Lots of ‘U’ in Uruguay
By Melanie A. Katzman, Ph.D.
We are back! And we have stories.
We’re aboard the (delayed) buquebus (ferry) to Argentina (just an hour's sail), drinking prosecco in the gently worn business class cabin with time to reflect on our all too rapid encounter with the safe, welcoming, warm, and utterly charming country of Uruguay. A pie-shaped country between Brazil and Argentina, Uruguay is a country comprised of rolling farmland, horses running free (behind fences), and a coastline that stretches across the whole base of triangle. And we drove, ate, drank, ate, drank, and ate, (and drove), almost the entirety of the shoreline.
Arriving in this southern playground required ten hours of plane travel, followed by an hour’s drive battling Buenos Aires traffic, a two-hour ferry to Montevideo (Uruguay’s capital), with a dramatic seaside promenade and a reputation for being a pass-through city for foreigners), and then a 3.5- hour drive in the dark on partially unpaved roads until we (finally) found heaven—the Vik Estancia—a ranch ten minutes from the sea and lightyears away from any sane sense of art. Built as a private home that got "too large," the twelve rooms are situated around multiple courtyards, each designed by a different local artist, vibrating with color, charm, and an incredible whacky sensibility.
Over 27 hours of travel. We enjoyed a last night of Hanukkah miracle as we were about to fall asleep in our car, lost, with drained cell phones and no GPS, when voila! My husband’s iPhone woke up! We found an arrow on the screen, and my own cellphone connected to the hotel. As a result, we enjoyed a post-midnight meal and believed we might be the only ones to have found this respite in the middle of nowhere.
Morning! Breakfast (late). It’s 10:30 AM. And... we made it before the kitchen closes. Now another miracle. We are not the last ones to the meal. Wait...we know him! At the other table! Yep, he’s the guy who played guitar at the Real Estate Rockers for Relief (the charity concert my husband played drums at). Next table? Our across the street neighbor from Manhattan, and a fellow member of the "Hong Kong Ladies Book Club!” Ok. The place is filled with New Yorkers. Let's go to the beach.
Jose Ignacio is laid back, sunny, a jumble of golf carts and jeeps and beautiful people wearing ponchos (!!) With belts (?!) Over their bathing suits (!?!?!). Those looking for true relaxation have fled here from Punta del Este which has high rises, its own Trump Tower (the Donald's picture is on it) and a feel more reminiscent of Miami. Jose Ignacio by contrast feels like Fire Island. Except there are yoga studios...and people in ponchos.
We decide to explore the "Vik Collection" — there are three hotels created by the witty, arty couple who hail from "Greenwich New York.” Perhaps that's why the Playa Vik has familiar dialects wafting through the air. However, this Vik is "green" with well-planted roofs, a beachside fire pit and an infinity pool that shoots over the rocky beach. We settled in. Two Pisco Sours and we are jettisoned back to our hike in Chile when the kids were small, and the guide had a backpack with a cocktail shaker.
Getting into the Christmas Eve day spirit, we sprint to Susanna's for lunch, a beach club where we wiggle our toes in the sand and fish is less expensive than veggies.
Yum. Exhausting. Time for Vik three—The Bahia Vik. It’s painted the blue of our new chairs in NYC. The very blue we couldn't find in Manhattan fabric shops and clearly the blue the Viks bought out in the States so they could be unique here at the beach. We get lounge chairs around the three infinity pools and drift off for our naps, ignoring the large and effusive (loud and not very interesting) family from...NY!
Well rested, it’s time to return to our farm and change for dinner. When offered (back in NYC) a chance to celebrate Christmas Eve at the Vik, we opted for a local "sand-" centered celebration. Wise move. All the Vik properties are coming to our ranch and the band is tuning up. Given our two real estate rockers, we wondered if my husband should take a seat behind the drums. It may be Yuletide, but the tunes are decidedly klezmer like, and really lovely. We leave anyway. We join the local revelers at La Huella for holiday dinner after heading back to the Bahia Vik to catch the expansive sunset and two more Piscos as the other guests had cleared out (and were dancing around the BBQ at the barn we had abandoned when the band began). It was a glorious Christmas —the two of us, the movie was real life and the customary Chinese dinner...well, my son ate two on our behalf with his wife’s family (while watching three films). My daughter had a real Christmas in Esko. With real blondes and tall people.
We return to the Estancia as the music melted into 1970's disco, grabbed a glass of wine, and heard that a hundred people were at the Vik party. Such a bummer that we missed that many neighbors from area code 212.
Christmas Day was perfect. A long run, a nap before breakfast, a walk on the beach, and then lunch 20 minutes down dirt roads at Lucifer, a seriously wonderful restaurant in the garden of a tiny, eight-tabled home in Pueblo Garzon, a town which is experiencing a "gustatorial" revolution. Yup, 300 inhabitants and two Michelin grade eateries. Our fabulous chef is a tattooed, doc marten-clad young woman who honed her skills working in the Hamptons the prior summer. Clearly the darling of the foodie set, she studied under well-known kitchen maestros and now used her outdoor clay oven to delight and surprise us. More yum. Time for a nap.
The pool. Quiet, overlooking the lagoon. Horses. Other guests actually ride—and shoot. We sleep. Until we wake up for another round of beach and another round of cocktails and dinner! On the way, we wandered by the little white building in town with people lined up outside. We walked over, wondering if this is a famous ice cream parlor. Then, I see Jesus. It’s Christmas Mass.
On the 26th, after my run with the cows and swim (with myself), we have our last breakfast at the Vik. There are our countrymen at breakfast in bathrobes, barefoot, carrying their chia seeds in zip lock bags from home. Ouch. When did I become so “proper” that I am kinda appalled?
We headed off in the pouring rain to travel the coast to La Colonia. But first. A stop in the outdoor mural museum that is (or at least is heralded to be) the little town of Rosario. Turns out, not so much—let’s just say Bushwick, Brooklyn is safe with its worldly mural capital appellation.
La Colonia is...colonial. Disputed territory for over a century and now home to day trippers from B.A and those clever enough to stick around for the night crawling around on the cobblestones, taking in the local cheeses, wide pink sunsets, and witty plantings of old cars. True the hotel in Jose Ignacia had green roofs, but does one expect ancient VWs to run on "weed petrol.” What a wonderful sense of style this country has. Our hotel has six "white rooms" and a book of Art from the Highline. That's the urban park...in NYC! The book seems to be the only bit of home we encounter, and we left this morning so stuffed with local delicacies that finding us at home won't be hard—look for the round masses of acquired dairy transported in two middle-aged bellies.
Speaking of which, we are pulling in. Alighting in Argentina, time for lunch!!!