Day One: Uruguay

I've traveled 5,550 miles to Uruguay by myself with a three-hour layover in Chile to stay at an off-the-grid organic farm in which I'll be house-sitting for a progressive teacher couple that has a wedding to attend in Chicago. I'm not sure if this is a great idea. The last three days of my stay a mysterious elderly British couple, in whose names have not been revealed, will be staying alongside me at the farm, taking refugee in an RV that they've been traveling through South America in. I'm in Chile right now, Santiago, and it's 6 am. The Americans, like myself, stick out clearly. Grotesque beasts walking alongside anyone that could be mistaken as Roger Federer, which doesn't make sense as he's a Swiss tennis player but objectively attractive to those like maybe my mother. Every woman looks like a mix between Salma Hayek and my junior year Italian teacher, Senora Batisti. It's all neckbeards and Patagonia apparel but without such pretension one usually would associate with such. I would declare anyone drinking red wine at an airport Ruby Tuesdays watching yesterday's soccer match at 6:30 in the morning a huge asshole, but here it works. An American style Ruby Tuesday breakfast buffet and elderly South American men drinking Chilean wine complement one another surprisingly well. The language barrier so far has been expectedly weird. With limited options to obtain any form of caffeinated beverage in the Chilean airport, I reluctantly had to resort to my alma mater of corporate Starbucks. Social conversations are already tricky enough in my native tongue, as some would even go as far to label me as "socially awkward." It turns out I'm still really awkward trying to speak a language I don't understand. This Chilean airport Starbucks had no distinguishable characteristics from its American counterparts. The register barista named Miguel was even quite fluent in English which gave me the confidence to spark a little barista to barista talk. I tried explaining to Miguel I was a partner barista and worked at a Starbucks back in the states. I think Miguel misunderstood. For whatever reason, Miguel came to the conclusion I was looking for a partner. What that meant in his mind, I'm not exactly sure. But I approached handoff with a potpourri of unfamiliar Chilean Pesos and mixed emotions. Miguel was undeniable fast, or I guess I should say, "muy rapido." As Miguel handed me my four-shot Venti Americano, he pointed to the bottom of the cup, in which written in his sharpie marker handwriting read, "By Miguel Angel," then whispered, "See, partner." My plane ride from Chile to Uruguay was uneventful.

To board the plane to Uruguay, I was led to a small shuttle bus in which everyone on board looked and smelled like my grandparents. I stood out, partially due to the fact I wasn't 86 years old with noticeable ear hair and a monochromatic outfit, consisting of all khakis everything. That last sentence was a node to Trinidad James song "All Gold Everything," one of the most thought-provoking hip hop anthems of our generation. I got off the shuttle bus to board LATAM, a reputable plane service comparable to that of Jetblue. I have no idea if Jetblue is a reputable plane service or if it is even sensible to call airlines plane services, but I could care less. My seat number was 21 F. A window seat, as well as a seat next to a middle age Uruguayan couple that was awkwardly touchy; it could have been worse. I've concluded, within the first two days of being here, Uruguayans don't stray from physical contact with one another. Physical contact makes me nervous in general. Uruguayans just kiss each other, disregarding any form of age range. It's very European, but being European doesn't mean it's automatically a good thing.

Patrick, one half of the progressive teacher couple, took me to pick up his five-year-old daughter Issa today at the local public school. We weren't alone as prior to departure this somewhat shadowy figure named Joseph Pablo arrived upon Patrick's property without any form of vehicle. I'll refer to Joseph Pablo as JP for abbreviation purposes. JP pulled up to the property as I was reading my current book of choice "A Kim Jong-il Production," which details Kim Jong-il capturing a divorced South Korean actress and director couple, forcing them to create North Korean movies. The book's worth a read if you're a cynical person with time on your hands as I am. Upon JP's arrival, I was ushered by Patrick to introduce myself. I couldn't help but notice JP not only had brought with him a mason jar of Uruguayan legal marijuana but also had a joint in his mouth, smoking it as if it was merely a cigarette. Thanks to Patrick, a metal pot of freshly popped popcorn, seasoned with salt and olive oil, was available for the three of us to share. JP went at it without hesitation for obvious reasons. Even though there were clear language barriers between me and JP, it would have been just as awkward if we both were fluent in the same language. Polo sneakers, a developed neck beard, chest hair exposed in the Uruguayan wind, JP could have easily starred in any South American soap opera with no problem. Although JP was drastically cooler than I'll ever be, he was respectful. There's a high percentage that he indeed was making fun of me in Spanish, but we'll just go with him being a respectful individual. After the popcorn munchie break for JP, Patrick brought out a load of golf clubs as well as numerous golf balls. It was nothing but enjoyable to watch a stoned JP try to learn how to golf. The majority of the times JP attempted to hit the golf ball; he came nowhere close and hit grass. Actually grass on the ground not Marijuana, haha what a funny joke. When successful, a smug look on his face appeared, which was disconcerting but not too disconcerting as JP was extremely high and that face of disconcertment should have just been expected. After a quick refuel of yerba mate, which is a cross between tea and coffee substance that American hippies drink, we headed off. Yerba mate culture in Uruguay is widespread. Offering a sip of your yerba mate as a sign of friendship isn't mandatory but looked at as a sign of friendship. It's almost equivalent to a handshake, except with a handshake you're not experiencing a significant caffeine jolt. The dynamics of the school in which Patrick, JP, and I picked up Patrick's daughter Issa was intriguing. We approached the school only to find Issa and the rest of her five-year-old classmates pulling weeds in science lab esque uniforms. The only one not in uniform, a man in his mid-fifties with a ponytail and black goatee who approached to greet me with a slew of Spanish, only for me to repeat "Hola." I was then ushered by an Uruguayan grandmother, who just happened to be at the school, to eat what looked like a clover plant growing alongside the school garden. Small pink flowers and a significant language gap, Patrick had never seen the plant before but was confident in the Grandmothers knowledge. So I ate it too. Spicy, almost like that of arugula, I didn't have time to continue to process each individual flavor as one of Issa's friends forced me to the soccer field. Soccer and five-year-old Uruguayan kids, I already knew the outcome before touching the ball. I demolished them. In cuffed jeans and a white tee shirt that I had obtained at Savers with a Verizon logo, I was comparable to that of a professional soccer player. I don't know the names of any professional soccer players. I was slide tackling five-year-olds regardless of gender or skill level. Pushing little blonde boys to the ground with brute force, hoping they would quit and cry to their abuela. It felt great. But my achievement of being the schoolyard soccer bully was short lived. Appearing out of the schoolyard garden next to the ponytail teacher was a five-year-old girl. Yes, they were all five-year-old girls and boys, but my intuition was already telling me my 10 minutes of pure domination had come to an end. I approached the girl cautiously, greeting her with a friendly yet intense "Hola" to show off my dominance and masculinity. It didn't matter. Goal upon goal, I had too much respect for the young lady to even resort to physical violence. Even my verbal Spanish arsenal of "Muy estupido" just continued to fuel her motivation to beat the dumb American that I am. The game continued until the departure of the last kid. Our posse of Patrick, JP, Issa, and I said our goodbyes but not until Patrick motioned me to accept a kiss on the cheek from the girl that had just made a fool out of me in front of JP. I awkwardly placed my face in reach. Having a stranger, let alone a five-year-old stranger, kiss you doesn't seem right.