Emily is nuts

Spending a week in Uruguay is a lot like going to Duluth in summertime for the average middle class Argentine. It doesn't take much energy or money, but unlike Duluth it makes you forget where you are. Our last night in Punta del Este (the beach) we did not have a hostel to stay in and all were full to the point of people laughing at us trying to find a room on this holiday weekend. We decided the best thing to do at this point is not to try to find a hostel, but to try and find a great place that serves a cold beer until 6am, the very time at which we planned to be on the bus to try and make it to Colonia for the last few hours of our trip.

So we spent as much time on the beach until we just about wanted to spit at the ocean and walked back to the hostel at which we were no longer welcome to stay the night. They had an asado* planned for that evening so we wheeled, dealed and while they cooked the side of beef we watched Pride and Prejudice. We ate ALL the steak and sausage we could, gulped down the pitcher of wine, strapped on our backpacks at around 1am and started down the highway. We were truely unaware of the location of the literal 'middle-of-nowhere' hostel until we had walked about a mile without any luck of a passing bus, bus stop or taxi. Finally, half-joking I started to "hacer el dedo" and eventually, a pickup stopped, two questionable characters in the front followed by their two pals on motorcycles asked where we were headed. "La Terminal de Omnibus"... "dale, sube."

Piled in the back of the little pickup, the hippie-like chicos in the front blasted some good Orishas and I leaned through the open window in the back and asked if they were up to no good tonight. They said "si" and I followed with a request to join them.

We ended up dropping our luggage at a questionable looking hotel and stopping a few blocks away from Moby Dick - our destination for the evening (morning) and we hung out on the docks rolling cigarettes and chatting - me about my grandad who used to roll his own in the tool shed.

We showed up at Moby Dick, I ordered my usual, and we went in to dance to the bad American tunes the cool clubs always put on.... until 5:30.

We then asked the bartender where the terminal was located and began the 10-block journey on foot towards the sketchy hotel to pick up our backpacks... if they were still there. On the way there, the two blokes on the motorcycles pulled up and the three (count 'em, 3) of us hopped on the back to accept the offered lift. After a few wrong turns we made it to the hotel, thankfully the packs were there and we strolled across the street to the terminal and grabbed the first ride out... As I am writing this and all the above occurences are long past, I will lightly justify my lunacy with "I'm still alive, right?"