EricMBloggie

We eat a light breakfast of cookies, bread, and cereal, and we’re off to the beach. It’s only two blocks away. We run into the water, which is colder than expected, but refreshing. What can I say, it’s the beach? They sell corn on the cob with butter and salt. The kernels are huge, juicy, and full of corn-itude. We walked for miles along the beach with Juan’s uncle Rudy, his kids, Sofia and Consalo, and Oriana, joking around the whole way. Rudy has a boundless supply of energy, and emanates warmth. He can tell a story with a single expression. The first day, when doling out the meat at the asado, he walked around asking, “Pig? Cow? Mother fucker?” Hilarious in a perfect Foreign Guy accent. He is in a perpetual good mood, which is contagious.

Lunch-Dinner is a mix of salads, ham (constantly present), cheese, tomatoes, and other odds and ends. Later on, I checked out an ice cream shop, flirted with the ice cream server in broken Spanish (where is the party where I dance and drink?) I need to learn more Spanish for proper flirtation. The ice cream couldn’t hold a candle to Saverio’s. Then I returned to the apartment. Juan was worried that I had gotten killed or drowned.

Juan, Rudy, Sofia and I went for a run around the peninsula. The 5km run was surprisingly easy to get through, and just beautiful. The moon, the water, the stars, and the perfect weather. Oh, the lame poetry that could be written!

The whole family went out to an Italian restaurant. After appetizers of bruschetta and margherita pizza came my entree of Spaghetti alla Puntanesca. It’s similar to the Chicken Provencal I made with anchovy, olives, capers (again, these were milder and bigger than Trader Joes’) and tomato sauce. This was Italian food done very well– let’s say it beat the Olive Garden (When You’re Here, You’re Upset!) They asked if I wanted it spicy, to which I said yes. ‘Spicy’ in Argentina sometimes means cracked black pepper, because it was mild as a lamb sleeping in a meadow. We were the loud ones in the restaurant once again, and dinner was a lot of fun. Roberto got the whole table going with stories about a group they call “The Breakers,” one of whom is Juan’s uncle, Pablo. He could barely get through the story, he was laughing so hard, which is quite a sight to see. He looks so serious when he’s just sitting there, and when he laughs it’s the complete opposite. His littlest daughter, Delfina, walks around the table doing what Juan and I call “her job.” She taps, hits, or pokes everyone as she walks by, around and around and around. It’s a lot of work, but she puts the hours in, and– end of the day– it’s rewarding. Kelly keeps her company. They’re bonding well, despite the language barrier.

The Long Night Out
We returned from dinner around 1am. Juan and I started preparing for the long night out. Coffee and scotch were consumed in large volumes as family members passed old photos around the group. The highlight was the surprise in Oriana’s face every time another photo of her father Roberto came out with a different girl he was dating. That’s not my mom, that isn’t either, that definitely isn’t my mom!

Juan and I rushed out into the night at 3am, laughing, enjoying the weather. We should have paid attention to where we were going. We wandered the streets, trying to find a familiar landmark. We soldiered on, finding the Italian restaurant, gaining our bearings, we ended up at a pool hall.

The locals looked at us like we were sweethearts on honeymoon. We ordered some whiskey and sat at a booth. Eventually, we struck up a conversation with the girls playing pool. I can’t really call my part “conversation” so much as a word or two and a smile. Me llamo “Challenger.” Before you know it, the Challenger had played and lost a couple of games of pool. But I lost them loudly and with much fanfare. When Juan was asked why we were yelling so much, he said, ¨Because it’s The Challenger!!” We left for the popular bars.

It must have been five in the morning by the time we got to the next bars. We sat with a table of girls who worked there, but weren’t on the clock. One of them spoke English. Their Way-Too-Drunk Co-worker Julia brought plates of chicken fingers and fries and free drinks. We talked about nothing until they were ready to leave. The night was somehow still going.

We met a very tall English-speaking Norweigan looking for cocaine. I hope he found what he was looking for. We also met a set of stoners from Montevideo, the beach town near the ferry. They were the last standing of their friends, who were scattered amongst the tables in various states of drunkenness. They were exceptionally nice, and told us all about the sexiness of the women during the peak season of Punta del Esta, which is the first two weeks of January. We greeted the sunrise with our stoner buddies, then trekked home.

We watched the sun rise over the giant hand sculpture on the beach, then went to sleep around seven in the morning.