Punta: Day One

I arrived at Montevideo airport (for those of you that don’t know, Montevideo is the sketchy Uruguayan city one usually flies into to then drive two hours to Punta del Este) feeling refreshed (I was that passed out drooling person with a blanket over my head on the plane) and shocked at how wonderfully warm it was. Considering I spoke zero Spanish and had never even been to Mexico, for my safety and peace of mind I’d organized to fly in with our trip’s organizer, a fabulous party Nazi who’ll for the remainder of the saga I’ll refer to as Cavalli.

A note about Cavalli: while an amazingly generous friend and kind-hearted person, he drives like a Nascar driver dropping acid. I had been forewarned about this by our mutual friends, but wrote of their concern as ‘silliness.’

WRONG!

Cavalli and I burnt rubber pulling out of the Montevideo airport parking lot and for the remainder of the two-hour trip (which speeding, took us 45 minutes) I was gripping my broken seatbelt and smiling through clenched teeth.

Note: Renting a car in Punta isn’t like renting a car anywhere else in the world. Be forewarned that the locomotive they present you with will resemble a reconstructed dump unit. In La Barra and Jose Ignacio, most of the roads aren’t paved. Cars are expected to get seriously beaten up by irresponsible vacationers who don’t know the terrain. What we rented looked less like an automobile and more like a junk-heap on wheels.

Airbags? Forget about it.

We didn’t even have seatbelts, and if we hit a pothole the car stereo would fall out. Regardless, we were all too quickly on our way.

After checking into our house in La Barra, blocks from Mantra hotel and the ocean (by blocks I mean dusty dirt road blocks) we headed out with an Argentine girlfriend to Jose Ignacio beach and the trendy La Huella bar/restaurant on the water. The idea was get on the list for the annually, notoriously difficult to get into Lacoste party hosted at La Huella for people like Giuseppe Cipriani and Ralph Lauren models. It was at La Huella that I began my first analysis of Punta:

-That everyone enjoying sunset aperitivos on beach were from a classier, better looking planet

- That wearing four inch wedge heels and stilettos with heavy, expensive jewelry on the beach with your bikini was ‘normal’

- That going anywhere without your bathing suit and sunglasses on was considered a crime

-That the girls could wear clingy, transparent, white ‘cover ups’ over their bikinis that somehow managed to be more revealing than naked flesh, and

- That Spanish was actually an incredibly sexy language when not hearing it whilst on hold on the telephone (‘prima una per espagnol’)

That night we went to the house party one of my New York/Argentine friends. House parties in Punta are ‘the thing.’ Clubs are pretty much looked down upon, except for the infamous Tequila, which I never even made it to. The problem is Punta has

a) A lot of dirt roads with no light and
b) Practically no street names (only the houses have names)

So for a foreigner there’s pretty much only a 20% chance you’ll ever end up at your destination. More likely, you’ll waste hours cruising through pitch black cow fields and calling friends for directions that sound something like this:

“Turn off the main street after street sign 48 onto a dirt road that has an incline. Drive up the hill for two kilometers and turn left onto the third dirt road you intersect. Drive a kilometer past the golf course, and take a right onto the second dirt road. 700 meters above on the right, turn at the high, oddly shaped rock and we’re the third villa on your left called “’D’Angelo.’”

Keep in mind you’re always doing this in pitch black around 1 A.M. after several cocktails.

Luckily, my two friends are I were on what we called “mission party” (kind of like “mission impossible”) and by gathering all of our long distance eyesight, night vision, and limited knowledge of the terrain, made it to my friend’s house party with only one wrong turn.

And the house was stunning: long gravel driveway, tennis court, pool, acres of grass, a pool house with speakers the size on my Manhattan bathroom, two DJs. We immediately started mingling and drinking the insane vodka supply.

Don’t worry, Rocco, who I had no idea was even in Uruguay (although I should have guessed) showed up at the house party with a male entourage. Surprise! So much for leaving New York behind.

At around 3 A.M., we headed out to Ocean Club’s grand opening in a follow-the-leader string of barely functional cars operated by drivers who weren’t as sober as they should be. The door out front (literally hundreds of people) made our Manhattan club line-ups look pathetic. Once inside, I entered a mediocre dim hallway. But before I could condemn the place as ‘so so,’ I stepped into the main dance area – an arena area so full you could easily body surf from one corner to the other. If people in New York party, these people were party maniacs.



Everyone was so happy, especially the gorgeous girls. Apparently, Bob Sinclair is right: “Love can save the world.” Or at least the Latin aura of love inside a Uruguayan disco has the power to heal. I’m convinced of this, because from this moment forward, and for the duration of my trip, I felt elated and anxious free in what I’ve been defining as an attitude altering Zen-like experience.

We left at 5:30 A.M. and Cavalli drove us home Shumaker-style, which would might have been okay in a Ferrari but is absurdly terrifying when you’re in a car that wouldn’t pass a one basic US safety test. We pulled up in front of our house and smelt burning.

Then we realized we’d driven the entire way home with the emergency break on.

Great car.

And this was only day one.


To Be Continued…

Self Reflection! Live! From Buenos Aires Airport

I don’t think my hands have ever been so thirsty for a keyboard. Part of this trip was the experiment of leaving all electronic devices behind. No laptop, no iPhone, no iPod. Basically me giving Steve Jobs a huge ´up yours´ finger in the face. I don’t know how any of us in 2008 manage to get to know each other or ourselves when at a moment's boredom we can shoot out text messages like machete bullets, indulge in incessant chatter on our ´night and weekend´ minutes or research hypothetical holidays in the net. There are an infinite number of convenient ways for us to distract ourselves from self .

My South American getaway was supposed to be another chaos holiday ala´ Capri in which Bartok and I could exercise all our bad judgment in a condensed and intensified two week period. When forces outside our control made it evident that she would not be able to join me, I took it as a God-given sign that I should go anyway. Alone. Independent. A voyager. That I, a girl who obsesses over men, swirls around in throngs of people on banquet couches, and generally social butterflies my way through life, should extricate myself from my own existence and take a hearty Time Out – no booty texts, bitching to friends or usefully distracting "To Do lists" allowed.

So I rented a house in Punta’s ‘trendiest’ area La Barra with six acquaintances, friends of friends I knew weren’t psycho-rapists but didn’t necessarily know well. A few weeks ago, my roommate Tatas mused to me, “You know you do different things when you’re around different friends.” This simple observation instantly startled and terrified me…and put me on the defensive. To some extent, a chameleon personality is normal. You’re not going to banter with grandma the same way you’d chat up gorgeous guy #4. But it was my hope that for once being without the presence of an intimate friend, I might in a small way reinvent myself. Or at least become a little closer to the person I aspire to be without so many Manhattan-enhanced distractions.

Little did I know my friend who organized our Punta house is a frighteningly powerful party Nazi who had us all on a stricter activity schedule than anything I’d ever experienced at summer camp. Punta was the most intense whirlwind of social butterflyness of my life, yet I like to think I was more grounded and mentally stable in this period than I’ve ever been, despite the fact that I was partying like a rock star with one week to live. I’ve come to realize I put a lot of pressure on myself to impress my friends and loved ones – with jokes, with stories, with romantic conquests. On this trip, since I was only among ‘acquaintances,' I found myself able to relax and take a more grounded, Zen-like approach even to my partying life. Instead of feeling frantic, I felt alone and capable. Instead of craving to impress, I sought solace in my own mysteriousness. With no close friends surrounding me, I didn’t have to revert into one of my pre-assigned roles – the comedian, the blonde, the writer, the weirdo. The entire experience was liberating and confidence building, especially when I later traveled to stay in Buenos Aires completely on my own.

I promise this blog will be party recap central from now on. A Punta 10-day “day-by-day” will follow next week detailing all the debaucheries. I guess my initial point here (pre-tangent), is that while having no cell phone or iPod was great (it enabled me to stay with my thoughts, hear the ocean waves and smell the Uruguayan flowers), having no laptop could be equated to my own personal version of Chinese water torture. Not because I missed my email, but because I missed writing so much. Of course I’ve kept a detailed handwritten journal with all the juicy details, but for me writing has always been rewriting, a craft that’s hard to perform on paper unless you have six industrial strength easers.

Short version: I'll be in New York soon. And in the airport lounge now, I’m damn glad to be hitting a keyboard once again.

P.S.

Huge round of applause to Bartok who has done an above and beyond job 'babysitting.' With any luck, I'll get her as a regular contributer :)

It's still me, Bartok!

So, after nearly 2 weeks of silence, I have finally gotten word from Miss Model Behavior!!! Since her departure, an unfamiliar silence with echoes of loneliness and an impending sense that I am destined to be an old cat lady, has descended over my life in the absence of our almost constant contact - as only good friends who live in different cities and therefore could never get sick of each other because we only see each other once a month - can tolerate. We do also switch up the mode of communication we exercise no discrimination or favoritism between our three main modes of communication: phone calls, text messages, and emails. On the upside, this technological vacation that has been imposed on my life as a result of her departure has opened up my schedule, and increased my level of productivity, letting loose all sorts of creatitity, ambition, and alternative occupations. In addition to having joined the BBC French Steps program in an effort to ajouter le français to my repetoire of romance languages, one of my favorite past times over the past two weeks has been trying to imagine, as my Italian cohorts would say, che fino ha fatto Miss Model Behavior. My three winning theories - assuming that she was not abducted or beaten to death with tropical fruits by fellow travellers because of her good fortune in chooseing the lone functional pay phone in the Miami airport, and did manage to leave the country - were that she had:

1. Died of too much fun. That perhaps on the yacht of some South American prince, maybe surrounded by the new line of Calvin Klein models, or, perhaps, if she was really lucky, in the company of the boys from my Dieux du Stade calendar (it's hanging next to my desk right now, I tell my boss it's for inspiration). Who knows, maybe she was finally overwhelmed by the amount of fun she was having and spontaneously combusted! I mean, it's feasible...




2. Gotten married and had ran away to some exotic and remote island like Fiji or the Quirimbas Archipelago. I, personally, happen to have an overwhelming and inexplicable interest in both places. Should this be the case, Miss MB would currently be surrounded by servants who are fanning her, attractive young men, and dressed like an empress. This is the saddest possibility for me, since, although still alive and happy, she would clearly have no intention of ever coming home.




3. That she never actually made it to Punta, but was lured away with the trick of some kind of linguistic misunderstanding due to the language barrier, and walked right into her own kidnapping. Who knows, she could be being held hostage somewhere in Buenos Aires as we speak. This theory does not have the sense of tragedy that the other two do, but the idea of her attempting to negotiate her way out of a situation like this using fragments of whatever language most resembled that of her captors and maybe some charades is entertaining. There is also the potential for some romantic rescue and happy ending in this theory too. No pain, no gain.

To my great relief none of my very rational and well developed theories are true! I received an email from Miss MB yesterday evening stating that she was back on the mainland of South America, bouncing around the country of Argentina for her remaining days in the Southern Hemisphere.

As I have been fantasizing about the fun that every other 20-something girl is having, while I, alone, suffer through monotonous days of responsibility and obligation and am forced to brave the misery of non-tropical January weather (BTW, thanks to all the hard work of previous generations and their efforts to pollute our planet, global warming has finally reached a point where the city of Washington, D.C. appears to be on the same thermostat as my apartment - it’s been in the mid 60’s all week). I have created a conception of Punta to be some sort of isla bonita de Sheer-Delight-and-Party. This fantasy of mine has, somewhat, taken over my mind, at least to the extent of replacing my games of virtual chess at work, and Punta has become some kind of mythical land that exists somewhere over the rainbow, requires a treasure map to reach, and is inhabited only by people whose company and compansionship I enjoy, or think I might enjoy based on similar interests (see photo at top of post).

Needless to say, my days are pretty dull.

So, to give you a feel for the island as it exists in reality, and prove that this isn't another one of my delusional attempts to entertain myself, I have included some quotes from Miss MB’s email:

“There has been some rain so we’re hoping weather will get better. When sunny is heaven.”

“The parties are out of this world, I actually have redefined the definition of party after this trip.”

And for sentimental reasons as well as for any of you who can relate to this sentiment,

“I miss writing soooooo much and would kill to be at a computer long enough to do an entry. Punta was incredible!!!!!”

So, there you have it, proof that Miss Model Behavior survived the first part of her escape from reality, seemingly unharmed. In fact, she may be returning, as anyone should from travels in foreign lands and cultures, optimistic (see quote 1); with a broadened or altered perspective on one's own culture or humanity as a whole (quote 2); and both re-enthused and energized about our own occupations and reality (quote 3). All signs point to her trip being a great success!

Just for a little variation and contrast, I’ll write more about my own life later.

Be My Guest

So the idea of a guest is not such a novel one. In fact it’s one of the most dreaded for me, especially at this time of year. To me, guest implies the obligation of hosting; and the idea of hosting implies the responsibility of entertaining, caring for, and generally being concerned about the well being of another person for a period of time that probably exceeds my tolerance (when I’m not getting anything out of it, it’s about 5 minutes). The way I see it, if I wanted children, I would have them. I don’t.

Frequently, guests are the culprits of much discomfort, awkward interactions, and an uncomfortable sense of obligation to perform on behalf of both the host and the guest. On the other hand, there are some guests that are generally welcome in my world. More favorably thought of guests sometimes include guest speakers, guest appearances on my favorite shows, and so following the vein of entertainment, today, I give you, myself, your guest-blogger. I am Bartok.

While Miss Model Behavior is out of the country gallivanting, completely and blissfully cut off from technology and reality, as most sane people know it, here I am, babysitting her blog. No, I do not share MB’s literary aspirations, or background in writing. My friendship with Miss MB began during high school while we were studying abroad in Italy. Our friendship began in the forum of debauchery that only 16 year old girls let loose on a small town in Italy, are capable of. We began with a minimal comprehension of the language being spoken around us and absolutely no comprehension of how a country that had, from our perspective, a grand total of 0 work ethic still “functions” and continues to be a legit global contributor.

Years later, we still wonder the very same things. We have, however, come to appreciate many Italian traditions and mannerisms. The Italian male maintains an elevated place in our hearts, and the month of August is, as the Italians ordained, a month of rest with no exceptions. I, personally, am particularly fond of the mandatory evacuation of all cities aspect of this tradition. It implies that all offices must be evacuated as well starting August 1, and the mandatory pilgrimage to a quality seaside location, uniformly known as mare for the entire month! It’s safe to say that our antics have only been shifted from suburban Italian discotecas to sites of mischief like Cipriani’s and the Inferno on this side of the Atlantic.

And, speaking of seaside pilgrimages, it has come to my attention that Miss Model Behavior is making the most of hers. The last time I spoke, she was calling from a payphone, having held true to her word to leave behind her beloved iphone and baby mac laptop, and has ventured into yet another country in which she knows nothing of the language, little about the geographic characteristics, and a minimal amount about its customs. It sounds like a recipe for success!

I had a momentary flashback when I saw the unfamiliar area code come up on my phone screen to countless other phone calls that seasoned our international travels. So many calls that filled the gap between departure and the switching on of the international cell, and served to either calm the pre-departure anxiety, and get ourselves excited for the adventures to come. She repeatedly tried, with gestures that I am sure are generally used only in drunken games of charades, to fend off assaulting non-english speaking travelers who claimed that she was monopolizing the only working payphone. I agreed that it seemed ridiculous that she had found the holy grail of the only working payphone in the entire airport. Not even we are that lucky.

Having developed and perfected the art of persuasion and emotional manipulation in countless relationships, I was finally able to employ those arts for good, and convinced Miss MB that she was embarking not on a safari adventure doomed to end in turmoil and disaster, but that this trip would be one of those life changing positive experiences that would be forever remembered in the history of great vacations. You saw the events list, how could it not be?!

So while my inbox is still flooded with potential party options from Miss Model Behavior, I am reassured that my childhood dreams of European country parties that involve multi-day trips to ostentatious villas where never ending games, entertainment, and debauchery ensue may still exist. It sounds like Never Never Land to me, well, without the pirates or Michael Jackson, and where the lost boys are actually millionaires, attractive, intelligent, have sexy Latin accents, and were born to appreciate, entertain, and spoil girls like us.

Oh, the possibilities!