Don't tell anyone I said this, but...

Our engagement photos in the
National Arboretum, October 2010

Here's a funny thing about DC: I HATED living there for six. long. years.  Then, as soon as we found out we were leaving... it magically became a lovely and even enjoyable place to live. A place that I grew increasing nostalgic about over the past year.

That's the magic of perspective.

Now that we're gone, there are things that I already really, really miss. So, in the spirit of giving DC some credit where credit is due, these are the things I wish I could have taken with me:

1. Public transit.  
When I asked Tim what he would miss most about DC, this was also his number one answer. People bitch about the DC metro a LOT. It's not pretty. It's a great place to go if you want to watch people vomit or urinate publicly. It can be crowded and sweaty and frustrating and sometimes a little horrifying, and it often completely breaks down and destroys whatever you were trying to do. BUT - it's there. Thanks to the DC Metro, I'm 31 years old and still don't have a drivers' license. I loved being able to get on the metro and have access to anything in the city I could possibly have wanted. I really loved being able to people-watch and read my book while commuting to work. (Even when the people I was watching were urinating publicly.)

Me being 4 months pregnant in the National Arboretum, 2014

2. Trees
DC is a really, really beautiful city. There are trees EVERYWHERE. Trees, parks, fountains, pools, gardens... Meaning that there are joggers, dogs, and strollers everywhere too, which is a great sign of a happy city.

Me being 8 months pregnant in Eastern Market

3. Distinct Neighborhoods
Georgetown. Capitol Hill. NOMA. Penn Quarter. U Street/Adams Morgan. Chinatown. H Street/Atlas District. Navy Yard. Dupont Circle. DC is full of these great, unique little enclaves that are almost like cities of their own within the city itself. A lot of people get to know the neighborhood they live in and not much else, but I was extremely lucky to get to know a HUGE portion of the city. I worked on K Street and know every inch of downtown/Metro Center like the back of my hand. I went to school and worked in Georgetown. I lived in Chinatown and on Capitol Hill, mere blocks from H Street. I worked on Barracks Row. I spent hours just wandering around, looking for bookstores, good coffee, and Greek food. Drop me just about anywhere in DC and I could walk home without a map.

4. Never being bored
If you get bored in DC, you're a terrible person.  All the museums are free. There are events literally every day. You're minutes away from hiking and a short drive away from the beach, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Shenandoah, etc. etc. If you look even just a little bit, you can discover something awesome and new with basically zero effort.

Every day, folks.

5. Being Famous
We're on TV. I literally saw the street I lived on in a movie two days ago. I never get tired of seeing places I've been in real life on my television screen. Here's a list of things we drove past on the way to work: the Library of Congress, the Folger Shakespeare Library, the U.S. Capitol Building, the Supreme Court, the entire Smithsonian on the National Mall, the Washington Monument, the Federal Reserve, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Kennedy Center, and the Watergate Hotel. EVERY DAY. Look at all those words that are capitalized! My favorite frozen yogurt place was a block away from Ford's Theater. Are you impressed? Because I was super impressed.

(Drawback: Most of our celebrities are people everyone hates. Whoops.)

Bonus: NPR
NPR is headquartered in DC, so morning NPR here is the A Team. Plus, I got to take classes at Georgetown from actual Georgetown personalities. I won't apologize for how nerdy this is.

There are lots of things I won't miss (why is the Mexican food there SO terrible? Mexican food has FIVE ingredients!!). But with a little distance between us, I will bow my head and admit that, if my family and friends lived closer to DC, I could have stayed there a lot longer and been perfectly happy. Ben was born there. Tim and I got engaged there. I've had two jobs I really loved there (and one I really hated). I made a lot of beloved friends there. It wasn't all bad.

Double Bonus: this is what the Discovery Channel building
 - just outside of DC -
looks like during Shark Week

Men at Work

The sun porch--the nicest place in our apartment.

I'm failing as the reporter at large for what-life-is-like-in-Uruguay. The one request that everyone had was "take lots of pictures" and so far the only thing I've photographed is my trashcans. I have a good excuse for this.

Uruguay so far is kind of boring.

It's nice enough. And I suppose I could be taking normal, "look it's a new city," exploration kinds of pictures, but here is an example of why I haven't really taken any pictures: Before coming down here Tim and I wanted to buy a guidebook, but we had trouble finding one. We ended up having to buy one on Argentina in which Uruguay only takes up about 30 pages.  This weekend, being a long weekend, we wanted to go out and explore so we rented a car and then started trying to plan...  but we couldn't find anywhere to go. Then upon discovering that our rental car was a standard, which Tim can't drive, and lacking any real desire to try, we gave up and stayed home for the weekend--utterly uncharacteristic, but indicative of how unmotivating the prospects were.

The view from the porch to the right: Rio de la Plata

There are really only about four destinations in Uruguay that we've heard of so far: Montevideo, which we live in; Punta del Este, which is a beach resort and therefor not much fun in winter; some thermal baths, which are six hours away; and Buenos Aires, which is actually in Argentina and shouldn't be included on this list. There's a famous place called "Casapueblo" that's we're waiting to go to until Tim's parents get here so I'll get back to you about that in two months.

It isn't really a fair representation to say that Uruguay is totally devoid of anything interesting. The city of Montevideo is known for being very cultured. There really is a bookstore on almost every block. There are numerous independent theater companies both large and small. And there are museums all over the city. Apparently, the city also has two zoos. We just haven't done any of these things yet (except the bookstores of course).

Mostly we've just been to the mall. Oh have we been to the mall. We've been to Punta Carretas mall plenty of times. It's a very exciting place because without it, we wouldn't be able to recharge (i.e. buy more time/GBs) for the USB-style modems that we have to use to connect to the internet, and which connect to the internet about as effectively as a piece of ham connects to the internet.

The view from the porch to the left.

 Still... we are bound and determined to find interesting things to do that don't depend on the weather being nice or drinking lots of alcohol. There's always learning the delicate art of self-tattooing or busking for money by performing Abbott and Costello routines on the street, but I think we're going to try to find something with a more local flavor first.

Like enjoying milk in bags.

I thought that Canada was that only country that drank milk out of bags, but I was terribly wrong. A simple Google search probably would have told me that, but I just assumed... Lazy. Anyway now were here and this is how it's sold and I'm only assuming this this pitcher, one of the five pitchers we found in the apartment, is the correct vessel for bagged milk storage (even though the pitcher has oranges all over it?). Who decided that a bag was a good container for a liquid? Don't these pop, get punctured and explode with enough frequency to be of some concern?  I always wondered about the logistics of this and now I know: they're a little shady. These are the kinds of amusements that I haven't been telling you about Uruguay.

A tasty treat.

Oscar el Grouch

Believe it or not, there are a few interesting things about Uruguay that don’t involve how sad my apartment is.

I mentioned the “trash-mules” without explaining them. Here is something you may know but may not think about: Americans produce an astronomical amount of trash. Most people I know have very large trashcans in their kitchen and in their garages (if they have them), and then smaller, bucket sized trashcans in almost every other room of the house. If there’s not one in in the living- and bedrooms then at very least they have a trashcan in the bathroom. Everything collected in these into large bins, which go to the curb, or down chutes into dumpsters or wherever. If sanitation workers went on strike like Sara Cynthia Silvia Stout in that Shel Silverstein poem, we’d all be swimming in filth.

Well. I don’t think I’ve ever travelled to a country with enough trashcans for my huge American consumption-level. In Panama we had to buy trashcans, in France I horded plastic bags so I had somewhere to throw things away, in India people just throw things on the ground so I suppose that’s just one enormous trashcan, but I will never get past the voice in my head that screams, “OH MY GOD, SAVE THE LITTLE ANIMALS!! PICK THAT UP!” I came home with trash in my pockets.

(Apparently--I consume everything on a ridiculous American Supersize Me level. Our apartment came with "one month" of  internet. I used it up in three days.)

Here in Uruguay our “furnished” apartment has two trashcans: one in the kitchen the size of a very small bucket, and one in the bathroom the size of a measuring cup. As you can see from our giant trash pile, this arrangement is inadequate.

I think this must mean that people take their trash out every morning and are not ok with living surrounded by buckets of their own filth like Americans are. But I also know this isn’t true because, like the French, Uruguayans allow their dogs to shit everywhere, and leave it there. I think, maybe, somehow, they truly just produce less trash.

Montevideo is a city filled with enormous apartment buildings. That seems to be almost all it is. Every couple of blocks sits a small green dumpster. The contents of these dumpsters are collected by wooden carts with large canvas sacks on the back, which drawn by mules. I do not understand how all of the trash from four 12-story buildings can fit in one dumpster, and then be carted away by one sleepy, bored-looking mule.

I’m not all that surprised by the presence of the mules—the streets are narrow and the traffic is only loosely governed by any discernible laws (people seem to instinctually know who has the right of way where and when—there are very few street signs and lights) so the mule carts are more compact and easy to navigate than a big truck. Mules or no mules, it was not my personal agenda to produce more garbage than the entire population of the city, but somehow it looks like we’re on track to set the record. America: go big or go home.

Being Here.

What is there to say about Uruguay so far?

Surprisingly not much. The shocks of getting accustomed to a new country are sometimes far more mundane than you might expect.  For example, everyone's soap and detergent smells different. And people here love mayonnaise more than most people in the states would consider reasonable, and hence, mayonnaise-based sauces are more popular than any other sauces.  If you've been to Europe, that's not all that shocking, but if you hate mayonnaise as much as Tim does, it requires some patience. (I on the other hand will eat mayo on just about anything and am glad about it.)

The biggest adjustment, by far, has been our living situation.  I don't like to complain but I also don't want to sugar-coat things. When we went to Panama, we raved and raved about it because we lived in a beautiful apartment in a great location, in a park, with a view of the Panama Canal.  We very literally had nothing to complain about.  This time we haven't been so lucky.

Montevideo's economy is, apparently, booming, and the housing market is, apparently, slim.  When Tim arrived he was temporarily placed in a hotel until better accommodations could be found.  I would agree that what we've got are "accommodations" though I'm not sure about the word "better."  Our apartment does have a nice little sun porch that, for a good part of the day is sunny and warm and has a view of the beach on the Rio de la Plata--the wide river that separates Uruguay and Argentina and eventually runs into the ocean.

Otherwise... the apartment has just enough quirks and inconveniences to drive a person quickly and dramatically insane.  But I don't really want to talk about it because a.) Tim had an adventure even trying to get us into this ridiculous place and b.) I'll admit it, it makes me homesick.

Although going on rotation with Tim means that I will eventually travel and have adventures (like seeing the Uruguayan trash-mules) it also mostly means that I sit around in the apartment a lot, planning the wedding, etc, which was the plan, but which is a lot more depressing as a prospect when the apartment is not a very homey place.

So. Uruguay so far has been two interesting meals: a three-hour one at a very expensive and fancy restaurant with iPad menus and no other customers (but delicious duck, oh yes), and one (unintentionally) in a restaurant where Anthony Bourdain ate. This is a few blocks from our apartment and we were hungry and wandered in. Another American was there and helped us order and told us what we were in for, which was this:

Beyond that it's just trying to deal with our not-so-great living arrangements and the shock of jumping from summer to winter all at once. Deep breaths. Cowboy up.

Get this party bus on the road...

Do me a favor, please. Do a Google search for "Chiva Parrandera." I'll wait.

Ok. Now kindly forget most of what you saw (except for the pictures of the buses).

Last weekend, Tim's co-worker, Gilberto, invited us to join him, his sister and his girlfriend on a Chiva. In Gilberto's words: "What is a chiva? They are a school bus without seats, painted with crazy things and loud music." My first reaction to this fairly accurate (but oh-so-overly-simple) description was:

This terrifies me.


However, after sending our non-refundable check and reaching the point of no return, I was committed to going and not embarrassing Tim in front of his new friends by acting like a pilon.

I should begin by explaining that things here happen on "Panama Time" (which I think holds true throughout Central and South America, and really, parts of the Deep South), that is to say, when--for example-- a Chiva is supposed to happen from 9:30 until 12:00, what that really means is that people will begin to arrive around 10ish, and you will arrive home somewhere in the vicinity of 3. I think, perhaps, if one's appendix had burst, this would be an issue. But generally, once I train myself to kind of get over it, I really prefer this approach to time. It certainly seems to make sense in relation to the way the sun and the rain come and go on a whim.

We arrived at Zona Viva, an enclosed strip of bars and clubs with ridiculous American names that sound like something out of an SNL Stefon sketch and found probably ten different Chivas waiting around the giant parking lot where we met up with our group. The buses range in quality from "used Bluebird school bus" (normal) to "Aerosmith tour bus" (ultra plush). Ours hadn't arrived by the time we got there (about 10:15, aka 45 minutes "late"), so we assembled and got our t-shirts.
T-shirts are a key part of the native Panamanian Chiva--as far as I can tell, tourists just dress tropical-y. You chose your color when you sign up, and every Chiva has a different design. Girls immediately set to work dismantling their shirts with scissors (Lorena immediate whipped a pair out of purse--handy in case of muggings too I guess) and re-creating them in ways that are more appealing (and cooler, temperature-wise) than a regular t-shirt. Guys go hide behind cars and self-consciously change. After this transformation, we entered the Zona Viva to get stamped which would allow us into the clubs when the Chiva returned--girls in one very swift-moving line, guys in another molasses-like one. Thennnnn, we wandered around for a while because we had no idea where our Chiva actually was.

Sweet lord, when it arrived? First I should explain that this and most "real" Panamanian Chivas, unlike the tourist ones, are set up for special occasions among groups of friends. Though they were strangers to us, were weren't really boarding the bus with a group of strangers, but for the birthday of a friend of a friend of a friend named Eliecer. So this bus was a very special bus for his birthday--not an Aerosmith bus, perhaps, but certainly no Bluebird either. Our first clues that the bus was awesome? The bus had four televisions on the outside, and steam on the windows. Steam on the windows means A/C on the inside, which is a good, good thing.
Inside the bus we find red lounge style seats in the front, dangling ropes to hold on to while the bus moves, a giant TV in the back, huge booming speakers (though sometimes there are live bands), two poles (classy!), and an open bar (which doesn't serve beer because, Compadres, there is only one bathroom stop on this trip). My first apprehension with this little adventure went something like "OMG, people stand up and drink on a moving vehicle in Panamanian traffic in the middle of the night? How are thousands of people not killed on these death traps?" Well, I'm an idiot. The buses travel at approximately 5mph and everyone in Panama knows what they are and avoids them on the roads. When the bartender ran out of coke, we just pulled over and someone ran inside and got more. It's a pretty fabulous system really.
Half way through the trip we stopped at a family-style Italian restaurant so everyone could use the restroom and get some fresh air. Another Chiva, with another group of people in their own matching outfits, stopped right in front of us, so it's clear that the restaurant must have some sort of Chiva-friendly kickback. Why else would they let a lot of drunk 20-somethings pee in their restaurant at 1 a.m., I ask you?
By the time the floor of the bus was completely sticky with spilled seco, and I thought I could not possibly sweat anymore, we pulled up to Zona Viva and disembarked. We spent a few more hours dancing at a club called "Chill Out" and praying for a breeze, until Gilberto's amazing parents picked us up and brought us all back to the apartment (where we discussed the concept of 4th meal and the injustice of Taco Bell--which delivers here--closing at 3:00 a.m.).

All in all, I'm still kind of in shock that something this ridiculous exists (I sincerely, sincerely apologize for not providing you with a picture of the outside of the bus), but I'm so glad it does. It's too glorious and ridiculous not to.