Colonia--My Day Trip to Uruguay

Friday, January 2nd, I was finally able to buy a ferry ticket that would let me enjoy a full day in the sweet town of Colonia, Uruguay. I arrived too late at the dock on Tuesday to buy passage, and then everything was closed down for Año Nuevo on Wednesday and Thursday, so Friday it was. I awoke at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. and tried as quietly as possible to collect my belongings and not disturb the other 9 people in my dorm room. This was nearly impossible, and my first travesty of the day: I left my sunscreen on the bathroom counter as I left the hostel, quietly congratulating myself on my organization and advanced planning.

The mouth of the Río de la Plata, which separates Argentina and Uruguay, is some 60 kilometers wide, and thus it takes about an hour to cross the chocolatey waters. I arrived in the historic neighborhood of Colonia while everything was quietly coming to life, and nearly had the streets to myself for picture-taking and serene wanderings. I took bread and tea at a café, and was then overcome with the drowsiness that haunts me on the road, so I took to the shores of the river. I found a beautiful, tranquil little spot where I could both look into the streets of the historic district and out across the river. Colonia, to me, felt very tropical, with its abundant trees, palms, and brilliantly colored flowers. The day was warm, but there was a comfortable breeze blowing in off the river. I stretched out on some rocks smoothed by time and the lapping waters of the río, and almost instantly fell asleep, awakening several hours later to the unmistakable crinkly forehead of a sunburn and a low bloodsugar. As I sat eating skittles, I was approached by a Uruguayan guy of 27 named Matias, who invited himself to join me in the sun. We chatted for quite awhile, and he expressed his interest in coming to the United States. He spoke very good English, and for awhile, though it felt sort of random, I enjoyed the chat. After awhile, though, I started to get the impression that he wanted my help entering the United States and was waiting for me to offer it, which soured my impressions of our exchange. Just as I was looking for a way to escape, Matias seemed to guess his efforts had reached a dead end, and abruptly left me in peace. I spent the rest of the day walking around the blocks of cute colonial buildings, ascending the light house and taking in the views (I could even barely make out the shadowy sky skrapers of BA on the distant shore), and enjoying lunch at a cafe. In sum, I relaxed in a way that, for me, is entirely impossible amidst the buzz of a city like Buenos Aires, and for that alone, Colonia was worth the effort.

The Barrio Histórico as seen from the old gate to the city.

Something pretty!

Flowers are delightful!

Colonial architecture on the streets of Colonia.

Fishin' on the Río de la Plata.

The remains of a convent at the base of the lighthouse.

The beach where I dozed...don't those rocks look inviting?

The lovely Barrio Histórico from up above.

Continuing to burn on the top of the lighthouse...oopsey!

After such a beautiful, relaxing day in a small Uruguayan town, I expected to peacefully catch my overnight bus to Mendoza. No such luck. On the ferry ride back to Buenos Aires, I saw footage on the television of a motorbike race on the unmistakable Avenida 9 de Julio, which separates the ferry dock and my hostel, and incidentally, the bus terminal and my hostel, in such a way that taxis could not cross to take me to either of my destinations. I had planned my day very carefully, since with the holiday closures it was the only day I could visit Colonia and I knew it was something I didn't want to miss, but I had already bought a bus ticket to Mendoza for 8:45 on Friday night. I had just enough time to head back to my hostel, prepare for the overnight bus ride with little chores like washing my face and taking out my contacts, and take a taxi to the bus terminal. Instead, I frantically dashed to my hostel, sweating, fighting the crowds, and searching for a way across the racetrack. A kind police officer finally informed me of the brilliant plan of using the subway tunnel to cross underneath the track. I grabbed my stuff and began racing for the bus terminal, only to suffer an ill-timed low bloodsugar that put me in a worse mood and heightened my anxiety. Once I got across the tracks again, after a detour in search of a subway stop that didn't actually exist where I thought it did, I passed several police officers that told me the only way I could get to the bus terminal was on foot. Meanwhile, my time was running out, and I knew in my current state I would never make it in time walking. I flagged down a taxi, and the driver refused to drive me, insisting it was only five more blocks to the terminal (which, by the way, it was NOT! I had a long, long way to go). So I tried another taxi, and some force interveined on my behalf, because the kind gentleman helped me load my bags and we weaved in and out of traffic as he assured me we would make it on time. We did, but I was a mess and mildly irritable for the duration of my 13 hours to Mendoza. However, in the end, crisis averted. It was the first major challenge I faced that caused me momentary panic and seriously shook my newfound serenity. There are these really funny (hysterical, I think) tourist t-shirts here that say, simply, "Buenos Fucking Aires." My motto momentarily became "Fucking Buenos Aires!"