From the annals of “you know you’re old when…” We’re in the Miami airport, after a full day of flying, on our way to our gate for our next flights to Montevideo, when we walk by a beautiful blonde-haired woman sitting in a restaurant drinking a tall, cold beer and I think to myself, God that beer looks good.
When I shared this with Laura, we had a good laugh. Not only were we a bit punchy having left Portland at 5AM, but we were a little freaked out because we had a significant dilemma in front of us. We had gotten a notice five days earlier from our airline that we needed an eVisa to get into and out of Brazil, where we were connecting to our flight to Montevideo. For five days, I wrestled with the Brazilian website. Like a WWE bout, the fix was in. I lost every round. I had to upload our information and pay the $80 each for our eVisas, so we could have the privilege of transiting through the Sao Paulo airport to make our flight to Uruguay.
We explained our tale of misery and website difficulty to the American Airlines agent in Miami, who was rechecking us in to Sao Paulo. After showing him the long list of my many attempts to contact the Brazilian visa agency, he took our passports and left us at the counter holding our luggage. He had gone off to talk to his supervisor. An endless ten minutes later, he reappeared, and said we had nothing to worry about. Since we were just transiting from one flight to another, as long as we didn’t go through passport control in Sao Paulo, the eVisa was not needed.
“Whatever you do don’t go through passport control.”
“Whatever you do don’t go through passport control.” He told us, as if the pain of a Brazilian prison was in our future if we failed in our mission.
We believed him. We wanted to believe him. We had to believe him. We had no other choice. After 7 hours flying to Brazil, we got off the plane. Avoided passport control, and certain imprisonment. Reminded ourselves, as we lurched by the passport control lines, not just hurrying by, but looking away lest anyone might try and lure us, like sirens, onto the rocks of passport control.
Safely by, our mission now clearly in front of us, we surfaced from the bowels of Sao Paulo airport and quickly checked our bag to Montevideo. They now had our luggage, they couldn’t possibly layer any further insult onto us for not having the aforementioned eVisa.
Ah, one final obstacle, our seats had somehow been separated. The gate attendant was unable to help. “Ask on the plane. Maybe someone will change with you.” With hand gestures, smiles, and mi esposa exclamations, Laura and I were reunited, courtesy of a lovely Uruguayan lady who didn’t mind a middle seat, for the final two and a half hour flight.
As we descended into Montevideo, my tired mind and body overcame any anxiety about landing in a new country, a new city, a totally new aventura. One last indignity, over-paying for a taxi to our hotel, on the edge of Old Town. It was worth every Uruguayan peso.
Within minutes, we were on the streets of Montevideo.
Did we fall in love with Uruguay instantly? No. But it didn’t take long.
Did we fall in love with Uruguay instantly? No. But it didn’t take long.
What does it mean to run away, to leave one’s life behind, and seek a yet undefined safety? Is it cowardly? Wise? Or just prescient enough to read and sense what’s being said about the eminent decline of one’s homeland, and how close it could conceivably cut to one’s life, making everything intolerable.
I’m not sure what actually triggered my notion to get out, to run away, to live the life of an ex-pat. That’s not really true. November 5, 2024, sealed the deal. Laura thinks I’m making things up, fearing a knock on the door over something I’ve written.
I grew up with a father who fought the Nazis and liberated cities in the Charente region of Cognac, France. OK, it’s where Hennessey Cognac was and is produced. The villagers were so happy the Allies had liberated their towns they pulled out barrels of their prized cognac they had hidden in caves from the Nazis. To show their elation, they gave every GI a cup of their prized ugni blanc grape distillation – “the water of life” – at every meal.
Of course, these young Americans had never tasted such a rare elixir, and they proceeded to cut it with grapefruit juice, Coca-Cola and anything else they could find to make it palatable to their unsophisticated palates. This was a fact my father bemoaned decades later when he realized the sacrilege he had committed.
Nonetheless, freeing these French wine makers from the dreaded Nazis is how I equate today’s version of the brown shirts, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, chilling known as ICE. Since their purview seems to have expanded into a state police force, capable of “handling” anyone who disagrees with the current administration’s tactics, it makes me very worried.
Those of us who regularly publish have seen the censorship of news, books, and published materials under similar and very questionable jurisdiction. The fear of the knock on the door is not far off. As stated previously, my wife thinks I’m completely overreacting. I point to the bottle of Hennessey.
All of that, to my mind, makes Uruguay look very promising. The endless beaches, the wonderfully, accepting populace, the excellent beef, the temperate climate, and no nasty agents censoring writers and other creatives. It makes running away very attractive. Does it make it right? That’s a much tougher question.
I love my daughters, their partners, my grandchildren, my wife’s garden, and our friends.
I love the uncensored, unfettered freedom to write whatever I want about whatever it is I want to say. And I want to live where I can do that, without fear.
I love the uncensored, unfettered freedom to write whatever I want about whatever it is I want to say. And I want to live where I can do that, without fear. Where ignorance is not a heralded virtue, but something to once again be lifted up from. Where intelligent discourse is not a threat, but a valued and critical element of a healthy life. Where art is elevated and recognized and not ridiculed and burned.
I need to live where my values are not a crime, but an expression unlimited by those without vision. Those authoritarians who want a population terrified of anything other, who have no curiosity about the variety of life, and what it brings and offers. It may be Uruguay, we shall see.
Then Laura and I walked through the multi-layered, Casapueblo home/museum/hotel envisioned and built by the artist and humanitarian, Carlos Paez Vilaro. Suddenly, we saw and felt the possible. This place was an unbounded declaration of artistic freedom. And as Liz Lemon in 30 Rock said often, “I want to go to there.” Of course, we were already there.
Perhaps my mind had been made up. Vilaro’s work, his Casapueblo and its combination of unbounded creativity and human rights values, was the kind of legacy I want to leave. We’ll see if I have the courage to actualize it.
Author’s note: My wife asked me not to post this for fear it might entice more travel to Uruguay. Please don’t make her right.