| Priopollis Piriopolis, Uruguay Listening to old time tango on the radio….Wide open arms of a wind-swept bay, sunshine, a light breeze blows a small flotilla of sail boats into the harbor. Traffic sputters loudly by as herds of noisy mopeds race by our house, driven by 20 something young Uruguayos anxiously getting on with their lives. Just across the street , huddled under the granite coastline is a makeshift fisherman’s camp, rusty bits of roofing secured by a medley of boulders and chucks of wood. In early morning their fleet of almost toy-like boats sets out into the rough choppy seas, red, orange, blue, with nets baited, afternoons the fleet returns and the women clean and sell the fish for about $1/lb from little counter-tops set up along the road…or you can buy a giant cold beer and get a hot plate of batter fried fish nuggets in a makeshift tavern overlooking the sea. (The mind seeks for comparables, memories, similarities, this reminds me of….Greece, California, south of france…trying to create comfortable associations…does building on these past associations make the present richer.?) A hot, lazy afternoon, with Bob reading his book, in retreat in the back-yard shade. Two glasses of Don Pascuale Chardonnay and a couple hits of the last of Paul’s finest, as I watch the sea-gulls swoop, over the sea, facing west and south , I’m aware of the vast emptiness that leads across the ocean and down to the Antartic snows. Listening to old-time tango on the radio…. |