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It is not easy to get to Punta del Este, if the trip is undertaken from Miami. It should operate a direct flight: there is not. Not being able to fly directly to Punta del Este, there should be at least one daily flight, non-stop, to Montevideo: there is not most of the year, it is only offered seasonally, during the Uruguayan summer, and already being March, that daily flight from Miami to Montevideo was about to be suspended. That’s why we decided to book one of the last direct flights and visit Montevideo, Punta del Este and José Ignacio. When I write “we decide”, I mean my wife, who is the boss, our youngest daughter, who is the histrionic boss, and I, who am the subject, the happy servant.
It was no surprise that, flying on American Airlines, the flight was delayed an hour, two hours, three hours.
In the case of that airline, it was to be assumed. My daughter admonished me for choosing that disastrous and unpunctual airline: I explained to her that no other would take us non-stop to Montevideo. At that moment, waiting to board, not knowing what time the aircraft would finally take off, one questions the trip, one questions everything: what am I doing here, in this tumultuous airport, in the midst of this swarm of impatient, sulking people? Why do I need to go to the Uruguayan beaches, if I live five minutes from some beautiful beaches? Haven’t I learned yet that, when I travel, I am a hostage of the airline, because I give it my freedom? Shouldn’t you know that every trip involves unexpected pitfalls, last minute problems, obstacles, annoyances, mortifications and discomforts? Why am I so stubborn and still associate traveling with being happy? Could it be that happiness consists in staying at home? It was too late to question everything: we were already hostages of the airline.
The flight left with a delay of three hours. My wife and our daughter gave themselves to the dream of the righteous. I contented myself with seeing four films: an English millionaire who is ill and decides to die in Acapulco; an English chef bursting with stress; a Spanish industrialist who tries to solve the problems of his employees and gets into big trouble; and one of spies. The best, by far, the Spanish one, ‘El Buen Patron’, a marvel, a work of art: when I finished seeing it, I not only smiled, ecstatic, but thought that now, finally, that trip was beginning to make sense. Art has that healing quality: it allows you to evade the flat, thick, gray reality and lifts you to a better place. Only art will save you from misery.
I hadn’t slept a minute when we got to Montevideo. The airport, compared to Miami, New York, Madrid, Buenos Aires, was a paradise: all clean, tidy and depopulated of travelers; all easy, fast and friendly. I thought: how I like this country, I understand so much the Argentines who come to live here. We took a taxi to the Sofitel hotel, the old casino, and on the way, one bright morning, I felt in Europe. A young Argentine manager greeted us at the hotel with the proverbial Uruguayan friendliness. Half an hour later, exhausted but happy, exhausted but satisfied, I fell into a morbid, restorative sleep. I woke up at the end of the afternoon, ordered juices and fruits and went back to sleep. I was woken up at one in the afternoon the next day, Sunday: I had slept an obscene number of hours, so many that my wife thought she would never wake up, and I was ready to drive to Punta del Este in the van that was brought to the hotel. .
One of the great, priceless advantages of being married is that my wife always guides me, tells me where to go and where not to go. I’m at the helm, but she dictates the route. It was a splendid journey, barely an hour and a half long, orderly traffic, two toll booths where dollar bills were accepted, bucolic views of green fields with cows, horses, and sheep. Again, I felt in Europe. I thought: what a wonderful and noble country Uruguay is, I could spend time here, it only bothers me that there are no direct flights to Miami all year round.
In Punta del Este, we were received with great outpourings of affection and consideration in a French-style hotel, L’Auberge, in the neighborhood near the golf club, the one with the old and stately homes, whose staff turned to serve us with the already legendary kindness that the Uruguayan extends to the good stranger: the rooms were spacious and decorated with beautiful pieces of art; the hotel gardens offered the shadows of ancient trees that will outlive us; the pool was cold but one could cool off in it; and the food was exquisite, exceeded our expectations. We celebrate having chosen that hotel, and not others, more modern and avant-garde, such as the Vik in José Ignacio or the Fasano. Everyone at the L’Auberge hotel (its owner Ignacio, his receptionists Ana and Zoe, his clerk Hugo, his assistants Ignacio, Tomás and Fernando, his cooks and waitresses) made us feel at home, to the point that, when we left, some days later, we made the reservation for March of next year: for those looking for a boutique hotel with excellent services and a splendid restaurant, this seems highly recommended.
The beach near the hotel, however, was cold, windy and rough, so rough that my wife forbade us to go into that rough, rough sea, knowing that we would lose ground a few steps into it. That afternoon, like the following afternoon, we drove to the beach, since it was not so close to the hotel to walk, and we were very disappointed: it was no longer summer, suddenly it was autumn; there was an icy wind blowing that made the sand zigzag in an unsettling, slightly terrifying way; the sea was very rough and there were no lifeguards; and the lonely car attendant, a man nicknamed El Canario, advised us not to swim in the sea, because it was cold and dangerous. Saving that disappointment, we hurried back to the hotel, not without El Canario telling us:
-See that new building, the Aqua? Zidane has bought the top floor. Zidane, the Frenchman, the coach, that one. He has paid twenty million dollars for the top floor of the Acqua.
It could be true, it could not be true, but I was glad that El Canario dropped that piece of information.
After two icy days on that high-risk beach, we decided to drive to Punta del Este’s calm beach, following the advice of our hotel friends. We could not visit Uruguay at the end of the summer, without going into the sea. I had spent other summers in that beautiful country, but only in José Ignacio, half an hour north of Punta del Este. We parked in front of the old Conrad casino hotel, now called the Enjoy, the kind of noisy hotel I prefer to avoid, and headed into the cold but tolerable, waveless, gentle sea of the gentle beach, which lived up to its name. When I write “we got involved”, I mean our daughter and I: my wife kept looking at us, taking pictures of us: she is a curiously talented photographer. Although the beach was not dazzling, we took a swim in the sea and it was a happy afternoon.
Even happier was the afternoon we drove to the farm or farmhouse of some Argentine friends, Alejandro and Marcela, in La Barra, fifteen minutes from our hotel. Alejandro was in Miami, but Marcela, her friend Loli, an artist, and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Isabel, showered us with attention: banana and orange cakes, cheese breads, coffees and teas, all a delight, while we They asked to share the food with them some big and affectionate dogs, especially a bitch, Vanilla, cunning to lick my hands, win my affection and, incidentally, eat from my hand. Why did Alejandro and Marcela leave Buenos Aires? Because they got tired of being robbed by thieves and politicians too. Why did Loli, the artist, leave? The same thing: she got fed up with insecurity, with living in a country without direction. Now, in La Barra, Punta del Este, they are happy, they feel safe, they have not had a single incident with thieves.
Perhaps the most wonderful moment of the trip was driving to José Ignacio for half an hour, parking next to La Susana restaurant, which was closed, walking a few meters to the beach, sinking our chairs into the sand and enjoying that gentle beach, of sea clean with friendly waves, was empty, completely empty, a blessed Wednesday in March. I had bathed in the wild beach of José Ignacio on other visits, and I had tried the seas of La Paloma and La Pedrera in the carnivals of February, but that little beach of José Ignacio, very close to one of the Vik hotels, It seemed like paradise, and we spent an afternoon of supreme happiness there, in a clean and kind sea that you could trust, a sea that seemed to express well what Uruguayans are with those who visit them.
At the rather emphatic request of my wife, the last afternoon we went to the port of Punta del Este, to a restaurant that Marcela, Loli and Isabel had recommended us, the Virazón, a musical word that I did not know (“wind that blows from the coast on the coasts”). part of the sea during the day”). My wife wanted to see the sunset, take photos, and that point of view seemed convenient. We waited an hour, until 6:47 p.m., but at 6:40 p.m. the sun hid behind some clouds and chance hid the sunset that my wife wanted to see. Before we left, a Uruguayan passer-by recognized me, told me he was a genius, and took a photo with me. If I’m a genius, the world is screwed, I told him.
The next day, back in Montevideo, the Sofitel Casino was overflowing with passionate Peruvians, dressed in the jersey of the Peruvian soccer team, who were preparing to go out to the stadium to watch the game against Uruguay. Being there, couldn’t we go to the stadium and travel to Miami the next day? No: it was a Thursday and that night the last direct flight of the season to Miami departed. If we stayed one more day, we would have to fly to Miami changing planes in Buenos Aires or Sao Paulo: no way. When the plane was about to take off, there was an explosion of euphoria, shouts, and applause among the passengers: Uruguay had scored a goal. Almost better not to be in the stadium, I thought. Then I set out to watch four movies.
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