Moxie

Like any nice tourist from small town America, I arranged pick-up at the airport one week prior to my arrival in Montevideo.  Had it been ten years earlier, perhaps I would have tossed this comfort aside, saved the $35 for beer, and stubbornly taken the bus from the airport into town.  Emboldened with the self-righteousness of youth, this younger version of myself would trek through crowded streets, hauling ninety pounds of luggage, sweat dripping down her back, to some unknown destination.  The thought exhausts me.  Ten years begin to show themselves in ways such as this, and on the day I moved from South Carolina to Uruguay, I enjoyed the small assurance that Eduardo would be waiting for me in front of San Roque drugstore holding a banner with my name.

Eduardo Santos Pasek, co-owner of the hostel UnaNocheMas with his wife, Carla, welcomed me to Montevideo with unabashed friendliness.  "We'll take the scenic route, next to the ocean."  Some cities take time to grow on you, but this small metropolis met me with the same candid warmth that Eduardo did.  Our route followed the edge of the ocean, with only the beach and la rambla separating us from the water.  Mothers pushing baby carriages, runners out for a jog, families taking an after dinner stroll, friends meeting friends--the water-front parks invited life.

Eduardo compared Montevideo to Buenos Aires, a comparison that would be repeated a number of times, by cab drivers among others.  "Buenos Aires has ten million people, and Montevideo has one million.  Montevideo es mas tranquila."  The tranquila way of life sat well with me, and over the next five days, the city that met me so warmly became a new friend.

At the hostel, I met a man and woman from Colorado, a very caring couple in their fifties.  The man spoke to me only in Spanish and recommended that I do the same.  I stumbled over words, forgot verbs, but slowly began to communicate with them.  When the man left the room, the woman and I sneakily reverted back to English and spoke freely with relief.  When the man returned, we shamefully switched back to Spanish, and the depth of our ideas lessoned with the limits of our vocabulary.  "Solamente espanol.  Si quieres aprender...solamente espanol."  The man spoke slowly and clearly, and with each new phrase that I understood, I gained confidence.  He was right, of course, but she and I would take our cultural immersion as we would a five course dinner, with English breaks to clear the palette, please.

The hostel was walking distance from the ocean, but nearly everything in Montevideo is.  I bought a cell with a local number, visited Ciudad Vieja, el Centro, Pocitos, and wrote in my journal, "So far, I like Montevideo very much.  I'll like it more when I find the salsa."  And Friday night, I did. 

Carla, the mother of UnaNocheMas, called a cab for me at 10:30pm, gave me her cell number, and walked me to the street.  When the cab arrived, she kissed my cheek, raised her plump arm in the air, shook her petit body back and forth, and exclaimed, "Baila!  Baila!  Baila," laughing cheerfully as she walked away.  The cab driver took me into the night, telling me stories of dancing in his youth, his thirty year long marriage, and his love for his children. When we arrived at La Bodeguita, it was was closed.  "It opens at midnight," the store vendor explained to us.  Midnight!  "Midnight to 6am."  The cab driver agreed to return and pick me up at 12:15, and I returned to my room to watch "Wristcutters: A Love Story" on my iPod Touch.

I was relieved to find that the wait was vale la pena.  Montevideo has salseros! ...dancers who can engage me and challenge me.  Wherever you go in the world, there is a salsa crowd, and usually that crowd is inviting, fun, diverse, and intelligent.  I didn't dance until 6am, but was pleased to know that I had the option...four nights per week.

I met Leonel, an Uruguayan pilot in the airforce who had lived in the U.S., Europe, South America, etc. and had fallen in love with a type of Brazilian dance.  In Montevideo, he found that salsa was the closest thing danced locally and began to apply himself to learning and performing salsa.  The next day, we had dinner in a restaurant, discussed religion, and visited the other salsa club.

On Sunday, I attended the weekly ex-pat meeting, where I ate one quarter of the largest salad I've ever been served, made with radishes, olives, and eggs among other strange and various vegetables, and chatted with some Brits and Americans. 

Afterwards, I went to the Mission House to leave one suitcase in Julia's care.  There, I met Fio, a chummy twenty-four year old who welcomed me with conviction.  She insisted on sitting with me for an hour while I waited for my ferry to Buenos Aires, served me cold Coke in a small cup, and introduced me to her brother and sister.  When we were alone again, she lowered her voice to an almost whisper, and asked, her eyes beaming, as if it were a secret passed between two best friends, "Cuando acepto a Cristo?" 

A friend wrote to me recently to commend my moxie for moving to South America.  I'm not as hip as he is, so I had to look the word up in the urban dictionary.  It's slang for "courage, nerve, gumption."  The move itself took a lot of gumption.  In the weeks and months leading up to it, the details of planning the trip, quitting my job, finding a foster home for my dog, renting my house, packing my life into two suitcases, packing all of my other personal belongings into boxes, moving my antique furniture to my parents' house, saying goodbye to my friends, etc....in these details, my courage was tested, and at times, I was overwhelmed. 

But as I walked along la rambla one bright afternoon, with the ocean breeze in my hair and the sun on my back, I realized that it had all melted away.  At ease in this city by the sea, I hoped for the courage to meet the challenges that would come with as much spirit, conviction, and graciousness as this city had shown me.