EricMBloggie

Brunch is mostly yesterday’s dinner with some new parts and pieces. And then the ice cream shows up again. I ate too much again.

Juan and I taxi to the Buquebus, a ferry, where we meet up with the family. It’s a big boat with Amtrak style seating and parking for the cars underneath. It’s a three hour ride to Uruguay, and then two more in the car until we get to Punta del Este. El Don’s driving is erratic, like everyone else’s in the country. I try to sleep to pass the time, but that doesn’t work. I wish I had taken more of the sleeping pills. They’ve made the six hour journey to Punta del Este multiple times a year for as long as they can remember, so it’s perfectly normal. Not for us. “Hey, guy’s let jet out to the beach…in London.”They use the word ‘apartment’ to explain our accommodations, but it’s a mistranslation. Two-thirds of a floor of a high rise overlooking the beach, with five bedrooms, multiple bathrooms, and balconies is more than just an apartment. Juan and I share a little side room with enough space for the two little beds, one of which rolls out from under the other, and our bags.

Time to go out to dinner! The Yacht Club Restaurant is empty save for a couple at a nearby table. It isn’t long before appetizers start rolling out: fried fish nuggets, fried calamari, octopus sauteed in butter, amazingly fresh langoustines, bread & butter, red wine, another calamari dish all precede the Fish with Brown Butter and Capers. The fish is a fresh and haddock-like, and the capers are bigger than the ones we’re used to and mild. The dinner is filled with laughter and a mix of languages. I gain a nickname: Challenger. I can eat and eat until I explode. Get it? Juan is Columbia. We must be bothering the couple at the table next to us, because we’re a loud bunch. I can’t understand the story Roberto is telling about Juan’s uncle Pablo, but watching him crack up trying to tell it is enough to make me burst out laughing. There is plenty of red wine and a ridiculous amount of food. I feel at home with Juan’s family, and we’re really starting to get to know each other. Sandra, Roberto’s wife, helps me decode the menu. Their youngest kids, Delfina and Marlena are too young for English, but I’m counting on funny faces and smiles to win them over. It’s slowly working. Their oldest daughter, Orianna, is 12. She knows a little bit of English, but she’s shy, and content to talk with Sofia. I don’t expect a twelve year old girl to have much to say to me anyways. I don’t keep up on ‘Hannah Montana.’ Is that what they watch? I’m not sure.

After the meal, we go out to the bars with Juan’s eighteen year old cousin, Sophia. She has studied English for about nine years, so I can switch back to my native tongue. It’s relaxing. Or maybe it’s the glass of whiskey that’s relaxing. Both the Irish pub and the place with the jazz players are pretty dead. The bartender tells me things get busy around three in the morning. We turn in at about 2:45am. The party hasn’t even started yet, but we’re beat from a day of traveling. Tomorrow, we say, we’re not coming home until it’s light out.