Roughly a year and a half ago, we left Uruguay, where we’d lived at sea level, for a tour a megalithic structures in Peru and Bolivia. The tour organizer, for all his wonderful contacts and insights, does not ‘get it‘ when it comes to running a tour. I could describe several instances of his thoughtlessness, but the one that impacted us the most was insisting that we’d have no problem with the altitude.
Because he doesn’t. Because he lives in Cusco, elevation 12,500 feet (3,810 meters).
When the plane door opens, the problems begin: breathing, moving. The ‘altitude pills’ the organizer had recommended did nothing. Within a short time, my wife was having difficulty with her vision. A doctor, fellow tour-taker, looked at her eyes, went to a local pharmacy and brought her some eye drops (which he wouldn’t let us pay for!). They helped.
But throughout the trip she had trouble with depth perception, more than a minor problem when navigating archaeological sites.
Right eye above; left below
Returning to Montevideo, she made an appointment with an ophthalmologist she had the good fortune to have met several years prior. Using very sophisticated equipment, she did a scan and determined that my wife had a ‘macular pucker‘ in her left eye, basically a wrinkled area on the macula of her retina, which would obviously affect vision. And unfortunately, not something apt to improve over time.
So, a year later, we go back into Montevideo for another scan.
Looking at the output, the doctor — who speaks excellent English — lapses into her native tongue. ¡Es un milagro!
Setting out to do a good deed, I end up needing one
Ah, it gets complicated. Buckle up.
Starts with a WhatsApp call from Fernanda in Montevideo, an Urguaya whom we met at a recent asado (barbecue) of Jerry, our American country neighbor.
She has sold her apartment in Montevideo (we knew) but still needed to retrieve a few things. Apparently locks had been changed and Jerry’s Uruguaya “secretary” had arranged to meet her and help out, then showed up at the wrong time with the wrong keys, and blamed it all on Chuck.
Chuck is Jerry’s longtime friend, who unbeknownst to me was now at Jerry’s place here, while Jerry is in Miami, heading off on a cruise to Cuba. Turns out the keys he gave were the ones Jerry told him to give.
Fernanda leaves for Spain on Friday, needs a solution. Surely I have a number for Chuck somewhere — ? No, I don’t.
But then remember I need to pick up the charged battery from local ANCAP service station after failed jump-start of Mike and Michelle’s 18-year-old Ford yesterday. So, why not drive a few miles more and talk to Chuck?
Might have worked had I not first turned off after the Ruta Interbalnearia bridge, to the ANCAP station. The Interbalneria is bumper-to-bumper, with lots of people now exiting to take Ruta 11 in my direction, so it seemed to make more sense than stopping there on the way back.
At ANCAP, I learn that Mike had earlier retrieved the battery on foot, and texted me. My current interpretation of smartphone being “camera,” I was offline and got nothing.
Oh well, let’s connect with Chuck.
Back-o-mind wondered if he might be driving into Atlántida for early supper.
Indeed. 100 meters short his drive, we passed. I waved. He waved. Because you wave at everyone, whether you know them or not. Didn’t occur to me that he couldn’t have seen me anyway, driving straight into the sun.
I waved my arm out the window after he passed. Beeped the horn. Nothing.
And so I thought, if I can just turn around and catch with him…. So, slam into reverse, aim for that last driveway, and fail, totally. Backing up in haste, in hurry, with limited vision given dusty windows and light (notice shadow), I quickly found myself in a not-insignificant ditch.
Stuck. As in, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Can’t even open the door. Crawl out the passenger side, call neighbor Mariana, whose father Manuel has hauled my car out of mud before with his tractor. Alas, she’s in Montevideo, and he’s not there. Let me call Abel, she says. Calls me back with good news.
Ten minutes later, a kindly white-haired man rolls up with a big John Deere tractor. We spend a few minutes finding a place to hook onto the car. Then, with no effort at all from the tractor, he gently pulls me out onto the road.
I try to give him some money, but he of course will have nothing to do with it. We’re neighbors, he says.
Start: Connecticut, USA End: Republic to the east of the Uruguay River (República Oriental del Uruguay)
My lovely and enthusiastic niece delivered to me to the Norwalk, Connecticut, station of Metro-North, so I could catch a train to New York. Despite having lived 20+ years nearby, I walked under the tracks heading to New York, past the “ticket machines on platform” signs, and asked several people — all of whom seemed like they should know — how to buy a ticket.
They were clueless. And of course I was asking on the Boston-bound side of the tracks. OK, reverse, walk tall; nobody’s noticing that you’re a complete idiot.
Anyway, on to Grand Central Terminal.
From there, a sensible person would shell out USD $18 for the JFK airport shuttle and be done with it. But, no: after a substantial hike through tunnels and stairs, for a mere USD $3 the #7 subway takes you three stops north to Court Street, where after a bunch more walking you can change to the E to Sutphin Boulevard in Queens, then navigate upstairs a few levels to the AirTrain.
For extra credit, do all of the above carrying 70 pounds (~32 kg) of luggage. No wheels! Good workout!
The AirTrain is a brilliant aspect of JFK travel that allows you to travel, free, from any of the terminals to as far as Federal Station, where rental cars and hotel shuttles congregate.
It also extends slightly further to Sutphin Boulevard, and alas, forward or reverse, that one extra stop costs you USD $6. For about three minutes of travel.
So, pim pum pam (weird Uruguayan expression), the hotel shuttle delivers me to the Howard Johnson motel from Federal Station, walk a block to buy Indian takeout — lamb curry, consisting of a bunch of rice, a bunch of curry sauce, and a bone with lots of meat. It was delicious! After eating from the bone, go to bathroom sink, open faucets with elbows, wash off totally greasy hands. And a bottle of wine from the neighboring establishment, possibly owned by the same people, who popped the cork for me — nice touch.
Alarm at 4:30 AM, quick shower and off to JFK for a 5-1/2 hour flight to Bogotá, Colombia, where I’ll have a 10-hour layover, which I’m looking forward to, since Syd says Bogotá’s OK.
As promised, it’s possible to park my carry-on bag at the airport in Bogotá. I find an info center with a map of the city, not particularly insightful. Head to the taxis — Syd told me they were very reasonable; half-hour trip cost about USD $10 (if he recalled) — so I wasn’t too concerned. Dapper 50-ish guy named Alfonso approaches me, says he’s Uber. OK, not traditional cab. Of course, Uber is Uber: internet. So this is bullshit. Regardless, Alfonso tells me he’s been a tour guide for 26 years. He speaks some English, but we default to Spanish and it’s a delight to converse with someone who doesn’t talk as though his mouth is jammed-full of dulce de leche (sorry, Uruguay).Many insights; backs off the sales pitch for extended tour after the third time (“It’s my job, no?”). I don’t want to be stuck in a car all day. Let me wander around!
Later, I ask police in Plaza Bolívar: taxi to airport costs 15,000. I paid 45,000 to Alfonso — actually 50 (~USD $18), since he claimed once we arrived that the price was 55. Doesn’t bother me; it was an interesting experience and conversation, even if many of his “facts” were not entirely factual. And besides, in travels to 50+ countries, I’m pretty sure there is none where I got everything right the first time.
So: impressive gold museum, lots of wandering around in circles, a decent and very cheap lunch, and people who answer questions in Spanish I can understand. No mumbling! No dropped S’s! Unfortunately the Botero Museum was closed, but I saw several of his sculptures in public places.
A pleasant (I guess) surprise at the Gold Museum was my first senior discount: free entrance. And, leaving, an information desk employee leaves her post to retrieve for me a card for the TransMilenio after I inquired about getting a bus back to the airport. She rides her bike now; doesn’t need it. So all I have to do is load 2,200 pesos (USD 0.80) on it and ZOOM! to the airport. Along the way, I asked a fellow-passenger soldier, who consulted a young bohemian-looking guy, who confirmed that I was not on the bus to the airport, but needed #86, so I thanked them, stepped off the bus at the next stop and onto the one directly behind it. ZOOM! Amazingly efficient.
Though you can barely see them, the colors of the foreground buildings are echoed by the towers in the distance. Since it was a dreary day, I opted not to go to the top of Mount Monserrate, a popular sightseeing spot.The new BD Bacatá towers. The taller of the two is the second-tallest building in South America. This is the world’s first crowdfunded skyscraper!
The 6-hour flight on to Montevideo was fairly uneventful, amusingly punctuated from time to time by the little old lady (probably my age, come to think of it) sitting next to me, who couldn’t figure out the seat-back entertainment system, how to turn on the overhead light, where to plug in headphones, how to unbuckle her seat belt, and apparently had some issues making sense of the bathroom which, happily, did not involve me.
I met my 4 month-old grand niece this week in Connecticut!
Though I can profess no knowledge of babies, nor child raising under age 11 for that matter, Mckenzie is a great baby.
As I traveled to meet her, though, I thought it weird that I could not remember ever having held a baby. Had I ever? My niece Amanda answered authoritatively…
… with a photo of me holding her 32 years ago (I’m holding that picture in the first photo).
After many many hours on aircraft, we had to skip landing at Montevideo because of fog at 1 AM.
So on to Buenos Aires, where we sat on the tarmac until 5:30 AM or so. Hours of chaos later we settled into an airline-paid hotel room, with a bathtub! (Exclamation because I hadn’t had a bath in at least 10 years, and it seemed like a splendid idea.)
Of course the hotel does not want to encourage baths, and provides no stoppers. But surprise surprise, the complimentary shampoo bottles fit perfectly!
I did not document the tub, but here’s my bathroom sink water filtering operation. Worked like a charm!
Strange structures seem to dance, witch-like, as we drive into Aguas Dulces. They turn out to be paja (straw), the local equivalent of quincho. However, here they also use paja in walls as well as roofs.
Starting my walk around town, I notice what must have once been a map but appears to have evolved into an existential statement:
“You are here”
A house that survived, inexplicably, the storm that destroyed so many others. I remembered this one being in much worse shape, and indeed: compare with the picture in the previous post. Somebody’s been busy!
Lovely afternoon light. There’s a cat in the picture, and several more nearby.
Next morning, an amazing breakfast in an amazing setting. The onshore wind blows back the top of the waves. The face of the farthest break is at least two meters high.
