A series of September homecomings

10/8/2024

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This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

“When I stepped into your apartment in Maldonado, it felt like coming home from college. I could finally relax and be completely myself.”

Ryan’s hair is lightly dripping from a hot shower. Her computer sits on the TV stand in my living room, paused on the opening credits of a Ted Lasso season finale. The lamplight casts a warm glow on her smiling face. There is no tension in her smile lines that crinkle next to her eyes. Instead, her face is soft behind her tortoise shell glasses frames. She is relaxed, rejuvenated by the waterfall shower and the relief of speaking her native language with a good friend.

She leans back on the soft white cushions, legs extended. Her hands cuddle her tea cup. She closes her eyes, relishing the quiet of my apartment and the elegance of the marble countertops in my kitchen. I understand her bliss. Here, she can come home to English conversations, Ted Lasso episodes, and heavy breakfasts with addictive jam and curry hummus. Her barricade of self-expression is alleviated.

I invite her to optimize my apartment’s sanctuary. We take turns cooking breakfast, doing the dishes, and sipping coffee while gossiping about our busy social lives. On the first evening of our sleepover, Ryan and I snuggle on the couch with our hot apple-mango tea. We laugh effortlessly over Ted Lasso jokes and sigh in collective closure, “Ah, such a good episode!”

We decide to go to bed early because we can. Leaning against the pillows, we sit in silence for thirty minutes before turning off my nightstand light. The only noise is my pen scribbling against my journal paper. Next to me, Ryan fluidly types on her phone, occasionally stopping to tuck a strangling ringlet of her red curly hair behind her ear. She is more diligent at journaling than me. I miss my fair share of entries, but Ryan? She hasn’t missed a day since last November. After some time, she puts down her phone and lies on her side, facing away from me.

I lift my pen from the paper. I must pause to feel the peace of sharing space with Ryan. She doesn’t realize that I came home in her tight embrace in the Maldonado bus terminal. Her visit offered a sweet serving of mutual homecoming, with a cherry on top.

I am extremely privileged to receive and be given the gift of coming home in the presence of friends.
In September, I relived the sentiment of college homecomings in all three of my Uruguayan homes.

homecoming traditions between Minnesota and Uruguay

Left: apple orchard tradition with Alicia. Right: breakfast tradition with Flor in La Paloma

It’s hard to believe that the fall colors are reaching their peak back home in Minnesota. Meanwhile, I am starting to tan from all the time in the warm sun by the beach of summer vacationers’ dreams.

Shorts season is just beginning in Maldonado as Minnesotans pull their warmer layers out of storage. Spring flowers in bright whites, sunset oranges, and fluorescent pinks shimmer under an unwavering blue sky. They contrast the earthy tones of pumpkin oranges, Honeycrisp apple reds, cinnamon and cardamom browns that I associate with the change of Minnesota season and tradition. The transition from State Fair to apple picking. From Fourth-of-July potlucks and lake weekends to friend-group reunions carving pumpkins, baking butternut squash with maple syrup, decorating cookies, and setting up Halloween decorations. Sabrina Carpenter and Chappel Roan summer evolves into autumnal movies and TV shows: Over the Garden Wall, When Harry Met Sally, and Gilmore Girls.

Bean and Bear Lake in Beaver Bay, Minnesota

I miss home and its breathtaking bluff vistas more than ever. There will be no trick-or-treating this year, no hikes Bean and Bear Lake and Tettegouche State Park. There will not be an annual trek to Pine Tree Apple Orchard with Alicia where we choose the heaviest pumpkins in the patch to lug home in our Subarus. There will be no in-person birthday celebrations for my two found sisters: two more milestones I will sacrifice.

My life changed after my first asado, my first mate on the beach, my first Uruguayan night out until 6:00 am. I nurtured new traditions in Uruguay and within my dispersed communities. I cherish the tradition of Saturday night bowling and pool with my UTU friends. I ache to return to La Paloma on Wednesday evenings. Flor awaits me to continue our tradition of watching Gilmore Girls while eating frozen salchichón and Margherita pizza on my makeshift sofa bed. Valentina and I pounce on any excuse to return to la Curandería, a hippy vegetarian restaurant in Maldonado. We wonder which music group we’ll listen to next on their live music sound stage illuminated only by twinkle lights. It never disappoints – the food, the wine, or the music. We always share the sizzling provolone with sun-dried tomatoes and peanuts. It is our tradition. It is unbreakable. It is predictable.

Minnesota weather is reliably unpredictable. However, I know that autumn will return due to its cyclical schedule. Missing one season of predictable comforts for a season of unexpected new traditions is worth it. Each night out, night in, serving of mate, and breakfast conversation on my balcony is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. When in Minnesota, I never thought to document my traditions in my journal. They were always going to return to be experienced the next year. Here, however, I filled four pages in my journal each September day. I didn’t want to forget anything. I memorialized everything. Each repetition of a tradition could very well be the last one.

. . .

Sharing mate with Valentina in Punta del Este

I am still learning the delicate rules of mate: how to prepare it, how to serve it, how to pass it, how to receive it. Thankfully, I still have two months to learn the rules. Two more months to nurture traditions. When I return home, I will show my loved ones what I learned. I will show them the peace in coexistence that mate inspires. I will warn them against burning their lips against the hot metal bombilla. I will teach them the patience required at each step. I will demonstrate the gentle cradling of the yerba to create a little mountain, a montañita. I will share a tradition that was shared generously with me. Perhaps I’ll carry my packed matera on a hike? An offering of a mate is an invitation to tranquility. It is a bitter (and sometimes sweet with added sugar or orange peel) taste of Uruguay.

A Montevideo homecoming

Ryan and me in the Plaza de Independencia in front of Palacio Salvo

Ryan and I decided to stay in Uruguay for spring break. Yes, spring break occurs in September, not March (for the Minnesotans). Most teacher training centers get the week off while liceo (public high school) and primary gets only a few days off. Ultimately, we chose to reconnect with each other and our community. We chose to rest with our chosen family. For three days, we shared countless memories over stimulating food (recommended by Mandy, our local Montevideo expert) and music.

We made time for (almost) everyone in our ever expanding social circles. From Alex, a waiter at our favorite restaurant, Atorrante, to George, the Scottish bartender at an English theater-basement pub. I even met some new friends! The potential of serendipity is limitless.

Whenever I return to Montevideo, I slip back into routine. Therefore, I am home. I navigate the bus system, the menus of my favorite cafes, and the path to Palacio Salvo with muscle memory. The daily hum of people flowing to and from work energizes me like the buzzing glow of a neon “Open” sign. The birdsong in the Sycamore trees is the soundtrack of a new spring day.

The streets smell like rain, fried masa, and yes, garbage. I won’t sugarcoat Montevideo too much. Just a spoonful of sugar will do. It was my home for three months, after all. And it is dirty. Litter is as omnipresent as pigeons or the local reddish brown hornero birds that make their homes in street lights. The sidewalks are as cracked and overlapped as tectonic plates. But the aromas of fresh-baked empanadas, focaccia bread, homemade pesto pasta, merienda scones with jam, and scrambled eggs at brunch are the sensory siren songs that coax me back to the port.

September spring break in Montevideo was another homecoming. Familiarity greeted me with the smiles on my friends' faces. Time took its time, as it does in Uruguay. Instead of being measured in hours, it was measured in change of topic or location. I lost count of the number of times friends and I joked, “How did we get here?” in conversation. We got lost together in the intoxicating atmosphere of reunion. Don’t ask me how long the meals or meriendas lasted. I couldn’t tell you. I was too preoccupied with the topic of togetherness to check the time.

Cooking spritz Christmas cookies on a winter break trip home from college (2022)

When coming home while I was in college, I looked forward to being cared for by my parents. For a few blissful days, I was more careless about chores. My dad cooked steaming plates of fried eggs and pesto pasta for me. My mom and I snuggled on the coach to watch Gilmore Girls while dunking a shared package of graham crackers in milk as an afternoon snack. Precious traditions were practiced with delicate attention. Sometimes, we would quietly sit in the living room in our designated spots: Dad on the blue armchair across from the TV, Mom on the left of the white sofa, and me lying down next to her, my head on her thigh.

Dad would watch Jeopardy. Mom would work on another photo-book project. I would read my latest library book — a memoir or murder mystery, most likely. This quiet coexistence was an escape from the demanding course schedule and endless assignments that awaited me on the shore of Lake Superior.

When coming home in Montevideo, I looked forward to being cared for by my chosen family. For a few sunny, peaceful days, I abandoned my blue-bound planner. On Thursday night, Mandy (a friend from my Monteivdeo swing dance class) took the reins by ordering for the table: hummus and roasted potatoes appetizers and shared boñiato (sweet potato) and leek main dishes. Ryan and I trust Mandy’s judgment with our lives, especially when it comes to food.

Under the orange glow of the restaurant, the vegetarian dishes shimmered with olive oil and speckled with spices. Ryan used the last piece of homemade bread to clean the plates of leftover sauce. Every bit counted and had to be cherished.

Ryan loves her food as she loves her people: with a full heart that always circles back for seconds. That explains why she stayed in her old Parque Rodó apartment. Her former Airbnb host, Susie, is a character, simply put. No written description will do her justice. She is a chatty onion of knowledge, stories, and slang with infinite layers. There is always something Susie has to tell you, to teach you, to ask you.

Ryan’s vivacity is perfectly matched in Susie. Every evening I spend in Susie’s apartment is a comedic musical paired with the perfect Chilean red wine. The playlist of Saturday’s visit included James Taylor, Carole King, and Susie’s rock idols.

George of the Montevideo Players

Saturday evening was a storybook of my favorite Montevideo characters: Susie, George, and Raquel. You haven’t officially met George and Raquel, so I will provide the backstory as you do with new characters. This enchanting international couple resides in the basement bar of an English theater house. The Montevideo Players hosts three to four English annual plays with amateur actors worldwide. George is a born and bred Scotsman who met his Uruguayan wife, Raquel in Argentina. George, like Susie, is an equally charming onion with layers I peeled back on the reencuentro (re-encounter). Raquel, or “she who must be obeyed,” according to George, is the bar manager.

They are an unserious couple. George’s baritone Scottish accent and Raquel’s playful eye-roll are bewitching. They are natural comedians and storytellers. I turn down their frequent offers of a pint of beer or an alfajor, the bar’s two specials. George’s tales about his stint as an Antarctic shipping worker are my bedtime stories before ordering a taxi home at midnight.

Sunday was a partly sunny serendipitous series of encounters. In the morning, I strolled 18 de Julio, Montevideo’s shopping street, to rendezvous with Mirtha at Palacio Salvo. My friendship with Mirtha is honestly unbelievable. It is a precious rare pearl of coincidence. O sea, serendipity. To understand, I must tell our story.

A photo of Mirtha and I recognizing each other on our first reencuentro (re-encounter)

I met Mirtha in July on a private city tour of Montevideo with my parents. She was our guide, and over three hours, we glided together around, inside, and below touristy must-sees (e.g. Plaza de Independencia) and hidden gems (e.g. Palacio Taranco). She was captivating, elegant, poised. An invisible string was tied between our winter coat cuffs that day. And it would be tugged twice more.

The first time occurred three weeks later in Colonia. Mirtha was the guide on a walking tour with my high school Spanish teachers. Someone snapped a photo of our simultaneous recognition of the other. Six days later, we found each other in Montevideo during the Fulbright Regional Enhancement Seminar. Mirtha was one of two tour guides on a walking city tour. Simply unbelievable. Our surprise from these two reencuentros (re-encounters) became disbelief that we still laugh over today.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Mirtha shrugs in resignation. She takes a sip from her cortadito, no bigger than a shot of espresso. We are sitting across from each other at a table surrounded by people in business wear. Mirtha chose the Palacio Salvo café because the Uruguayan president sometimes eats there. (Or at least that’s why I think she chose it. She is another mystery onion.)

But on Sunday, I tugged the invisible string. I organized a reencuentro because indeed, everything happens for a reason. Mirtha was destined to be in my life, and me in hers. We are tied by curiosity, shared language, and a passion for discovery. “I want to discover something with you,” she hints after we finish licking medialuna sugar syrup from our fingers. Mirtha always has a twinkle in her eye. She always has a hidden agenda. When revealed, it becomes an unforgettable adventure.

But of course, there is never enough time to stay home before returning to reality.

. . .

(from left) Nico, Naty's husband; Juan Pablo; and Mono preparing the parrilla

An asado is a family affair. At the end of September, I hosted my first asado with my found Uruguayan family from Montevideo and Maldonado. My UTU friends and family; Naty, my former mentor in Montevideo; and Valentina, my Maldonado mentor came together to sing, dance, and cook under the parrillero roof. A neighborly opossum emerged from behind the chimney. It curiously observed me, Jose, and Luciana as we set one of the two long tables.

The men — Mono, Nico, and Juan — left to buy supplies. The other women and I brought plates, glasses, cutlery, and cutting boards from my apartment. We made several trips up and down the jumpy elevator. They graciously removed their shoes outside my door — a small yet significant sign of mutual cultural respect.

An asado is an invitation to convivencia. Together, family relaxes, releasing themselves in warm hugs, bottomless food pulled straight from the grill, and full glasses of Patricia beer or Tannat wine. Of course, there is always a termo and mate lying around. In an asado, everyone has a role. Typically, the men and host cook the food in the crackling fire in the parrilla, or grill. The women and children are the first to indulge in the fresh servings of chorizo, morrón relleno (stuffed red peppers with egg), provolone, and asado (different cuts of meat). They pop open the charged liter Coke-Cola bottles. The sizzling of caramel-colored carbonation on the first pour joins the hissing choir of potatoes and squash baking in aluminum foil.

An asado delicately weaves work and play together as beautifully as a handmade wicker basket. Worries from the classroom are whisked away in the chimney smoke. Any remaining anxiety or self-criticism over the Springlish conference and reflective writing presentation are abandoned. I leave the competing feeling of pride from my successful presentation on reflective writing on my doormat. The parrillero is a shelter. It is a sanctuary under which we focus on what is most important: nurturing ourselves and each other under the moonlight.

An asado is a homecoming. And that late September night, the homecoming came to me in Maldonado. Uruguayan and U.S. cultures intertwined through song under the parrillero. Taylor Swift, Pimpinela, ABBA, Los Enanitos Verdes, Carole King, la Pericon, and Britney Spears echoed across the courtyard of my apartment complex. Naty knew all the words to every song. And of course, she added her own choreography. She coaxed the men to dance the Pericon with her. The women laughed at their clumsiness.

Uruguayans know how to party through exhaustion. They live to aprovechar la convivencia (take advantage of togetherness). And they will always come running at the invitation of an asado. For the next two months, I will run into their arms for another embrace, another reencuentro. Because who knows when the last one will be?

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