There is a new stamp on my passport. I took the ferry from Buenos Aires to Colonia, Uruguay. It is a three-hour trip across the very wide mouth of the Plata River. It's only a 45 minute trip if you take the fast boat, by the way. I'll do it that way next time. Make a note of that, Ed.
Colonia is a Santa Cruz-size city that includes a pristine colonial neighborhood. Strolling the quiet cobblestone streets is a perfect antidote for high rise, high volume Buenos Aires. I personally inspected several lovely hotels in anticipation of a second visit. I also made a contribution to the local economy by purchasing a hand knit sweater. It was quite cold, you see.
Up in my tiny apartment in the evenings I write in my journal in Spanish. I talk to myself in Spanish. And I listen to Spanish CDs. One is vintage, the other electronica. We're talking tango, baby.
Last week I went for a run in a giant park, passing two or three of those requisite Man-on-a-Wild Horse statues at oversized, circular intersections. The next day I joined a gym. The equipment is prewar - that's pre Falklands War. But really, does it matter if free weights have seen previous decades? They still preform their funciton. The "stairmaster" and the treadmills are hilarious. If cranked to their highest tension, I can actually obtain that glowing look and the "when will this be over" feeling for which I strive.
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