There comes a point on holidays when one gets a little tired of picking up and packing up every few days to get on a bus or a boat or a plane. The lack of spices, particularly pepper, starts to take its toll, and one yearns, even just a little, for the comfort and predictability of home. The lyrics of Frank Sinatra’s “It’s Nice to Go Trav’ling” start to play themselves in one’s head (particularly the part about the pizza):
It’s very nice to go trav’ling
But it’s oh so nice to come home
No more customs
Burn the passport
No more packing and unpacking
Light the home fires
Get my slippers
Make a pizza
Fortunately for the weary traveller, the final leg of our month-long journey took us to Uruguay, a calm and stable retreat of a nation across the Río de la Plata. It was just what we needed. Tiny Uruguay, with its fierce but muted pride, moves at its own pace, is confident in its beauty, and feels a world apart from both of the other countries we had visited, despite being culturally and historically very much the same. It is off the typical path for those from outside of South America, which gives it the feeling of being a corner of the world, instead of a thoroughfare.
I still can’t believe this country holds more World Cup victories than England. But more on that later.
It seems to the casual tourist more a province of another country than one in and of itself – not that I would ever say that to a local. American dollars, Argentinean pesos, and Brazilian reals are accepted almost everywhere, in addition to the local currency. Nearly everybody we met spoke fluent English and Portuguese. Clearly, Uruguayans are aware of the immense value of tourism to their economy. We had seen massive billboards featuring a (surprisingly) smiling Diego Forlán, hero of the 2010 World Cup and recipient of its Golden Ball trophy, on highways across Argentina and Chile, advertising the best of Uruguay: Punta del Este, an Ibiza-like beach resort on the Atlantic coast, Piriápolis, a quieter town that was Uruguay’s first commercial beach resort, and Colonia del Sacramento, a historic trading post and UNESCO World Heritage Site an hour across the river by ferry from Buenos Aires.
Our first stop was Colonia, and so we joined the throngs of tourists departing Buenos Aires on the Buquebus rapid ferry that all-but monopolizes transport between the two nations. The old part of the town, known as the Barrio Historico, is about the size of a postage stamp, and is filled with snap-happy Argentinians (it is a favourite getaway spot for porteños). Buffeted between Spain and Portugal, and later Brazil, for centuries, the town still contains the markers of an old port and defensive outpost: thick, high city walls, cannons, and the remains of the central colonial household that would have been at its heart, along with a neighbouring church. We loved the cobbled streets, old yellow lamps, and central square where we spent the day reading and napping without fear of being attacked. In the evening, as the ferry returned to Argentina, taking most of the day-trippers with it, we sat in a cafe overlooking the river plate, munching on grilled meats and watching the sun set in a blaze of pink and orange as the lights of Buenos Aires appeared in the distance. Live music spilled out from cafés all around us, and twinkle lights were laced through the trees along the roads. It was a welcome shift from the noise and emotional weight of Buenos Aires, and we could have stayed longer in the peace and quiet.
Our schedule, however, took us on to Montevideo, the nation’s capital, the following morning. Here was a place that seemed content just to exist. Home to about half of the country’s population, most of whom seemed to be out enjoying the city’s many public parks and plazas, Montevideo is simultaneously charming and everyday. Beaux Arts buildings in good repair dot the main streets, interspersed with the typical concrete fare of most cities that grew up after the 1950s. With art galleries, beautiful theatres, and artisan fairs on every street, there is a thriving arts scene. And one can enjoy it all without fear of tripping, as the sidewalks are wonderful. After a week in Buenos Aires, Hubs stopped dead in his tracks and gaped upon seeing a bit of uneven sidewalk that had caution tape around it.
Instead of venturing further along the coast to a resort proper, we decided to make Montevideo our base for the remainder of the trip, taking various field trips and enjoying the local wine (tannat), steaks, and excellent beer. A journey on a bus that eventually emptied out completely took us to the city limit, to a beach that was largely untouched with hardly a soul in sight. On the way back we travelled along la rambla (the boardwalk) that stretches for kilometers along the coast and back into the city centre.
And then, the highlight: futbol. Being the height of summer, it was unlikely that we would see a match, but with amazing luck, there was the annual superclásico on our last night there, the oldest major derby outside of Britain, between Uruguayan arch rivals Nacional and Peñarol. It took place at the site of the very first World Cup (and first Uruguayan victory), the 60 000-seat Estadio Centenario, which was packed. The match itself started at 10pm, but there was also a “warm up” match between two foreign club teams beforehand that nobody in the crowd paid any attention to whatsoever, so busy were they chanting, jumping, and banging their giant bass drums. Yes, giant bass drums were allowed in the stadium, as were fireworks, enormous banners that travelled the length of the stands, and smoke machines. Alcohol was not. (The fans didn’t need it, as most were toting the mate mugs ubiquitous in the country, little gourd-like thermoses that contained a liquid resembling strong green tea.)
It was a very different experience from a Toronto game. On our way we had seen entire city buses taken over by devoted fans in their colours on their way to the match, cheering and hanging out the windows, bus driver and all. The fanfare that greeted the arrival of the two teams on the pitch involved so much confetti, smoke and general excitement that kick-off was delayed while the pitch cleared. And though the passion was tangible, and the volume almost overwhelming, the crowd was happy and I felt safe throughout. Husbands and wives and groups of friends came supporting opposite sides and clapped at all good plays. Most of the second half was 2-1 until (as some had started filing out to avoid the post-game crush) a brilliant goal at 90’+3′ that set the stadium alight with fireworks and raucous cheering. The match went to penalties and Nacional took the win, but most left satisfied with a good show.
And then home. As Frank says, it is very nice to go trav’ling, and find unexpected charm, a change of pace, and even places that don’t live up to the ideas you have of them. But, despite the 50° C drop in temperature, it is oh so nice to come home – home to friends and family, speaking English, and even ethnic food. Our “perfect European honeymoon” was neither perfect nor very European, but it did alternately surprise and delight us, and I would do it again – this time with my own pepper mill.