tents and tarps, so that I could be more rested.
- In the rocks and ancient textiles, I found him, his influence, his constant presence.
- Reaching the peak of Dead Woman’s Pass first, alive, heart pounding like the thunder that accompanied us our first morning. To carry myself to the heights of ancient ruins, with my own body, my own drive, my own wobbly right knee: this was why I came.
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It is early in Cusco, Peru, and I am drinking coca tea, waiting to be picked up at my hostel. From today until Tuesday, I will hike the Inca trail. All of my belongings are squeezed into the very small red HeidiPak Nate Karp gave me for my adoption in January. Up until last night I was feeling fairly good about this, about my limited amount of gear. I was feeling simple, light, daring. But after talking to my guide, and feeling the bite of the Andean night, and definitely after watching other groups storm out of the cafeteria at 5:30am with bags of gear and gortex, I am thinking I may be in for a cold 4 days. Alas, I have my breath, my good health, and my will. Our bodies are tough. It is unlikely I will die. Besides, I saw a 4 and a 6-year old leaving for the trail this morning with their parents, so if they can do it, so can I…though they did have wool thermals, whereas I have spandex and tights. Vamos a ver.
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She who loves things-to-do lists, can’t seem to cross hers off fast enough. This week there has been a pressure in her ears that won’t go away quick enough. She is going to see Madonna in December, and Machu Picchu on Saturday. She will walk the Inca Trail in her chacos and tights, taking closed-toed shoes for good measure. She is contemplating packing only a very small daypack, just to add to the sense of adventure. Dirty she will be, but since a very good friend recently informed her that her natural aluminum-free deodorant was not in fact working as it promised, she will actually smell better on the trail than she did last week, thanks to said friend and Dove. She will vote before departing, and will play her third soccer match tomorrow. She is the owner of a new ball in which she kicks in the patio, while her roommate Oriana eats faina on the steps and studies for a Law midterm.
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Last night at 22:00 I played my first soccer game in 10 years, on synthetic turf (which is weird). By the end of the game I had made two goals, played goalie for the first time ever, and was completely red in the face (I forgot how much running was involved in soccer!). Our team of 12 was the only all-female team on the 10 indoor fields, and we were probably 12 of 15 women in the whole place. Consequently, quite a few boys stopped to check out our game, which I took to be voyeuristic at best, and at worst, judgment (as if we were representative of all girls who play soccer…hardly).
My friend Sophia explained that girls playing soccer is an odd thing here, despite the country’s obsession with fútbol. We could all be considered marimachos, or tomboys, just for playing pick-up games on Mondays. I laughed and explained that I was hardly a tomboy. “Well,” she said, “you are now.”
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8 months after moving to Uruguay, I sat in my room tonight and drank my first solo mate–prepared by a team effort between my roommate Oriana and me. She assured me that the there was no science to the preparation, but watching her deliberate movements as she shook and leveled the mate, adding cold and hot water to expand it, before actually adding the hot water to drink it, I realized there was a reason I had waited for her guidance. She lent me her thermos and watched me pour the first sip. She was, dare I say, proud and said the next time she would join me. I finished my mate and ate parrilla for dinner, and right as I was about to fall asleep for the night, I got the idea of making a breakfast that I loved as a child: rice + milk + cinnamon. I woke up to boil rice. As it was cooking I took the time to stretch and read Cornelius, a children’s fable given to me on the occasion of my 25th birthday by the one who loves my crocodile grin the most. I read it hanging upside-down, which is a most appropriate way to read a story about a crocodile “different from the rest,” who practiced headstands with the monkey down the riverbeach.
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Today I went to the feria like I do every Saturday and Tuesday, to buy fruit and fish. There are many stalls to choose from, but I tend to go to the same vendors, even though they are located a bit further away than the rest. A creature of habit, I am. Today I was buying oranges (the kind with menos semillas) and an older woman passed me wearing a fabulous tweed dress with a handknit sweater underneath. I told her that I liked her dress. 20 minutes later I was sitting in her living room with a coffee and chocolate cake, looking at some goods she has knit. Turns out she is a fine knitter and works in pure wool. Collaborations are in order. 2 hours later I was with her family watching my first (ever) Rugby match. Old Boys against Old Christian. Those are not translations–those are the schools’ names. (The British were here once, no?) We were rooting for Old Boys, but Old Christian prevailed. I made friends with a 3 year old named Tommy, who knew how to say Hello. In the course of the second half, Tommy fell in love with a little girl with her face painted as a cat. He and I went to find her–me in front clutching his plastic alligator, him behind me repeating, “Como te llamas, gatocita linda” (What is your name, pretty little cat). We found her on the Old Christian side, waving their blue and white flag. She was probably 6 and missing her front teeth. Tommy lost his nerve and later, his plastic alligator.
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My friend Rebbecca asked me what it felt like to be 25. I said in jest that it felt a lot like being 24. She pressed me, “Come on, Christina” (which sounds much more compelling when said in a Kentucky accent). She wanted me to mark the day. It was big she said, and not big like, of my gosh, you are so old, Christina, but more like, it was a day that deserved some actual reflection. And so, in front of 15 empty chopp glasses we talked: gray hairs, self-assurance, growth, all of it. Right there in the bar, in front of a team of commercial producers, who eventually sang me Feliz Cumpleaños & bought me a margarita.
It felt so nice to reflect. To know me is to know that reflection is integral to my person and how I view the world. I told her that though I was far from my family on this milestone birthday, being in Montevideo also represented to me what I love most about my life: my grit, my drive, my competence. I was sitting in that bar because life has made me a woman who gets done what she wants to accomplish, whose wellspring of self-worth stems from years of choosing hope over despair and self-reliance over abandonment of purpose. And sitting at this table full of Uruguayans, Americans, and even 2 friends from Brown, I realized that as self-made as I am, I have also been mended by love. Healed by it, to be frank. It is the balm that soothed what I could not do myself. and here, so many miles from where I was a year ago, was a table of people gathered to share food and celebrate the life that started 25 years ago in a mid-wive’s house in Las Vegas.
You have done well in rearing me, each of you in your way. Thank you for the part you’ve played in bringing me to this year.
P.S: To see what I look like at 25, and to hear that slight lisp you miss so much, here is me singing to my friend Becca: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gN0X6J_3ybE and this is my birthday video from Thyra: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNFg1l-vKMs
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The warm spring weather of last weekend has vanished as quickly as it came. I am back in my wool: cardigans, socks, hat, check. The cold woke me up this morning; that or my racing mind. It’s 7:16am and I am up earlier than expected, earlier than desired. I have been reading Banker to the Poor and am dreaming up a project that will involve artisans. I am dreaming so much these days: of schools, of homes, of travels, of books to be made. I have also rediscovered oatmeal and apples, homemade popcorn, and the need for hot soups on cold nights. Yoga backbends, sweeping dust from under my bed, and soccer matches. Wedesday Uruguay will play Ecuador in a World Cup qualifier. I will go and cheer them on in my blue and white, dear friends at my side, fried dough in hand.
For now, a bowl of oatmeal and a morning stretch will bring me into my Monday.
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It had been a great night: I discovered a bowling alley in MVD. My first roll of my cosmic pink 10-lb ball was a strike. We played two games and I won both. I then celebrated the 25th birthday of Teresa, my professor friend, on the top floor of her apartment building. And so it was 4:30am I came home to sleep. But as I walked down the narrow corridor that leads me from one gate, to another, to the steps of my house, I received a text message: “Hay un wedding fiesta going fuerte en el ballroom ahora. Podemos crash it con ropa formale. Lo tengo.” It was from Cory, my red-headed pilot friend who lives in the 5-star Sheraton nearby my house. He wanted us to go to a wedding, in the Sheraton, uninvited. I put on my red peacoat, pulled my hair back in a tight (dare I say, classy) ponytail, and walked 5 blocks to meet him, suited out in his pilot-inspired dress shirt and tie. Who was I to deny him the attempt? We entered the ballroom to a dwindling crowd of 20, dancing to the few last songs of the night: Journey was playing. We awkwardly took a spot on the floor. I noticed stares. Eventually we were approached: Where are you from? Seattle, said Cory. We were approached again. Again he said Seattle (I was saying nothing). Seconds after, someone grabbed our hands and started chanting COLORADOS, COLORADOS. “How funny,” I thought, “they think Seattle is in Colorado. But then again, maybe it’s because of Cory’s hair and my red coat.” Either way, we jumped up and down with the bride and groom, and the 20 other guests, chanting COLORADOS. The bride–in a dress so amazing, I wished I were in it–offered us a nightcap. We accepted. We drank it and chatted with a lawyer who kept referring to us, like everyone else, as Colorados. I finally asked why we were being called that. Was it like Yankee or something? “We aren’t calling you Colorados, we are calling you Colados. You know, like wedding crashers.” I died. Fortunately the bride assured us that she loved us coming, because she would have done it too. I assured Cory that a) other brides might not have been so kind and b) we should now be karmically prepared to have our own weddings crashed. I’ll +2 just to be sure.
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School began today and my head is abuzz. Today marks the beginning of the second half of my scholarship year. What’s more, my feet are replanting after a vacation to the north–a vacation to see my nephew and host a trunk show, to sunbathe and dream up the years to come. And here I am again: in Montevideo, in Econ Class, in project mode. There is much to be done in these months: Two Rotary (Matching) Grant applications, the GMAT’s, artisan exchanges, and whatever else comes to land on my plate. I also will turn 25 soon, here in my Montevideo. I think I will throw myself a party to celebrate. Join me if you can. Otherwise, let’s celebrate when I return to you next year.
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Nick Moore recently came for a visit. On foot, on bike, on train, and by sea we explored. Hitchhiking happened. Twice. He is of the ever-curious breed, meandering down streets to get a better view of a door frame (a window, a chimney, a…) of a house he’d peep from two alleys away. He will not take the same route twice. He’d pack snacks for daytrips, always including pan y chocolate. He attended two Rotary meetings with me and is now as fully versed as he wishes in my life with Rotary here. The day before he left we visited a strew of used bookstores looking for books on textiles (for me) and architecture (for him). As we stood over a table of ofertas the owner of bookstore asked us if we would like a cafe, which caught me off-guard. We weren’t in a coffeeshop but I said yes, como no. He returned with two fresh cups of espresso on tiny saucers, to be taken with the sugar he laid out on the table next to a tiny wooden spoon. The table was covered in a green felted tablecloth, letting its yellow belly peek out of the holes in its worn out sides. Nick’s coffee got cold, as he remained with his book on Eladio Dieste. And so I sipped my shot, sweetened just a tad, next to the books on Haiti. My coffee wasn’t hot enough to melt the sugar I added to its last sip so I had to scrape it out of the bottom, just as Nick came. I scraped and he finished his espresso, and then we made a purchase. He flew away the next day, as did I.
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This past week my dear friends (Becca, Elise, Thyra, NWM) and I took a trip to Bariloche, Argentina (to be read: Patagonia). We got to Buenos Aires by ferry, to Viedma by bus, and then trained it to Bariloche–in total, a 36 hour and 1,000 mile journey. Bariloche was part Switzerland, part tourist trap. Once you left the town however, there was heaven to be found. Snow capped mountains and turquoise waters, hikes all day and rides in the back of pickups when the hikes went too late (and the rain got way to heavy). We made dinners by night and navigated mountain streams by day. Becca and I hiked a trail in perfect snowy silence, only to hear that Che Guevara took the same route before going to Cuba. We froze over our feet and boasted in the greatness of wool socks. I packed light so I lacked “gear,” so I wore just my tights over tights. Perfect idea. We ended our week with a visit to ancient caves, owned by a nice man, with a grey dog, who wore his handkerchief in a sophisticated manner. He bought some 150 hectares 40 years ago, trying to get away from it all, only to discover his land was home to an ancient volcano and loads of indigenous drawings (not to mention the “mother forest” for the Cyprus trees of Patagonia). Now he drives tourists in a Mercedes bus to look at his treasures. He cares for his land thoughtfully and strategically, and despite the ill-behaved Brazilian children in neon one-piece snowsuits throwing icicles into the cave lake, I couldn’t have asked for a better final adventure. Until, that is, Nick and visited Le Corbusier’s Casa Curutchet outside of Buenos Aires and walked its ramps and halls as the rain poured down without another person in sight.
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July has been a month of change. My first semester is done. The translation project I had been working on for Rotaract Paso Molino is completed, and well, my roommate told me that she and her boyfriend are pregnant. She told me as we were passing the internet modem through the door which separates our bedrooms. She told me before she told the other roommates. I felt honored. I didn’t know what to say. “We will marry,” she said. “It is common here, to marry very young, it’s just, I don’t know if I will finish my degree.” She and I have become friends over the last few weeks, over various home repair projects. We somehow realized we both wanted internet and now share it. A few days for me, a few days for her. She studies architecture and soon will be a mother. We also rearranged the living room. Our next project: fix our oven which leaks an unhealthy amount of gas.
In a few days I leave for Patagonia. It’s winter vacation here and Nicholas is visiting. Cross-country skiing and chocolate shops await us in Bariloche, as well as a reunion with some of my best friends from Brown. Because it’s cold down in Patagonia, today I bought sheep-skin inserts for my shoes. I paid $1.80 for them and have a feeling they will be worth it.
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On Friday I saw my second concert with Pata, who knows the best of Uruguayan musicians. I ate raviolis in the taxi, having not eaten dinner yet at 10:30. Martin Buscaglia, the singer, used children’s toys ingeniously as instruments. After his show he spun the best (and only) hip-hop music I have danced to here. We danced until 5. Saturday I saw a horse race, but did not bet on it, on principle. Number 5 won. He was the favorite. I also watched an Italian chef film his beloved cooking show in the grand entrance of the hipodromo, or racetrack. Everyone in the crowd who tasted the final pasta dishes ate off the same fork. I did not join them. Yesterday I saw my first field hockey game, which is funny because I never imagined coming to Uruguay to watch a sport I never even watched in New England; my friend Ximena’s team won by 2. And finally this morning, before taking a dip myself, a watched a group of older women finish their pool aerobics class on the top of the Sheraton Montevideo–the majority of them wore hair nets.
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Let me confess. When I received my friend Pata’s email about an emergency effort to clean & rehabilitate penguins affected by a recent oil spill off the coast of Uruguay, I volunteered imagining it would be something like a playdate. You know, the penguins and me doing something like a waltz—them in their tuxedos, me in my rubber boots. We’d practically be playing catch, maybe even share a yerba mate. And then I arrived to Punta del Este for a day of volunteering and immediately realized that oil spills aren’t cartoons, animals are sweeter and more endangered than I previously thought, and the smell of penguin feces is a smell every oil executive should catch a whiff of, as they mop layers of it off the floor where frightened, petroleum-covered animals are living. The volunteers who are working 10 hours a day, without pay, are commendable. But what they need more than accolades are donations. And though it sounds funny (and maybe even trite to some) to seek aide for 100 penguins being nursed in a patio of a restaurant in Maldonado, Uruguay when there are humans in need of food and shelter right here in Montevideo, to me both needs of intertwined. As I learned last summer in Maine, where I worked at an ecology camp for adolescents, and as I am reading in Jeffery Sach’s The End of Poverty, ecology (or the interconnectedness of humans and the environment) is a vital crosscutting lens in which to look at critical social issues. When one limb is ill—whether it is our ecosystem or those who inhabit it (both animals and humans)—the whole ecological body feels it…somewhere at sometime. On Friday, as I administered vitamins to baby penguins from a tube I had inserted down their throat, it seemed very obvious that my ecological footprint (my gas and my plastic bags and my…) certainly had an impact on these birds as they migrated north from Patagonia.
I will post more pictures when the are available. This one is from the website of International Fund for Animal Welfare, who is helping Sociedad para la Conservación de la Biodiversidad de Maldonado, in the rehab effort.
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A month ago Rotarians from all over Uruguay gathered in the resort town of Punta del Este for a weekend of conferencing. The 81st District conference was held in the Conrad resort, which is a Harrah’s run casino, and accordingly made me feel like I was home in Las Vegas. Conference themes included: the work of the Rotary Foundation, security in transit, and the future of Rotary in Uruguay. I had the pleasure of being asked to speak at the conference about the Ambassadorial Scholarship. I prepared for the speech with Anthony, like a child with her father. Anthony corrected my pronunciation and took pictures from the crowd. He even said he was proud of me. We celebrated that night at the conference’s formal dinner and dance. The weekend was a delight and proved a few things to me, including: Uruguayan Rotarians (especially my host club, Pocitos) seriously like to dance, free wine will help anyone speak better Spanish, and bike riding in new cities leads to adventures, always.
Pictures are to the right. Yes, I have finally added photos.
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I have been playing host. I have been relishing in families new & families that feel so old. I have been in Buenos Aires with Mother Mary and Sister-friend Lauren. We celebrated Lauren’s birthday there with champagne, brownies and a really spectacular tango espectaculo (I loved her—the one with the black bun, slick back with a red rose). We made fresh orange juice each morning. Mary and I meditated on the hardwood floor. Lauren comforted me when the buzzer made me afraid. We decided that I should host a trunk show with Uruguayan artisans’ goods. We also decided I need to clarify my goals. What is my end goal? How to make it sustainable? Their departure has left me walking around Montevideo aimless yet assured, sad yet determined. I am catching my breath, encouraged by the reminder of my roots. My homebase. My please’s, my thank you’s.
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Today in the shower I conceived of a new section for my blog: Things I see. I will initiate it today. Its title is self-explanatory. It will be about the moments that somehow slip beyond the monotony to become standout. And as an extra special bonus I will post a picture of me alongside of it, for those of you who are missing seeing my sweet face.
Let’s begin: this morning I saw my oatmeal spinning around in the microwave with honey and cinnamon and a touch of milk. This afternoon, on my walk back from class, I saw a police officer leading a school bus across the intersection of Ellauri & Avenida Brasil. He stopped oncoming traffic to do so, which led to an angry mass of honking hatchbacks. Then tonight, as I stood in a headstand in yoga class, I saw a fly marching across my bright orange mat. “Hello, little fly,” I thought, “how silly you must think we all look, standing on our heads.” But who knows, a fly that lives in a Yoga institute may not think it odd at all.
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Good friends have recently asked me if I am really happy. I don’t know if the question implies that they believe I am not, or if they are just curious. I will take this opportunity to say, yes, I am doing well. I will use the word well and not happy because happiness is funny thing. When I respond positively to the question of if I am happy, I feel there is little room to also acknowledge that I also experience loneliness and linguistic fatigue. To live very far from those I love is difficult. To feel constricted in language is difficult. To know fewer people than any time in recent memory, this too is difficult. However, I remain well. There are nights I go out and dance. There are nights I am in bed at 10:30 reading. There are moments I am sad. There are moments I look at the river from three-blocks away and think, “My gosh, I am glad to live here.” My life is a life. It has meals and bus rides, coursework and yoga. There are days it is substantially full and there are days I just buy groceries and go to the post office. But I will say my life here, like my life in general, is a great source of pride. To live so far away and yet pursue those opportunities presented to me, to miss my family and friends and yet know that what is before me is also to be loved and cared for, that keeps me well, even in those moments when I do not feel happy.
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A wonderful weekend was had recently with my Rotaract Club (Paso Molino) at the country’s bi-district Rotaract assembly. It was a weekend of workshops and camaraderie, homemade cheeses and out-of-control night games. The nights were cold, but the conversation was passionate, as we discussed how Uruguayan Rotaract clubs could unite to create better “brand recognition” and a more unified sense of self. I had the gumption to speak up in the service workshop and propose d a National Day of Service where all clubs would embark on a common project, or a common project theme. This would build community within Rotaract but also promote it to the outside public.
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As I have alluded to, but not directly explained, I now live with three Uruguayan girls in an apartment in a neighborhood called Punta Carretas. The neighborhood is known mostly for its mall, known in Spanish as Punta Carretas Shopping. Two of the girls study architecture. One works at a travel agent. We live as three strangers sharing a bathroom and kitchen. I am out to change this. I try to play up my ignorance so I can ask questions about language, house protocol; whatever seems likely to start a conversation. Recently I made black bean brownies.
The girls were definitely dubious of what I was doing. Silently, of course. Mid-black bean smashing, I offered a taste of the finished product. They both smirked and didn’t seem likely to take me up on it. The morning after however, when the brownies were chilled, I more or less forced Silviana to try…and well, she asked me for the recipe.
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A roommate recently asked me if it were true that in the USA people sometimes eat really big breakfasts. She said she had seen it in the movies that we did. I told her that we didn’t always eat big breakfasts, but certainly when we had time (weekends, holidays, family get-togethers) we would eat a big morning meal. That it was almost like a treat. I then offered to cook a big breakfast one morning, like a gastronomic cultural exchange. But right before I could start listing all the things I would make she cut me off, “But why would I want to eat a lot in the morning? If I did I wouldn’t be hungry for lunch.” Then she walked away. Totally-unfazed-by-the-prospect- of-pancakes-and-scrambled-eggs.
Moreover, it turns out that Chili is not a normal Uruguayan meal. I made it recently and my roommates looked at it with a fair amount of cynicism.
… but not as a much as the black bean brownies I made a few days later.
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I went to see my first movie here called Hit. It was a documentary featuring Uruguayan musicians who have been important historically, especially during the years of dictatorship. After the movie, over Budweiser and white bread sandwiches, Andrea told us terrible tales of when she was young and there was military rule in Uruguay. ‘Hit’ touched on some of these years, but mostly just in the context of the music that was not allowed. Andrea’s were the sordid details (of rape as torture, prisoners being served fecal matter for dinner, families left in fear) that don’t always make movies very marketable. Anthony mentioned that in his history classes at the university, these details are also left out. I wondered if the omission was political or consequential? Are the histories so grotesque that those who lived them wish not to remember? Is the absence a form of cultural impunity, either way?
A week later, I went to a rock concert whose lead singer was featured in Hit. The band, La Vela Puerca, has achieved great success in and out of Uruguay. I went with my friend Pata, a doctor here, who has been friends with the band since they were young. We drank beer and shook our fists and sang (well, I didn’t sing. I didn’t know the lyrics, but everyone else did. I sort of just stood there grinning). The whole experience felt oddly redemptive. I can’t explain why, but it was like I had arrived, like I had been let in, like I was seeing a slice of real life.
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Today I ate alone—by choice—with the uncomfortable feeling of eating alone. Despite the discomfort, it seemed to me (as it always seems) a valid exercise for some reason. Perhaps I see eating alone as a practice of self-contentedness, to sit without social activity, to occupy myself with only the bustle of my own mind. Other times I feel like a martyr without a cause.
Either way, I ate sushi and was reminded that Montevideo is not the place for it. I must stop pushing the idea. In Rio de Janeiro there was so much sushi and I guess I had hoped the craze would translate to Brazil’s southern neighbor (Uruguay). It hasn’t, unfortunately.
Alas, from here on out, it’s chivitos and asados for me (to be read: red meat on bread and red meat from the grill).
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This week I was invited to be the guest lecturer for a class at the University of Montevideo. The class, “Seminaro de comunicación y moda,” looks at the relationship between fashion, communication, and culture. My task was to talk about fashion and culture, which I took to mean fashion as a tool to impact culture, as well as fashion’s impact on the living environment. I talked about political messaging on t-shirts (such as the recently NYTimes featured t-shirts: Genocide Olympics and I was raped), as well as movements by brands like Levi’s, American Apparel, and Edun to use organic cotton, fair trade practices, and address the issues of workers’ rights. We had a great discussion about why some “green” concepts just don’t translate to Uruguayan culture, and how the class defines concepts like “purchasing power.”
For a summary or my lecture check out Conscious Lifestyle, a non-profit organization that empowers students and schools to be more socially responsible. CL was started by a good friend, Michael Del Ponte, who serves as a constant resource on matters of living well. In addition, the seminar has its own blog, which will be updated when I return again in 2 weeks to discuss how we can eschew excess and avoid materialism while maintaining a personal sense of style.
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“The Paris of South America” is what Marga, a friend here in Montevideo, and so many others, call Buenos Aires. Having a week of vacation for Semana de Tourismo (which is the week before Easter. It is usually referred to as Semana Santa, but in Uruguay, a staunchly areligious country, they call it Tourismo), I traveled across the Rio de la Plata to visit my dear friend Becca, who is living in BsAs. Not having been to Paris, I cannot confirm or deny their similarity, but the streets and the scale of Buenos Aires were certainly larger and better preserved than many of Montevideo’s. Becca and I visited the tomb of Evita, as well as the MALBA (the Museum of Latin American Art) and various restaurants of note. We chatted about grammar and watched tango at an outdoor cafe. We also spent a day with my friend Tom and his Urban Planning studio from Columbia Univeristy’s School of Urban Planning. They were in Buenos Aires for the week studying public access to water. I also found two books relevant to my research, which practically doubles the titles of my current library. El Estilo Étnico: Arte & Diseno is a book published by Tierra Adentro, which is a store in Buenos Aires featuring home goods and knitwear from northern Argentina. Arts and Crafts of South America was found at a store called Papelera Palermo, which is exactly where I would live if I didn’t live in Montevideo.
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Never caught without a mate and thermos, Uruguayans are famous for their consumption of this highly caffeinated tea. Mate is ironically not cultivated within Uruguay, rather it is imported from Brazil and Paraguay. I have been told that in Buenos Aires when someone carries mate on the street they are said to be acting “as a Uruguayan.” My first sip of mate was with a taxi cab driver that was taking me home from downtown. When he heard that I had just arrived to Montevideo and had yet to try mate, he invited me to try his. I have now come to realize that the sharing of mate is a sign of friendship, a sign of welcome, or just something to do. However, a fair amount of older Uruguayans have warned me not to try a stranger’s mate again. I agree, but it makes for a good story. This picture was taken in Cabo Polonio, where Becca and I were taught how to prepare maté.
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“Water brought by men in trucks. Nights lit by candle. Maté on the porch with the dreadlocked boys selling crafts. Cabo Polonio is otherworldly. Becca and I arrived yesterday afternoon having walked 8km through sand dunes and shrubbery—a sign in the house’s window signified that we were here. As we walked along the shore, the wind wafted the sand slightly, making it appear like clouds passing. Today the actual clouds are covering the sun, cooling the air on the beach as we sit reading. We’re planning on cooking lunch soon; probably pasta, possibly egg sandwiches.
Tomorrow we will go to the Faro and I will wonder if anyone has ever jumped off. We will have burned ourselves in the cloud-covered sun and we will wear long sleeved shirts despite the heat. We will feel almost sick. We will eat black beans at the Brazilian restaurant and wonder why so much raw butter was in the dessert. We will meet our neighbors and speak with them in the shade. We will lie in the hammock and write by candlelight. We will wish to never leave.
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For my first month in Montevideo, I lived with a host family. It’s safe to say that they brought me through my initial pangs of transition. Andrea, the mother, is a tango dancer, her son, Mateo, is two-years old and Nela, the grandma, promised to fatten me with her pasta. I let her try. The neighborhood was called Parque Rodó and while living there I discovered its U$S1 empanadas and a bookstore where I bought Mateo a book of puzzles for his 2nd birthday. I took Spanish classes 4 blocks from the house and between the morning and afternoon breaks I would walk home to eat with the family. I witnessed my first public demonstration near our home—that of the men and women (and their children) who with horse-drawn “carriages” “classify” the city’s trash by each taking (what I imagine to be) different items from its public dumpsters. (While living with Andrea there was such a dumpster outside my window and I would wake up to the slamming of its lid nightly, as people jumped in and out of it.) These men and women refer to themselves as Clasificadores de Residuos and have unionized. Most other people refer to them as hugadores (or scavengers). They were protesting the government’s proposition to privatize the trash collection system, which the city believes to be necessary and the clasificardores believe to be an attempt to further push them to the periphery.
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Pretty much every single Uruguayan that I have met has asked me why I am here, why not somewhere bigger or “more interesting.” You might be asking the same question. I will say that my initial logic was both researched and arbitrary. I had to pick 5 cities in 3 countries in a continent I had never been to. That said, I chose correctly.
Montevideo is the capital of Uruguay and is home to nearly half of the country’s 3,000,000 inhabitants. Uruguay, it turns out, is pretty chico. In fact, there are 3 times more cows than people (yes: 9,000,000 cows). Montevideo is also home to La Rambla, a 22-kilometer walkway along the Rio de la Plata (the river bordering Montevideo), which many Montevideanos say is the best part of living here.
Recently I have heard La Rambla described as Montevideo’s “third place,” which is to say the place people gather outside of home and work. In other cities, perhaps the “third place” would be a local coffee shop or pub (in Seattle, it is Starbucks). Here it is on La Rambla, overlooking the Rio, which depending on the day, appears to be as choppy and expansive as the ocean. Other days it lies flat and brown.
The proximity to the water, I believe, begets a wonderful tranquility in the people and their customs.
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In all, I loved Rio. I loved its people and their thumbs-up. I loved the rhythm of Samba (and the way I never mastered its cadence). I loved the dancing in the streets and I was encouraged to discover “Para Ti” using handicrafts as a means of income for women in its community.
I hope to discover more examples of this in Uruguay.
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“Top of Latin America´s inequality league table comes Brazil, one of the most unequal nations on earth, where the richest 10% of the population earns 49 times the income of the poorest 10%…Brazil has been scathingly rechristened “Belindia”–a hybrid where the middle class enjoy the European lifestyle of a Belgium, surrounded by the impoverished masses of an India…Modern Brazil remains a country of extraordinary contrasts, from the blighted rural northeast, where conditions are as bad as many of the poorest parts of Africa, to the high-rise opulence of downtown Rio.”
-Duncan Green, Silent Revolution: The Rise and Crisis of Market Economics in Latin America
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Today Mike and I drove our bikes through side streets and alleyways to Sugar Loaf Mountain. From its heights we could see topography confessing to the inequality that inhabited it. Favelas built in the gaps shouting from the hillside ‘We are here. We are here.’
Wikipedia defines a favela as the Brazilian equivalent of a shanty town. While in Rio Mike and I took a tour of Rocinha and Vila Canoas, two of Rio’s 750 favelas (Rocinha being the biggest). Founded by local Marcelo Armstrong, the tour partially finances the NGO community school “Para Ti” in Vila Canoas (also funded by Fiat Brazil). Besides regular classes, Para Ti also offers basic computer skills to members of the community, as well as handicraft workshops. Crafts are available for purchase on the school’s patio.
In a recent article in the New York Times, Marcelo is credited with beginning what is referred to as “slum tourism.” The article debates whether such tours are voyeuristic or viable. I too debated the topic, but given Marcelo´s long presence in the community (and given the fact that Mike and I just couldn’t show up in a favela by ourselves) we opted to take Marcelo’s tour over other options, which involve Humvees and loudspeakers.
Our guide Simone described Rio as a city of paradox and she didn’t really have to elaborate. We all knew what she meant. We were visiting the Favelas, but staying on the beach; we were in the Favelas, but being guided through them with a van. The Samba schools that we would see later at the world famous Sambadrome, were from Favelas; so was Rossana, our favorite concierge, as were an estimated 20%-30% of Rio’s populace. For more information about favelas, check out The Favela-Bairro Project edited by Rodolfo Machado and published by Harvard University Press.
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This is an excerpt from an article from the March edition of “Round The Wheel” (the newsletter of The Rotary Club of Las Vegas Northwest). It is the first of three posts about my Pre-arrival Vacation to Rio de Janerio for its world-famous (and totally worth the hype) Carnivale (29 Enero 2008-6 Febero 2008):
Hello from Rio de Janeiro, where I am visiting with two fellow Ambassadorial Scholars (Mike Hoaglin, pictured on the right, is on vacation with me and Cameron, in the middle, is studying here in Rio). Each of us has marveled at how incredible it is that we are together in Brazil, so far from our respective homes (Las Vegas, Chicago, and Georgia), after having met for just two days at our Rotary Scholar Orientation in Pittsburgh. That was last May and this is February.
Tonight we will dance the samba with thousands of Cariocas–the Portuguese adjective that refers to the city and people of Rio de Janeiro–and thousands of others from around the globe. Last night we cheered with thousands of futbol fans and sprinted for a seat in Maracana, the world’s largest soccer stadium, not even full with close to 100,000 spectators.
As we ran for the gates we spotted a Rotary wheel statue outside of the stadium’s entrance, and we agreed that it was a perfect illustration for Rotary: Rotary is community and it is global. Near and far, its presence is felt. Though I applied to my scholarship nearly 2 years ago, sitting on the edge of beginning my scholarship in Montevideo, Uruguay next week, I can assure you that it will be well worth the wait.
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With the sponsorship of the Las Vegas Rotary Club (and after a very extensive 2-year application process), I was granted a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholarship to study for the year in Montevideo, Uruguay. I have been designated a ‘research scholar’ by Rotary International, which means that on top of taking regular courses I will also do independent research. I am taking courses at the University of Montevideo, in their School of Business and Entrepreneurial Studies. My research project will focus on female Uruguayan artisans and the North American based fair-trade organizations that buy from them.
This blog will be a public display of my personal journey. Along with words, I will use collages made of salvaged scraps of paper to patch together the texture of my journey. I saved these papers to remind me of some past experience or some future task. Now they will help me tell my tale. I ask that you humor me with your company.
I am, after all, 7,000 miles away.
– Christina Maria