The school cafeteria in the primary school in La Pedrera, Uruguay
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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. The last week of August was my first “normal” week in Maldonado. The bright blue sky and newly familiar coastline welcomed me back after a long weekend in Montevideo. Glancing out the hazy bus window, the reflective waves of Punta Ballena winked under the glowing sun. “Keep your chin up, kid,” they whispered.
For the first time in months, I felt rejuvenated. The previous three evenings commemorated Noche de Nostalgia and a friend’s 24th birthday through festivities lasting late into the night. An 11:00 p.m. bowling match melded into a 1:00 a.m. pool tournament, in which I properly learned how to play. (My previous knowledge of the game stemmed from rudimentary solo pool matches in my uncle’s basement at annual Christmas parties. Hint: I did not use the pool cues). Evenings concluded at 3:00 a.m. for carpool karaoke or at 4:30 a.m. for a last-minute McDonald’s run. Although my sleep schedule took a brutal beating, I woke each day hungry for a 1:00 pm breakfast and more time with my chosen Montevideo family. After almost two months of living more out of a backpack than my closet, I found closure in celebrating convivencia —co-existence or togetherness— with my people. It did not matter whether we ate greasy pizza or lavender-vanilla-dulce-de-leche birthday cake with edible glitter. It did not matter whether we wore nostalgic costumes or every day sneakers. It did not matter whether we were crowded around a pool table, on bowling lane seat cushions, in the corner of a bustling neon dance floor, or in the backseat of Mono’s car. What mattered was that we were together. I found peace in our laughter; randomized YouTube playlists on a living room television; Río de la Plata card games (that expanded my Spanish vocabulary in multiple directions); and the secrets and makeup brushes passed on the floor in front of a portable heater. They lifted the cloud of exhaustion. They gave me space to exist in their embraces, so my words could finally be free. Thanks to them, I arrived in Maldonado ready to assemble the chaotic puzzle of August.
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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. . . .A note for context: the first half of this post is sourced from an entry in my personal journal
It’s been ten days since I’ve written in my “daily” journal. Some days, I couldn’t pick up a pen and document the list of activities and emotions packed into twenty-four hours tighter than my winter clothes and travel backpack. Journaling — a dependable grounding practice — suddenly became a burden. Instead of welcoming the discomfort of reliving events and piecing together my complex reactions to life on the road, I left the puzzle pieces scattered in the box.
Whenever I attempted to visit my past, the storm cloud of exhaustion hovered over my subconscious. Our bodies viscerally remember the past and hold the power to recall and simulate the same aches, flutters in our chest, or shortness of breath we feel when our anxiety is triggered. In my first week transitioning (I use this word loosely because four days after this journal entry, I traveled to Rivera) back to Maldonado, I realized that I was repeatedly triggered by exhaustion. The words of resolution were trapped behind the cloud instead of liberated on a blank page. I could not access them. My brain and body were still recovering from the twelve-hour workdays, late-night and early-morning bus rides, and emotionally over-stimulating discussions. I recognized the signs: I was dysregulated. Until the storm cloud lifted, I could not reflect. The puzzle remained unsolved. 
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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. I procrastinated writing this post for days. Every time I circle back to the blank page, the task of revisiting the jam-packed days in Montevideo and Minas washes another wave of exhaustion over me like a rolling tide. However, the soothing balance between hot mango tea and Vashti Bunyan encourages me to give this reflection my best shot.
. . .“The past is history, the future is a mystery, and this moment is a gift. That is why it is called ‘the present.’”
Deepak Chopra 
Casa Pueblo in Punta del Este, Uruguay
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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. July passed in stark chapters distinguished by swaying emotions, celebratory milestones, and sorrowful struggles. I bid farewell to too many friends and community members in Montevideo. My parents visited for two weeks, and we strolled the streets and sights of Buenos Aires and Montevideo. I turned twenty-three while moving to a different province, starting over again, again. I cried in frustration after exhaustedly running through cycles of trial and error. I laughed in the sanctuary with new friends and mentors on the foggy coastline. I felt myself gain strength on long runs at sunset and problem-solving victories. And gradually, after relearning to ride the go-with-the-flow wave, I began to feel at home—again.
It is July 22nd when I write this introduction, and I am living the conclusion of the sixth chapter: starting all over again, again. In two days, I will return to Montevideo, again, to begin the seventh chapter. However, this post already takes up ten pages in my Google Doc draft document. To alleviate pressure to meet an imaginary, self-imposed deadline to publish a monthly reflection, this post serves as part one in a two-part July series reflection. As I write these reflections, I laugh at their ever-increasing length. My life story in Uruguay only becomes more saturated with experiences. There is always more to write about, reflect on, laugh about, cry about. Writing is my therapy, as I often relate to you all. But as the months pass, time grows more fleeting. I find myself more reluctant to attend regular therapy sessions on my soft living room couch. In the end, the fear of forgetting triumphed over apprehension. So, without further ado, I present July: the month of starting all over again, again. Follow Journal of an Evolving Teacher on social media!
Disclaimers
This post features my observations of Uruguayan people and culture as a guest, foreigner, and outsider. I am sharing only one individual's limited perspective of Uruguay and Uruguayans. It should not be received as a generalization of culture or people. (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.) In Montevideo, Uruguayans live for the weekdays.
At Monday night swing-dance classes, they animatedly arrive between 7:20 and 8:00 p.m., slickly sliding into the jazz choreography in their work or athleisure clothes. After the class ends, they quickly walk or Uber to a bar down the road for elongated dinner and drinks. If you were to stroll La Rambla on a random sunny Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon, you would have to plot your path through the maze of strollers, couples holding hands, and groups of teenagers who nonchalantly traverse the bike path. Everyone has the same idea to picnic at sunset on the coastline grass with their materas, the steam softly billowing from their termo as they pour their next serving of mate. On Thursdays, they depart their homes in the darkness to their weekly book clubs; at 10:00 p.m., they arrive just in time for dinner. And on Fridays, Uruguayans truly come out to play. Restaurants are packed from 6:00 p.m. until 1:00 a.m., from merienda to post-dinner cocktails and desserts. They are experts at indulgence, nurturing their sweet tooth with the same tenderness with which they cradle their mate and termo over unpredictably bumpy bus rides. They live a philosophy of antes muerta que sencilla: dead before simple. I have observed that Uruguayans perceive days as their own 24-hour entities. A weekday is divided into diligent contract hours and mellow afternoons that transition into boisterous evenings at the dinner table with family. Sleep is often sacrificed to foster precious connections. Mondays and Saturdays are weighted equally in opportunity. Instead of idly waiting for a reservation to revive on the weekend, Uruguayans live each day to the fullest. And so, in June, I accepted that magnetic invitation of vitality. June is the coda: the concluding section of the final movement of my story in Montevideo. Therefore, my weekdays at school sites vibrated with emotion, grand performances, and cumulative presentations. I fought with myself to pause, reset, and process through the deafening whirlwind of opportunities. Me sobrecargaba. I overworked myself. But unlike the allegro orchestral pieces I grappled with in high school, I could not practice resetting my bow on my rosin-stained cello strings. I just had to push through and pray my hands would remain steady. Most of my most momentous memories materialized on Mondays—well, and on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. The sections below feature various euphoric career milestones and associated reflections that I now have the privilege of time to write. Follow Journal of an Evolving Teacher on social media!
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(This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that 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.) I played Dixit for the first time at the Fulbright two-month check-in meeting. This open-ended card game features a collection of stunningly nuanced paintings or drawings on each face. In this version of the game, our coordinator prompted each of us to choose two cards: one that represented a moment of pride or joy and another for a challenge we faced in April or May.
My prideful card depicted a child walking through a forest green hilly landscape under a sunset sky. The child blows bubbles in the shapes of planets into the sky, which rise above the sunset’s borders into the borderless night sky littered with stars. In my card of challenge, a white daisy threatens to crack through the floor of concrete it grows through. The daisy’s stem yanks at the petals; a few are already missing. Two petals float off into the distant, dark cloudy background. What do you think they mean? I’ll give you a moment. . . Just checking in, are you ready? It’s ok. Take your time. I’m not in any rush. Alright, let’s continue. The prideful card signifies blowing out my ideas into existence. Each of the planets represent one project or idea I brought to life in the past two months: a video exchange system with a Spanish immersion school in Duluth, Minnesota, a children’s book guide, swing dance classes, and writing original songs to share with my students. Now, they float out in the universe among the stars. My ideas are strung together, constructing a constellation: a visual synopsis of my contributions and lessons. I hope the impact of this bubble solar system, this constellation, lingers after I depart Montevideo. The card of challenge is a visual representation of the first month settling into a new life in Uruguay. I scoured websites for volunteer opportunities, optimistically messaged contacts about course hours, and leapt out of my comfort zone to visit unfamiliar parts of the city. When I arrived in Montevideo, I was handed a white daisy of possibilities. Each event and bus trip to Ciudad Vieja was a petal. And when those fell through, or I realized the possibility could not blossom into reality, the petal was yanked away by the stem. Yank! Yank! Yank! Yank! One after the other, possibilities stripped away until I was left almost hopeless. Despite my routine misfortune, I kept going out, manifesting new possibilities. My gifted flower displayed layers of petals—it was nowhere near bare. And with time, the stem relinquished its tension on a few petals. The flower of possibility is not in full bloom anymore, but it is still standing strong because now, it is planted in soft soil of trust and relationships, not the crumbling concrete of uncertainty. Dixit was the prelude to a four-hour meeting of reflection and looking forward. As the calendar creeps closer to June, the sun inches closer to the precipice of setting on my time in Montevideo. Time is an illusion, it’s true. The second month passed in a flash. It is taxing to recall everything that occurred in a day. I championed reluctance every evening when I snuggled into my comfortable bed with four layered blankets for warmth. My journal was heavy in my hands, and sometimes picking it up and confronting the next empty page was too much of a chore. I am grateful for the chilly nights when I found the strength to write a bullet-point list of events that transpired. It is a resource I leaned on when crafting this post. And I know I will regret not filling in the spaces of two, three days in between entries when I backtrack back home. That being said, this post is my best attempt at recollection. My journal, “Favorites” photo album, and emotions serve as my comforting guides. So without further ado, here’s a reflection on month two. 
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This post was written between May 1st and May 3rd.
(This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that 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.) It is May 1st: Labor Day. The streets are tranquil. No cars honk at streetlights. No buses screech to a halt at their stops. The only sound is the wind whooshing through the falling golden leaves. The whole city stops for a day of rest and asado. Today marks one month since my arrival in Uruguay.
And I sure packed these thirty days full with pastry and coffee purchases, picnics, bus rides, friend dinners, overlapping conversation, hugs, kisses on the cheeks from strangers, and memories of dancing to Shakira or swing music at midnight. I scrambled to build routine but basked in the spontaneous nature of Uruguayan scheduling. Over four weeks, I planted and nurtured connections to Uruguayan culture. I tried mate and vigorously took notes as my mentor coached me in the delicate steps of Uruguayan preparation. (First, pour the yerba, or herbs in the mate gourd. There are several kinds of yerba, from the original and bitter porongo mate to the acero inoxidable, which is less bitter. Then, place your hand on top of the gourd, covering the yerba, and tip it over. Turn it back over, then shake the yerba off to one side. Then, place the bombilla, or metal straw, on top of the yerba. Prepare hot water to place in the thermos. Pour cold water into the pocket created by the yerba; wait a few minutes. Then, pour hot water into the pocket in increments, allowing the yerba to soak up the water and pool at the top of the gourd. Then, enjoy your mate in Uruguayan style: on the go!). Afterwards, I carried pink my matera, a mate carrier, home on my arm on a bus full of other Uruguayans hugging their gourds and thermoses close to their chests. At home, in my Airbnb, I grew closer to my host and roommate. The smell of banana pancakes greeted me every morning during my first week, filling the second-floor apartment with aromas of cinnamon, oats, and vanilla. I asked my host to share her recipe, and a few days later, I began to prepare my own pancakes. It is a staple—a comfort food to bond over. (My host shared her chickpea flour with me to try in my pancakes). Banana pancakes served as a gentle invitation to connect with my roommates. Slowly, I am getting to know their stories. Food is often the catalyst for our late-night conversations. Tubs of dulce de leche and frutilla de crema ice cream prompted a viewing of Pretty Woman, one of my favorite chick-flick movies. Beating homemade pizza dough with my roommate led to a Cumbia Cheta Uruguaya listening party in the kitchen. My host and I took turns reaching into a Tupperware container of crackers (a Uruguayan house staple) on the living room table, intensely discussing Uruguayan politics on a Monday night. Outside of the house, I started attending swing dance classes. Every Monday night at 7:30, I twirl and sway to American jazz music in strangers’ arms in a second-floor studio in Ciudad Vieja. Swing is the perfect balance between comfort and discomfort. The music and movements are familiar from the swing dance club I attended my freshman year of college, but the people and the instructions are foreign. Dance is one of the most intimate ways to get to know people. Even though my dance partners and I rarely talk, I recognize their individuality through their body language. After four sessions of studying the “rock step” and “send out,” (the terminology is not translated to Spanish), the other dancers evolved from strangers to people with stories—people I choose to lead me across the dimly lit dance floor. . . .In this post, I share highlights, updates, discoveries, and photos from the past few weeks of finding my community and routine in Montevideo. Please enjoy!
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(This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that 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.)
On Tuesday, one of the other grantees texted our group chat with the thought provoking prompt: “How was day 2 (with a song?)”. Usually, I struggle to connect my reflections to obscure references, but this time, a song immediately jumped through my head. The chipper, encouraging Cheers TV show theme, “You wanna go where everybody knows your name” seamlessly floated into my train of thought. Let me explain.
Flying into Montevideo (Photo by Sam)
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Hooray! I made it to Uruguay! After 24 hours, three hours of sleep, two layovers, and one sleepy viewing of Moana, I landed in Montevideo on Monday afternoon. Almost a week later, I finally had the time to sit down and reflect on orientation and my new home (for the next four months).
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Whenever I travel, I intentionally avoid tourist traps. And I am not just talking about the tacky souvenir shops overflowing with snow globes and other plastic knick knacks with the bold “Made in China” label lazily plastered on the bottom.
Most of the items purchased in these exhibitionist stores will either be thrown away, gather dust on a shelf next to a family photo, or be packed up in a box for the holidays. (The only really worthwhile items to purchase at tourist traps are postcards –a category of the lost art of letter writing, or free art to nail above a bedroom mirror– or a magnet, which will lay on your fridge until the end of time.) As I roam the cobblestone or concrete streets of a new city, I filter out inauthenticity or a strategic sales pitch – anything that aims at settling rose-colored glasses on the bridge of my freckled nose. Tour guides, brochures, or a shimmering paper weight that shove something beautiful in your face to distract you from the complex, dark, and haunting reality of an advertised “historical” city. Travel is a privilege, just as access to diverse perspectives, storytelling, and historical sources is a privilege (although, thanks to social media, intersectional voices are more readily available within a simple swipe). It is an action of intentional displacement, of exploration. Travel is a choice; how, where, when, and what of the itinerary is also a choice. Specifically, how you travel matters. |
AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
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