I’ve never thought of myself as beach person. The thought of hanging out on a beach for hours makes me a little numb. That said, I love being able to walk to, and on, the beach daily. During summer – January and February – it has to be early or not at all (and I will find sun-worshippers at 8 AM). Off season any time of day works.
But there remain two issues: 1) the waves are tiny, and 2) they’re often brown.
1) Why are the waves tiny? Theoretically, you could sail in a straight line from Uruguay over 16,500 kilometers before making landfall (and you’ve always wanted to visit Myanmar, no?). That much open ocean and diddly little waves? Why?
2) Brown waves – let NASA tell the story (even if they can barely get within 90 degrees of correctly identifying north).
On the day of this photo, we enjoyed blue or green waves ‘north’ (actually east) of Montevideo. A little change in current and winds, and you have brown waves.
Sometimes we have fresh (brown) water; sometimes we have salt water at the beach. So sometimes the fisherman catch freshwater fish, and sometimes saltwater fish. And sometimes the wrong ones get caught in a shift, and their carcasses end up carpeting the beach.
Beautiful San-Diego-weather kind of day.
Today’s project: turn remains of crappy wooden gate we replaced into a table to replace the crappy plastic one we bought.
No, I have no dark stain to finish it (and no buying any: it’s Sunday). Yes, it is ugly. However, it also has significantly more weight than the plastic one, so that when bearing things like wine glasses that can easily topple, it is less likely to end disaster because of a dog fumbling about underneath.
The dog in the door, indicating that it’s time to walk to the beach, will no doubt put it to the test given the next opportunity.
They didn’t come last Saturday. Weather or something.
Today showed up mid-afternoon. Cleaned inside Argentinian Ñuke wood stove, scraping off chucks of oxidized metal – a.k.a, rust – broke bricks to secondary combustion chamber because something wasn’t removable to allow access to stove pipe. Their weapon, a half-inch black flexible pipe with wires stuck through the end (read: brush) unable to clear second bend in stovepipe, advertised as 45 degree elbows but instead 30 degrees.
Investigated rooftop; decided they’d come back tomorrow to replace broken bricks in stove (how?) and next week to clean chimney from (precarious) above.
Ya veremos – (now) we will see.
Sorry if a bit incoherent. Es lo que hay – that’s how it is.
We went today to visit Mauro of the motorcycle accident in the hospital, who sports a large and ugly scar from having his spleen removed – Frankenstein-style stitches from his navel up (to remove the spleen – ?). He’ll be there another few weeks.
We had to take a couple elevators to find him. The elevators are the type with a single, automatic door and buttons you push to go to the desired floor. You know, like in a hotel – ? Seen them before?
An additional feature in each elevator is a chair with a person in it to push the buttons, taking up perhaps 20% of the floor space. As a result, a wheel chair would not fit in the elevator.
But, a full time job for a few more people. Welcome to Uruguay!
Later: told Santiago* about the elevator operators, adding es Uruguay.
Soy Uruguayo, he replied – ¿Me lo vas a decir a mi?
Or roughly, Hey, I’m Uruguayan – YOU’RE going to tell ME about it?
*masseur: 1-hour+ ~$30