Finally I can breathe again, having jumped on a ferry across the Río de la Plata (Spanish for silver, but on this fine morning, it seems the rust has set in and brown is all we can hope for) to Colonia, Uruguay. I welcome the chance to slow down from the hectic pace of BA, and relax in the history of the old town. It seems no matter where you go in South America you are never too far from a cobbled street or two.
After a mini fiasco getting out of BA, the main problem being a roto (“broken”) boat, I end up with another stray boy under my wing – London policeman Fran(cis). We arrive just after lunchtime, a pleasant 50 minute trip across, and I decide that a beer and a sleep is about all I can manage for the afternoon. The impossible cheap 1L bottle of Stella goes down nicely and when I finally awake a few hours later, the sun is starting to set and my dinner belly is switched on.
I manage to get in a few pictures of the wobbly streets before the light colours everything dusky pink and renders my tripod-less camera null, and we end up at “El Drugstore” for a hearty pan of paella and a Sangria (are we in Spain or what?). We chew the fat for a while over the impossibly large dish before I let Clint Eastwood’s latest film send me to bed.
The next morning I realise that there is a whole other part to this town, beyond the uneven stones, and that I am going to have to get my act into gear if I want to make it all before my afternoon bus to Montevideo. I walk back through the Old Town – this time with all museums and places of interest open - past all the vintage cars are permanently parked in the streets, under the shade of the leafy greens, and finally make it on a bus to the abandoned bull ring.
With no traffic lights in sight, transport here is a mixture of golf buggies, motorised bikes, scooters, fiat 500s and the occasional tour bus, and despite most of the surrounding streets full of pousadas and hostels – did someone say tourism? – the vibe is so relaxed. Quaint street benches, with their geometric tiled seats, wait patiently by the side of the road. The shops have an eclectic charm – part old-world, part-boudoir – with cow hides climbing out of every corner. The only thing that perplexes me is a disproportionate amount of older men on holidays with their young bejewelled partners. Perhaps it is the lure of secrecy that a place like this, where half its streets don’t register on the map, offers?
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2 comments:
Must be a bit confusing:
where half its streets don’t register on the map,
They seem a bit half-hearted in their commitment to tourists - not a bad thing in keeping the atmosphere perhaps.
Yes, it is a little frustrating...but it seems to be a prevalent attitude here - if you don't know it already, then there is probably a reason. (ie. you are not from here, so why should you need to know?)
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