I heart Colonia

A US citizen with a visitor’s visa in Argentina can only live here for three months at a time without leaving the country. The simple solution for leaving the country is to visit Argentina’s neighbor, Uruguay. Many expats view Colonia, Uruguay as nothing more than the place they had to visit to renew their visa, though some find the beauty in the small town. Kelly and I weren’t sure what to expect when we boarded the early morning ferry and crossed the ocean for the day on May 26.

Colonia is an uneventful 45-minute boat ride from Buenos Aires and, appropriately, an uneventful city. It’s the oldest city in Uruguay and is known for the historic buildings lining cobblestone streets. For me it will forever be known as a quaint, picturesque town providing the perfect break from the busy, dog-shit streets of Buenos Aires where I got to enjoy the ocean, wander aimlessly through colorful streets and exchange smiles with friendly locals.

Our natural instinct was to walk toward the water – after exchanging our Argentine pesos to Uruguayan pesos and drinking coffee, of course. We spent the day following the coast along the edge of the historic district, taking pictures of the scenery and engaging in casual conversation with street vendors. We even made new friends from Florida while dangling our feet off the edge of the pier. It could have been the ocean or the obvious historical significance, but Colonia reminded me of a Spanish-speaking combination of St. Augustine and Stuart, Fla.

At the end of our seven hours in Uruguay I had a handmade leather bracelet from Paul (a street vendor), a camera full of photographs, renewed confidence in the kindness of South Americans, new friends and a deep appreciation and love for Colonia, Uruguay.

May 13, 2010

I woke up on the morning of May 13 with a feeling the world had shifted. I checked my e-mail with a heavy heart to find my Granddad died around 8:20 a.m. in a hospice bed in Jacksonville, Fla. Through a broken Internet connection and streaming tears, I called my dad.

If you know my father you will understand how our hearts are connected. You’ll also understand that while he has a broken heart, he would never let mine hurt for a second. The first thing he said was “Hey baby girl, I was just lying in the backyard listening to Black Betty.” I instantly felt better. We talked about life and death for a while and shared stories and little inside jokes about my Granddad. My Dad, true to form, subtly guided the conversation in a direction that made me feel comfortable with my physical distance from family as he knew that’s what I needed before hanging up.

When I got off the phone, I was determined to do something great, to see something great, to experience something great on this terrible day. I wanted to find something that made my absence from my family seem a little less painful. I looked through a book on Buenos Aires but nothing seemed worthy of my attention. I settled on the Plaza de Mayo – named after the date Buenos Aires politically separated from Spain and occupied by Casa Rosada, where Eva Peron preached from the balcony to impassioned Argentines. I walked peacefully along historic buildings that lined the plaza and thought of my Granddad.

My Granddad didn’t believe in life after death, which is something I often wonder about myself. As I stared at the architecture reflecting distinct times in history, I realized it’s not just about where you’re going after you die. It’s where you were while you were alive. My Grandfather may not have designed a building that generations to come will admire, but he created generations to come! He created life…and a lot of it. Wherever he is, he created life after his death. I am here because of him. My children will be here because of him.

Then as I turned down Calle Florida (Florida Street – seems only appropriate that I found myself there), I realized I didn’t need to see something great on this particular day, because I am living something great! And for that I am eternally grateful.

William George Holland / Granddaddy / 1923-2010

Casual Conversations

Nobody wants to feel left out of a conversation or a joke. There’s no worse feeling than that of the outside, but I’ve had to learn to accept that feeling. While living in Buenos Aires, I’ve been left out of casual street conversations, idle banter with cab drivers, small talk in shops and even necessary exchanges between servers and patrons. I never realized how much I enjoyed overhearing a mother caution her child of crossing the street or a server repeatedly describe the restaurant’s specials. Unfortunately, all I hear now is Spanish. Everything is foreign, in the most literal sense, and I’m stuck on the outside.

We went to dinner during my first month here with some of Kelly’s local friends. I met many of the girls when I first arrived, but this was a birthday celebration so the group was much larger. I sat on the plush, white couch at the dinner table flanked by beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed Argentine girls and couldn’t help but think of the “which of these doesn’t belong” game. It was established early in the night that I could understand “un poco” Spanish and could speak even less. And by “it was established,” I mean it was blatantly obvious by the doe-eyed, overwhelmed look plastered on my pale American face.

Spanish greetings and kisses evolved quickly into Spanish conversations and I became lost. I listened intently to the conversations surrounding me and could pick up little details… I could tell they were talking about traveling, but I didn’t know if they were reminiscing or making plans. I heard her mentioned her boyfriend, but I couldn’t decipher his role in the story. I smiled most of the night and tried to mimic the expression of fellow listeners when appropriate. Occasionally one of the girls would turn to me with an English sentence summarizing the story or, more commonly, a dumbed-down Spanish sentence spoken slowly for me to follow. I would then join the girls in laughter but couldn’t help feeling like I missed the humor in the anecdote. It was said right in front of me and I missed it.

I felt left out, despite the generosity of the Argentines consciously trying to involve me and despite Kelly serving as my translator. I sought solace in the one familiar thing at the table, a Heineken, and thought about how desperately I need to learn Spanish. Fortunately for me, I’m in a country that gives me no choice. I’m looking forward to the day that I can understand the people on the streets, cab drivers, store attendants, waiters and local friends. I'm slowly getting there...very slowly.