Trashy Cinderella.

I´m super excited about our trip to Piriápolis and Cerro Pan de Asucar tomorrow to hike and chill out on the beach.

I keep wiki-ing random things and looking up new Spanish words in order to pass the time before forcing myself to sleep. Cheers to waking up at the crack of dawn to catch an omnibus.

The weather is beautiful right now, so we keep our window open at night, ignoring the the mosquitos, moths and flies that crawl on us while we´re sleeping. It´s 2:04 a.m. The night is usually filled with the sounds of dogs in the streets, as I recently learned there is a doggie kindergarten down the street. Since it´s still technically summer, although we are on the tail (tail, dogs, no pun intended) end of the lazy days, Montevideo natives are on vacation, taking a break from their dogs, too, whom they left in the kindergarten for a couple months to make new friends and pee on new sidewalks.

Other sounds that fill the air are horse hoofs. Men ride on horse drawn carriages (it sounds more fancy than it is) in order to pick up the trash in the city.  Here´s a visual:



Picture Cinderella´s transportation without the sparkles.

We´ve heard the stereotypical stories of the dogs chasing the mailmen and the garbage men. This is taking the chase to a new level. Now, the many dogs here can chase both the garbageman and the horse. And the garbageman can easily chuck garbage back at the dogs in defense, since the garbageman´s seat is often a bag of trash.

Perritos en la calle.

Yes, we´ve learned that we are supposed to look both ways before we cross the street.

Did you ever teach your dog that? You´re obviously not Uruguayan.

Uruguayan dogs know how to obediently look both ways before crossing the street. They go on walks with their owners without leashes through the city, marking their spot on every corner and practically smiling at other dogs as they pass them.

Last night, Rob, Ana, Ami and I sleepily went out to eat after our long weekend in Pedrera and Marito, our dog, was elated to come with us. When we got to the restaurant (typical Uruguayan food-- Chivitos, carne, eggs, bread, milanesa, pasta, pizza without cheese, etc.) Marito insisted on joining us inside. Without thinking twice, the owner suggested that we eat outside so that we can be with our dog. That would have made perfect sense, except for the fact no tables existed outside. Naturally, the mozo moved our table, silverware, napkins, bread, sauce, chairs, and Marito outside. Rob then ate his shish kabob with one hand and held Marito with the other.

I wouldn´t be surprised if the number of dogs surpasses the number of cows here, soon.

Walking Disasters at Carna-crawl

Wake up. If it´s 1 p.m., you´re an early·riser. Scrounge for food. Eat a piece of bread and avoid flies. Sit outside in hammock. Pile seven people in a tiny two·door car. Drive to the beach. Listen to the same music you listened to while dancing the night before. Crash on the beach. Nap. Get a snack. Walk on the beach. Leave the beach as the sun stops beating down on your back and 

it´s almost as if there is no hole in the ozone. Pile back in the baby car. Mexi pack. Jam out. Drink mate. Sit on the porch. Sit on the dirty brown couch. Do nothing. Eat dinner. Come back. Sit. Previa. Sit some more. Avoid yawning from exhaustion. Dance. Pile back into car. Drive. Go out. Dance. Meet people. Talk to creepers. Sing. Walk a lot. Fiesta. Don´t look at the time. It´s getting late but you don´t mind. People watch. Dance to the same song you just danced to at the previous bar. Dance in the street. Lean against a wall. Wait in line for the bathroom. Answer questions. Tell people you´re from somewhere you´re not. Avoid stares. Pile back into car hours later. Fight the night. Crash in your bed right before the sun comes up. 

It was a hard life these past four days. Carnaval hit hard for sure in La Pedrera.

It's the second largest Carnaval in the world, second to Brazil, of course. And we were in the middle of it.

The baby house we rented was … well, there are many adjectives to describe it. Smelly, stuffy, hot, adorable, relaxing, dirty, perfect sized, out-of-a-movie, colorful, cute, homey, creepy, etc. The bathroom continuously smelled of feet, bathroom business, wet dog, and a splash of soap. It was more effective to avoid the shower if one hoped to clean his or her feet, for the ground was a mess of dirt, water and BO that became a part of my ankles and did not leave until about two days after I returned to the effectiveness of our regular shower in Pocitos.

Carnaval should be renamed Carna-vom or Carna-wall people run into, Carna-fall over or Carna-crawl on the ground as the sun rises in the horizon behind you as you crawl to your bed, which is sometimes the ground outside your house, a rock, or the beach. 

Luckily for us, our beds were blow up mattresses, dirty couches, the floor or beds with dying foam pillows and surprisingly comfy mattresses in our casita in Costa Azul, a beach town that resembles North Carolina's Wrightsville with a Latin American twist.  My friend Amy and Ana and I slept in a bed one night, as there were nine people in a house that holds six people. After a night of meeting new people, dancing in the streets, talking to random people, avoiding crazies and embracing crazies, we decided we had had enough of dancing to electronic music, attempting to avoid creepers and walking up and down the street. We headed back to our own beach resort, if you will, leaving Amy behind who was still having fun. After Ana and I slept for maybe two or so hours, our REM was interrupted with the slam of well, we were not sure what since processing things while half awake is not our fortes. We heard an overwhelmingly-perky-for-nine-a.m. "hey guys!" come from behind the window. It was Amy, or Shwaka, as we call her, ever since she told people she was from Sweden. "Want to see my toe? It's bleeding!" she exclaimed while she climbed through the window, stuck her foot on our pillow in order to show off her bloody toes. Carna-crawl at its finest. 

Or should it be Carna-ball -oons of water. Before our friends Andrea and Marina arrived Sunday night, Amy, Rob, Shantala, Ami, Sabrina, Ana and I were riding in a two-doored car down one of the main streets in La Pedrera. After a few hours on the beach, we were relaxed, jamming to music in the car, windows down, sunglasses on, spirits high. De repente as we say here, we were dripping with water. Before we could figure out exactly what was going on, more water filled the car, splashed on our faces and soaked our clothes. We were screaming and cracking up at the same time. Carnaval. Las bombitas de agua. In recent years, kids have found it hysterical and managed to make it a tradition to throw water balloons and buckets of water at idiots who appear to not be prepared for such a thing (hence, a packed car of extranjeros). I wish I could say there is some kind of symbolic meaning to this water, but it's just crazy kids having the time of their lives at our expense. Our car, with its manual windows, did not take the situation well. We were laughing uncontrollably with disbelief that we were completely soaked, riding inside a car with nine people, because of crazy preteens and children. Not to mention we later were attacked by a group of about 25 kids who dumped buckets of water on us while we were napping on the beach.

Of course it's tradition to dress up for carnaval. There's always an excuse to make a fool of yourself; it's practically the definition of the ridiculousness of the event. Us smart, cheap and creative college students decided to pull our resources. The streets of La Pedrera were roped off for the big weekend. But not for long. We "borrowed" the "Pare" tape, or caution tape, enough for the nine of us. Back at the house, we wrapped ourselves in the cinta and made skirts, dresses and tops out of garbage bags. Walking disasters; disastres caminandos. Couldn't be more perfect for the mess of a group that we are. 

When we left at twelve noon Tuesday to catch the bus people were still walking home, half of their costumes falling off. Others were napping on the side of the road.

I guess it's time to be a productive member of society now, maybe return to the "real world," where people don't steal your money out of your hands, sleep on the beach all day, dance for hours straight, go to sleep after the sun comes up, make up names, dress up like half naked characters or wake up completely trashed from the night before. But then again, this is Uruguay, where Carnaval lasts for 80 days, the longest in the world.

Annoying freshman.

"Where do we eat?! Do you have a map?! How do you make friends here?! Oh my gosh, you like that food? I like that food, too. We should be friends! You don't have any friends either? Perfectttt." 

I thought I was done doing that. Three years ago, I never thought the day would come when I would stop practically drooling over stale french fries at Ramshead Dining Hall.  After all, I practically fell over backwards from stuffing my bookbag with five different notebooks as to have the perfect one for my first day of English 101. 

I really missed being a freshman. Time as a freshman means everything is fresh (how clever). new. pretty. happy. exciting. giddy. 

I thought I enjoyed being an experienced upperclassman, but I'm grateful for the opportunity to be that obnoxious, wide-eyed, ignorant, inexperienced, optimistic and overly dramatic about everything thats "SOOOOOO cooool" y "muchismo lindo" once again. 

But this time, my days as a freshman involve tripping over the eroding cement of the streets of Montevideo rather than the old bricks in the Pit in Chapel Hill.


Now I'm saying, "¿Dónde comer?! ¿Tenés un mapa?! ¿Cómo hacer amigos aquí? ¡Oh, Dios mío, te gusta este tipo de comida? Me gusta este tipo de comida, también. Debemos ser amigos! No tenés amigos tampoco? Perfectttto."

I keep wondering when this phase will wear. Hopefully never, since five months is hardly enough time to become a sophomore or an experienced "Uruguayan." 

I never want to take this place for granted.