Thanks to our magnanimous taxi driver, we were able to lug our heavy suitcases up three flights of stairs into our hostel. Why they termed this place The Red Hostel, I have little idea. There don't seem to be enough prostitutes for it to be in the red light district. And while there is an ashy fireplace in the main sitting area, every room maintains a ghostly chill.
Jacey and I are paying about $12 a night to share a room with six other people. (Breakfast and internet are included.) We happen to be cohabitating with some Peruvian chefs here for a cooking event. This was revealed to me after I watched one of them unwrap a bushel of butcher knives – not the most appetizing sight when you’re sharing a room with strangers in a foreign country… No, they seem to be dear people, and our little exchanges warm the place up a bit.
Yet, Montevideo is cold and gray. The sky looks like a slab of concrete, and there is little movement along the streets we have walked. (Outside of the ambulance that nearly flattened me, which surely would have been ironic.) Even the water, which is separated from the city by a heavily trafficked road (La Rambla), seems immobile. We wandered around Punta Carretas, the supposedly hip area, feeling disconnected and confused. Could we be happy here?
I can’t deny that the people are lovely; warm and genuine and so helpful that you end up feeling guilty and undeserving of such unsolicited kindness. We attempted to purchase a calling card, and one salesman actually escorted us out of the store, gave us his cell phone to use, acted as a translator throughout the conversation, and hailed us a cab. None of which we asked him to do. I can’t help but feeling comforted everywhere I go, as though my grandmother was sitting in her rocking chair, murmuring.
But is that what we came here for?
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