My pop-up memory book of Fray Bentos

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Disclaimer
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.

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I observe the rolling green countryside on a cross-country road trip to Fray Bentos: a small city on the western border near the Uruguay River. I notice the pumpkin-orange curtains hanging from the COT bus windows. The shadows that play in their folds become a Jack-o-lantern face. I see two large squares above a curved mouth when the steady October sun penetrates the cinched fabric. The face disappears all too soon with the shifting wind and road. Spring is in full swing.

I queue Taylor Swift’s Red, a quintessential autumnal album, as the bus passes manicured fields of dandelion yellow. The landscape reminds me of the sweet-corn yellow pastures back home. Memories of corn mazes, corn on the cob dripping with spray butter and pepper, and Dad spraying our dandelion-littered front lawn with weed killer every time he mowed the grass. 
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I write metaphorical bridges between the unfamiliar and nostalgia. However, I cannot build bridges for every unfamiliar thing I encounter. Novelty is beautifully incomparable by nature. And my visit to Fray Bentos was one-of-a-kind. 
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Ryan, a fellow ETA and Fulbrighter, moved to Fray Bentos just days before my move to Maldonado. We both moved to the “interior” of Uruguay. However, Ryan’s tranquil campo (rural) lifestyle by the river severely contrasted with my beachside lifestyle in a mini-metropolis. From the quiet refuge of my one-bedroom apartment, I listened to Ryan recount the latest updates about her five roommates living in a student residence. Belén, Selina, Lucas, and the two Vitos became important figures in our regular check-in video calls. They were the main characters featured in Ryan’s dramatic — and sometimes scandalous — stories of residence life. 

I became more eager to visit with each video call. I wanted to meet Selina and see how fast she really speaks in Spanish. I hoped to observe Belén’s motherly presence in the kitchen where Selina set up a blind date for her dog, Bella. Moreover, I ached to visualize Ryan’s daily life in Fray Bentos in three dimensions. I wanted to understand her campo life so that on the next video call, I could open my memory like a pop-up book. I could trace my finger down the main 18 de Julio street to all the landmarks featured in our conversations. Ryan’s favorite panadería, her gym, and the el Dorado grocery store would materialize before my eyes.

The buzzing anticipation I felt on the bus ride to Fray Bentos was as invigorating as any homecoming. My heartbeat quickened as the quaint brick-and-mortar houses etched closer in the lime-green fields. Looking at the disassociated faces of sheep and cattle, I wondered if Ryan’s heart skipped too when she first entered the capital of Río Negro. I smiled at elderly people sitting in flimsy plastic chairs on their shaded front porches. I was charmed by the small-town welcome committee. 

I saw Ryan’s trademark enchanting smile through the glass doors of the bus terminal. She had waited inside to surprise me with cinnamon rolls and a baguette from Panchetto, the panadería. I think I squealed in disbelief. Our reunion was a blur of emotions, really. 

The kitchen table at her residence was a sacred gathering place. Across the table and in front of the windows, Belén and one of the Vitos sat in summer clothes. The hot spring sun jumped off the bright seafoam green cupboards, but the kitchen sheltered us from the worst. Bella sat at my feet under the wooden table, occasionally bopping my hand with her wet nose for a belly rub. Ryan started slicing the baguette and cinnamon roll on the plastic tablecloth patterned with coffee-brown, white, and dirty-blonde yellow. 

Eventually, Lucas joined us for mango tea to accompany the salty-and-sweet merienda. The food and tea kept my hands busy. I listened attentively to the roommates spill their stories in their thick campo accents. Vitto moved to stand behind Belén to straighten her thick hair for a three-day birthday party out of town. The image of Vitto precisely separating Belén’s hair as Belén laughs at one of Lucas’s jokes materializes every time I recall my kitchen initiation. Our conversation continued until Belén’s hair was stick straight. 

The pace picked up when the sun set. The roommates scrambled to organize their duffle bags, which were packed with an unnecessary number of outfit changes. When they left, Ryan and I contaminated the pure, humid air with English conversations.

Uruguayans clap in gratitude when the sun sets. Sunsets are, after all, the ideal setting for new memories. The sunset on the second day beckoned me, Ryan, and her mentors out of our kitchen-table sanctuaries. Ryan and I didn’t change out of our baggy t-shirt pajamas until the sky was tinted with cotton candy pinks and creamsicle oranges. 

That afternoon, I learned how to have a lot of fun with very little. In Fray Bentos, external entertainment is scarce. The perfect campo outing is defined by a long directionless car ride followed by mate at sunset. Ryan’s mentors, Carla and Rossana, invited us to coast along the tranquil Uruguay River shoreline in Carla’s Volkswagen. We rolled down the windows and watched city landmarks pass by. Rossana shared passionate back-seat anecdotes about her hometown. The beautiful dilapidated UNESCO World Heritage meat packing plant loomed over the riverside walking path where Ryan and I strolled the night before, bottles of orange-peach Salus water cooling our warm hands. 

Looking out the backseat window, I flipped the page on my pop-up book to make room for a new chapter of mental souvenirs. Purple flower-studded hills welcomed our group to Las Cañas. This white-sand beach locality is located eight kilometers out of the main city, over the bridge where the livestock and stream anglers coincide. Eventually, Carla parked the car and we settled on a cement bench that marked the divide between grass and sand. Casual magic sparkled everywhere. 

The magic reflected off Rossana’s bombilla as she passed her mate around our makeshift circle. It smelled of fresh lemon grass — Rossana’s special touch. My martin fierro croissant from Panchetto oozed with an elixir of melted cheese and red jam. The golden sun broke through low-hanging tree branches on the beach's border. Ryan’s flyaway curls became a blazing halo in the fractured light. 

Finally, the magic glowed in the curious eyes of a five-year-old girl playing on the beach. Ryan and I were instantly charmed by her laugh and mature storytelling about the origin of her name. We were swept up by sandcastles and imaginary play at twilight. When it grew too dark to play at the water’s edge, she introduced us to her family who were gathered up the beach on lawn chairs. She used her step-father’s photography light stick to tell scary stories and lead a cumbia dance party. She buried our feet in the sand to procrastinate the inevitable goodbyes.  

Ryan was my bridge between the unfamiliarity and nostalgia in Fray Bentos. She was a steady presence as we flitted between old and new. I felt safe in the sanctuary of American breakfasts that burdened the kitchen table. Through mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and toast soaked in jam, we confessed fears and feelings of impending endings. As the coffee turned cold, we shared stories of roommates' past and daydreamed of future reunions in our respective hometowns. 

People are my vessels to connect with unfamiliar destinations. An immediate intimacy is cultivated because I see strange streets through the eyes of a friend. Sharing a weekend in Ryan’s life was one of the greatest gifts and lessons I have received in my seven months in Uruguay. I practiced her traditions, I met her people, and I followed her go-with-the-flow routines. On that humid campo weekend, Ryan welcomed me home through the comfort of banana-pancake breakfasts. She held my hand through the novelty of quick-witted, fast-paced Spanish conversations with Vitto and Belén at the sacred kitchen table. On the bus ride home to Maldonado, I closed my eyes and flipped through my pop-up memory book of Fray Bentos. 

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El camino es la recompensa. The way is the reward.