(Not actually a ninja. Though I do have a sword. And a bow and arrow. And I like dressing in black. So maybe there is a little bit of ninja in there.)
A lot of the experience of cancer is waiting. Waiting for a scan and then the results of the scan. Waiting for the next treatment, and then for that treatment to take effect. Waiting to see if the cancer has progressed, stalled, or retreated. Waiting across the span of weeks and months.
It might all be a bit annoying if I wasn’t used to being patient. Possibly more patient than I ought to be sometimes, but that’s a topic for another post.
When I was first diagnosed with lung cancer, some of the tumour samples were sent off for a trio of extra tests. These tests were looking for a specific mutation, ALK, that might open up other treatment options. Normally the chance of finding this mutation is pretty small, but I was already an edge case as a relatively youthful non-smoker, and the doctors figured my odds of having it were higher than normal. So they crossed their fingers and sent the samples off.
And then we waited.
Waited long enough that I had to make a decision on whether or not to start the standard chemotherapy course or wait for the test results. Deciding that punching the cancer in the face right away was the better option, I decided to go ahead, and the results of that you can read about in a preceding post.
The second course of chemo was due for yesterday, but it didn’t go ahead. Why not? Because the long-awaited test results came through, and they came through positive. Or mostly so—two out of three tests returned positive, and the third was ambivalent. My tumour was one of the rare ones with the ALK mutation, and that meant that a drug called Alectinib was now the preferred treatment option.
Why preferred? Well, beyond prospects for better results, Alectinib is delivered in pill form. Instead of going to the hospital every three weeks to have cytotoxic drugs dripped into my bloodstream, I get to go to the pharmacy and collect a box of pills, which I’ll take twice a day, with breakfast and dinner. Side effects too should be much milder, though everything to do with this kind of treatment is described in terms of percentages and I’ll have to wait and see what my percentile dice roll turns up.
As for treatment prospects, I’m still doing the reading and not getting too ahead of myself, but Alectinib does seem to offer a much better outlook than chemotherapy. The numbers for lung cancer are … not good, as a rule. The numbers for Alectinib specifically look better, with the caveat that this is a very new treatment. So new that they talk about two-year outcomes instead of five-year outcomes.
But I’m not getting too far ahead of myself on that score. This is probably the best news that I’ve had since my initial diagnosis, and if nothing else it means that I can live a much less restricted life than I was worried I might have to. One pill, twice a day, with fewer side effects than chemo? That’s something to be glad about.
Of course, this means that I’ll also be back to work before too long, and living something resembling a normal life. There’ll still be things to write about here, and I’m hardly going to be forgetting that I have cancer. There will be plenty of tests and results to wait for. I’m also giving serious thought to deleting my Facebook account, as I’ve already made the decision not to link any more posts from here to there.
For now though, I’ll take the win. More to see and more to do as the year comes in, but for now I’m in good form and hope you are too. Thanks for reading.
Another new year. A new decade, in fact. (The “starting on a 1” thing doesn’t count for decades. We’re in the ‘20s now.) And what have we learned?
<Takes a quick look around at the current state of the world.>
Not a damn lot, apparently. Going to have to do something about that.
It looks like it’s going to be an interesting year and decade. For most of the world, this is because there are people in positions of power trying to kill them in pursuit of endless profit growth. In my case, that too, but also because there are parts of my body doing their best to kill me in pursuit of endless growth.
Fun metaphor, isn’t it? Oddly, I don’t ascribe malice to either. In the case of cancer, anthropomorphising my tumour isn’t a step I’m willing to take just yet. It’s just a bunch of cells with faulty instructions, following those instructions to the letter and completely ignorant of the fact that their ultimate success leads to their ultimate destruction. If I’m not around any more, no more growth for them.
Malignant, yes. Malicious, no.
Corporate bosses wedded to the desire for continual growth are more culpable but still trapped by the same faulty instructions. As someone who had a job for years reading business magazines, the constant desire for growth always struck me as odd. If a company failed to increase its growth rate year on year, or worse yet failed to grow, the market would “punish” it by hammering its share price.
Why? Because shareholders demand a return on their investment, and merely remaining profitable year on year offered no great returns. Companies had to grow like crazy (hi Amazon!), promise future crazy growth (hi Amazon!), or dominate their market to such an extent that they grabbed all the profit therein (hi Amazon, Apple, Google, etc.!). Growth, growth, growth. Didn’t matter how it happened, as long as it was legal-ish, and as regulations on markets have tumbled and frayed around the world, the definition of legal-ish has gotten wider and wider.
The people at the helms of these growth machines are only doing what they’ve been taught to do. Maximise profit and growth and minimise loss, whether in the form of taxes, salaries, or competition. The results we see all around. People struggling to make ends meet on jobs that once would have supported most or all of a family. Social safety nets so threadbare that more and more people fall through and end up on the streets. Ecologically damaging industrial machines that keep churning because the alternative is to drop a few share points. More and more of the world’s “wealth” concentrated in the hands of fewer and fewer people. And for wealth, read “power,” because that’s how the world has been arranged since mankind got over its self-consciousness and started living in groups.
Malignant? Yes. Malicious? Not in most cases, I think. But vicious? Definitely. Vicious to anyone caught in the teeth of the growth machine.
Capitalism as cancer then? But what about all the good it brings? Well, capitalism, unlike cancer, does have some benefits. It’s a remarkably efficient engine for generating wealth and enhancing productivity. But leave it unregulated and it might as well be cancerous. Growth for the sake of more growth, without regard to the well-being of the host body. When your concerns are wholly focused on the quarterly shareholder report, you’re not paying attention to the long term.
If there’s a solution, it’s that nasty word: regulation. Regulation in deed, as well as word. And that’s going to be hard. The first country to clamp down on unrestricted corporate growth is going to see an exodus of the big boys. (Ireland is particularly vulnerable in this regard, having made itself a cosy home for them in the past few decades.) Large-scale action, in the form of nations implementing new regulations together, might halt the growth of capitalism and the erosion of the society it’s built on, but the alliances of nation states that might make such things feasible are looking shaky these days. (Someone, somewhere, is very much enjoying Brexit and the Trumpocracy and all the international mistrust that’s spreading as a result.)
But, you know, it’s a new year. And only two days in, we ought to remain at least a little optimistic about how things are going to turn out. Hopeful that we’re in the midst of late-stage capitalism, not end-stage capitalism. Hopeful that some global medical team more knowledgable than me has the correct therapy to halt the ever-spreading gospel of growth. Because most of us have enough on our plates to deal with, without worrying that the whole system is going to collapse within our lifetimes.
Cancer Update: Since I know a few people are keeping an eye on this blog for reasons other than my anti-capitalist pessimism, a little personal update. The first chemotherapy session was two weeks ago, and things have gone pretty well so far. Side effects were minimal and gone within a week. I didn’t even need to use any of my anti-nausea medication (though the vile-tasting laxative drink did prove immediately useful). Next dose of chemotherapy is in a week, and if things turn out the same then I might be back at work before too long. As for any results from the treatment, it’s way too early for those, but maybe (just maybe) my cough seems a little less harsh. Even if that’s purely psychosomatic, I’ll take it. And, as before, I’m still fully active and enjoyed the Christmas and New Year period, so no complaints on that front either.
Most of all, I want to thank everyone who’s reached out on hearing about my diagnosis. It has been one of the nicest parts of this whole experience. Which is not saying a lot, I know, so just know that each and every one of you are deeply appreciated.
I don’t think I have any photos of myself getting chemotherapy from the first time around. That was nearly a quarter of a century ago, in the pre-digital age, so any photos there are would be the old-fashioned type, buried in a folder somewhere. In any case, it didn’t feel like the sort of thing one would take photos of. It was too desperate, too morbid, too confusing—too close to the bone.
Now though? Well, we take photos of anything, don’t we?
In the photo above, I’m having my first session of chemotherapy in St. James’ Hospital, getting a combination of pemetrexed and carboplatin pumped into my veins. Pumped very carefully, of course. These are toxic chemicals, and if the needle isn’t positioned right, well … 25 years ago it was explained to me that it would be like a chemical burn under your skin. They didn’t go into the gruesome detail this time around, but the nurse was appropriately careful.
You might note that I’m smiling in the photo above. Does that seem odd? Wrong? I don’t know, but it is honest. As much of a shock as the lung cancer diagnosis was, I feel like I’ve adjusted well. This is what needs to be done for now, and compared to a lot of other people, I’m lucky. I had one of my best friends keeping me company through the first session and plenty of others asking after me. Plus—and this is no small thing—I’ve been through this (or a variation of this) before. I’m prepared.
(Or at least I think I am. Time will tell.)
Back in the 1990s, the experience was similar, though maybe a little less efficient. Chemotherapy for Hodgkins’ Lymphoma likewise involved a combination of drugs, the names of which have long since escaped me. Though I was, at the time, put on the less harsh regime of the two available, it wasn’t a fun experience. Beyond having a line inserted into the veins of my hand (more painful than the elbow, but I have decent veins, so it wasn’t a chore for most nurses), the several hours that I spent in the ward watching drugs drip into my feed usually saw the side effects kick off, in the form of nausea and lethargy.
Whether the combination of drugs have been refined, or it’s just early days and I’ve yet to be worn down, that’s not the case this time around. The initial session lasted just a couple of hours, and two days later I’ve yet to be hit with anything particularly bad as regards side effects. Inevitably, the bit that has dropped in has been my least favourite: constipation. Still, that’s not so bad—my prescription included a couple of hefty boxes of laxatives, and I’m not going to wait around to use them. Fecal impaction is one of the least fun experiences I’ve had over the course of my life.
It’s probably too early to be making much of a comparison between then and now. I need a few more runs around the chemo carousel to get a better idea of how things are different. Or I need to do more reading to get a better idea of how things have advanced in the last quarter century of anti-cancer efforts.
What I can say is that this treatment does feel more refined. Last time out, I was taking in cytotoxic drugs two weeks out of three and swallowing enough pills every morning to make me rattle. This time, it’s one week out of three, and the drug intake has been pared down to cover the treatment days and any side effects that might crop up. My body should have enough time to recover between sessions. Hopefully the cancer won’t.
The reassurance, then: I feel fine, right now. Walking and driving around, living the same life as before. Waiting for the hammer to fall, just a little, but not so much as to stop me living my life. It’s Christmas, after all. I’ve got people to see. The role of a cool uncle to play (current plans include introducing my nieces and nephews to Dungeons & Dragons). Chemo’s not going to get in the way of me doing that.
(Content warning for discussions of illness and mortality. If you want to avoid that, skip to the last four paragraphs for the summary.)
That’s not 100 percent accurate. When I was 19 I was diagnosed with cancer, but the cancer itself—Hodgkin’s Lymphoma—had been hanging around since I was 18, perhaps 17. Over the course of a year and a half, it had kept me from sleeping with constant itching, set off regular sweating, and carved a couple of stone off my weight. When a couple of lymph nodes swelled up and I was sent off to a hospital for diagnosis and treatment, it was a relief.
Chemotherapy consumed my life for eight months. As a teenager who hadn’t taken time out between school and college, it served as my gap year. I’d advise travel instead. Lethargy and nausea pinned me to the couch most of the time, and constipation was a very unpleasant occasional visitor. The brightest spot in all of this was getting to spend more time with my youngest brother, fourteen years younger than me, who was just starting primary school.
It was worth it in the end. After eight months I got the all clear and went back to college, doing my best to resume my life with barely an acknowledgement of what I’d been through. For the next two decades and more, I stayed healthy and gradually became something close to a functional adult.
Then, this January, I noted a wheeze in my breath.
Given how this article started, you can probably see what’s coming. I didn’t. For all that cancer had never left my mind, it wasn’t the first thing I thought of. Back at 19, I had symptoms aplenty. Now, I had none. I was healthy and fit. In fact, just a few months before, I’d run a half marathon in a little over an hour and a half. The wheeze was probably the remnants of a cough. It would go away.
After a few months, I went to see a doctor. They did the usual checks, listening to my breathing and my heart, asking if I had ever been prone to asthma or had any allergies. Neither those checks nor blood tests showed up anything, but I got an inhaler and tried it out. It didn’t make any difference, and running and cycling were now chores instead of enjoyable exercise.
I went back to the doctor again. My mum had gone through heart problems the year before, and I knew that heart and lung problems often went together. So I was sent to a cardiac consultant. Tests were done, including breathing tests, but once again nothing was found. I began to seriously wonder what was going on.
I went on a holiday to South America. You can read about it in previous entries in this blog. It was a special experience but I noticed that the wheeze seemed to ease while I was there. Could there be something at home causing it? I checked with the doctor when I got back. I’d had a leak problem in my apartment for a while, and I suspected that there might be mould present. But there wasn’t a good way to check for that, so I focused on resolving the leak and hoped that would deal with the wheeze.
Then I started to cough up blood.
Back to the doctor I went. I was referred to a respiratory consultant but first I was sent to St. James’ Hospital for a chest x-ray. The reaction was quick—my GP got in touch to tell me that the hospital would be arranging more tests. A couple of weeks later, I was brought in for a meeting with a consultant (by mistake, I was sent to the Lung Cancer Surveillance Clinic first, though I wouldn’t put it past the universe to just have a warped sense of humour) and told that part of my lung was blocked and had collapsed. I was scheduled for a CT scan and bronchoscopy not long after.
It was that day that I first became sure, if not absolutely certain, of what was going on. My wheeze had turned into a persistent cough, and the doctor performing the bronchoscopy told me (and my parents) that the CT scan had found a mass blocking one of the passages in my lung. The bronchoscopy saw a sample taken from it and an enlarged lymph node between the lungs, and I was told that the next step would be a PET scan.
Things moved slowly as the PET scan was scheduled. I did a little reading. If the CT scan and bronchoscopy look for the shape and substance of things, the PET scan looks for something different. It examines the body for fast-growing cells. Cells like cancer, wherever they might have spread. If I was being sent for one of these scans, the doctors probably had a strong suspicion that cancer was involved.
(As an aside, the PET scan was one of the more interesting medical experiences of my life. It involves being injected with radioactive fluid, which was delivered in a lead-lined case and injected using a lead-sheathed syringe. Before the scan, I was left alone in a room for an hour, and afterwards I was told to stay away from pregnant women and small children, so radioactive was I for a few hours. Sadly, no superpowers ensued.)
Finally, the day came. I was brought into another meeting in St. James, and I brought my parents. I’d tried to prepare them, explaining my suspicions the weekend before, but it still wasn’t easy. The doctor was clearly uncomfortable, and there was a nurse hovering behind us, perhaps ready to pick up the pieces.
Exactly what he said, I can only remember in snatches. Two-word bursts. Lung cancer. Not curable. I was more focused on my parents. My mum’s pained silence. My dad’s breathing coming in shorter, louder gasps. We were told the situation. Not curable but treatable. There would be more chemotherapy, and perhaps radiotherapy, after some further tests. No surgery though. It had already spread enough that cutting it out of the body would only inflict pain without benefit.
That was several weeks ago. The tests have been coming back slowly since then. I’m not a candidate for more advanced immunotherapy treatment, but I might yet be eligible for a pill-based form of treatment that would be preferable to the standard chemotherapy. Even then, there will be scans and tests aplenty to come. With cancer, especially one that is treatable, not curable, it’s all about seeing what treatment works best. Holds the cancer in check or even pushes it back.
That’s what my life is going to be now. Treat, test, repeat. Exactly what my prospects are, it’s hard to say. As a non-smoker in my 40s, I’m already an outlier among lung cancer patients, so the usual statistics don’t apply. For myself though, my assumption is that this is what is going to take me out eventually. Treatments don’t hold forever. There are two alternatives to this fate: some other death intervenes, or cancer treatments advance to the point where they can do something more than just treat. To where “not curable” is no longer the status quo.
Am I being morbid or hopeful? I’m not entirely sure. I’ve already had another two bad words: Stage Four. But that’s mostly a way for doctors to gauge their progress and effectiveness. What matters now is direction. Whether the cancer goes forward or backwards. I won’t know that until we’re already deep into treatment. Regardless, what I want is time. Time to read, to write, to travel. Time to spend with my family, especially my nieces and nephews. If nothing else, I want the treatment to give me that.
It starts tomorrow. My first chemotherapy session and six weeks absence from work. What do I do with that time? I have ideas, and some of them will show up here. I won’t be posting about this on social media, so this blog will become the home of whatever thoughts I do have. Though they won’t be restricted to cancer alone. Or at least not biological cancer—there are plenty of metaphorical cancers in the world. And I have thoughts to share on those.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you know me personally, I apologise. I’ve had to tell more than a few people about this, and it’s never been fun. If you stick around, you’ll have my gratitude. Already, I’ve been overwhelmed by the offers of assistance and expressions of love from friends and family. That, at least, is one thing I don’t see changing any time soon.
With a break from the rugby yesterday, I decided it might be a good idea to pay a bit more attention to the world outside of sport. What, exactly, has been going on in the world of politics and culture?
Well, that was a mistake, wasn’t it? Let’s retreat into some make-believe instead and take a look at one of the biggest comics stories of the year, Jonathan Hickman’s reboot of Marvel’s X-Men franchise.
(Spoilers below, if you haven’t read it. And you should—it’s good.)
We’re sort of at the end of the first round of matches in the Rugby World Cup—because the groups have an odd number of teams, some haven’t played as others are beginning their second round of matches. Ireland fans got to have some fun in the form of Iain Henderson galloping like an angry llama through Scottish defenders, the venerable captain and hooker Rory Best trying out a sidestep and offload among his moments of acting as a backup scrum half (proving once and for all that you can teach old dogs new tricks), and the Irish pack mutating into a many-armed and -legged beast hungry for tries and opposition flesh.
For more general fans, the most enjoyable game has possibly been the most recent, with Uruguay mugging Fiji to steal an unlikely win. As someone who’s recently been to and is unreasonably fond of Uruguay, this result has been providing me with internal warmth all day. Probably a good thing, as back in Ireland we’ve definitively seen the last of summer now.
Regardless, With the flurry of games over the opening weekend having seen all the major contenders for the title fire their first shots, we can perhaps see the direction in which things might be heading. For simplicity’s sake, let’s take a look at those contenders in broad, and possibly contentious, categories.
The out-and-out favourites for the RWC this year had a mixed set of results, mainly because two of them played each other in one of the most interesting games of the weekend. New Zealand came out the victors against South Africa, courtesy of a few moments of brilliance in the first half, but it was a much tighter game than the 10-points differential might suggest. New Zealand should go on to top the group now and face either Scotland or Japan in the quarter finals, whereas South Africa will be wary of a potential banana skin in the form of Italy. They ought to have enough in the tank to put away the Italians comfortably, but a loss already puts them at a disadvantage and nerves could take hold.
As for the other top-tier team, England stuttered a little in the first half before dispatching Tonga. It was a performance with plenty of bite in it, but coach Eddie Jones won’t be satisfied with how long it took his charges to end their challenge. With Argentina and France also in their group, England aren’t certain of anything yet, and they’ll be looking to improve over the games to come.
Not far below the big three come a trio of teams with eyes very much on the prize. Of them, Ireland will be by far the happiest with their performance, as mentioned above. They shut down a dangerous but ultimately disappointing Scottish team, picking up a bonus point and not letting in any tries. With their most challenging group game behind them, Ireland will now need to see off hosts Japan before they can start looking towards a potential quarter final showdown with South Africa.
Like New Zealand and South Africa, Wales and Australia share a group, but they didn’t meet on the opening weekend, instead facing and dispatching Georgia and Fiji respectively. Neither win was entirely convincing, as both teams shipped a few tries in claiming a bonus point win, but they remain on course to collect the two qualifying spots in the group. Which order they’ll end in will largely depend on their meeting this weekend, with the loser likely facing England in the quarter finals. Both will be keen to avoid that, and the more solid Wales seem likely to come out on top.
At this point, things get a little messy. France and Argentina share the group of death with England, and unless both of them can upset the Saxon chariot, one of them will miss out on the quarters. Their meeting over the opening weekend was a thrilling and frustrating match, with France bursting into a lead and Argentina trying and just failing to haul them back. As a result, France have the whip hand and Argentina will need to go for broke against England. Bonus points could decide things yet, and don’t put it past France to implode against one of the other nations or spring a surprise on England.
Lastly we come to Scotland, the unfortunate victims of Ireland’s impressive weekend showing. Coming into the tournament with high hopes, they’re now reeling from a loss and a few injuries that have knocked out some of their best players. Their match against Japan could be the highlight of the final group stage weekend, with the hosts desperate to make it to the quarter finals and the Scots equally desperate to avoid the ignominy of going out in the group stages.
There weren’t any dramatic surprises over the course of the opening weekend, though the lower-ranked teams performed well enough (and Uruguay‘s victory over Fiji provides hope of more to come). The best of them, Japan andItaly, both won their opening matches comfortably enough, but it’s Japan who have the better hope of making the quarter finals (as discussed above). Italy are unfortunate enough to be in the same group as New Zealand and South Africa, and a result against either seems like the longest of long shots.
Elsewhere, no one has really put their hand up as someone to watch, though everyone has contributed to what’s been a fun opening few days. Concerns about refereeing and punishments over high tackles aside, this looks like it’s set to be the tournament we were hoping it would be. Roll on the next few weeks…
We’re just hours away from the kickoff of the 2019 Rugby World Cup in Japan. It’s something of a bittersweet moment for me—rugby is my favourite sport to watch, either on TV or in person, and eight years ago I was in Japan while the 2011 RWC was taking place in New Zealand. Falling in love with the country, I decided that I would return, and that my return would coincide with the 2019 RWC.
Well, the gods laugh when men make plans, and that hasn’t happened. For a few reasons, the most notable of which was the subject of this blog’s most recent travelogue. Two major expeditions in one year would stretch my finances and holiday allowance far beyond breaking point, and so I’m leaving the up-close-and-personal experience to my brother, who’s heading to Japan himself in a day or two. For myself, I’ll have to be content with watching as many games as I can from the comfort of my couch or a suitably raucous pub.
I’m primarily a fan of the Ireland team, of course, representing as it does Ireland north and south (and east and west—there are four proud provinces, after all), and Ireland have a similarly fraught relationship to the RWC. Despite a few outstanding performances, they’ve never made it past the quarter finals (in 2011, I sat in a pub in Santa Cruz with a couple of professional golf caddies and watched them get thoroughly outplayed by Wales). This time, it seems that they might have timed their run well. Having enjoyed an annus mirabilis in 2018, they’ve been far less impressive in 2019 so far, other teams having seemingly figured out how to beat them. Improbably, a couple of wins against Wales in their last two games have elevated Ireland to the number 1 slot in the world rankings, and all of a sudden Irish fans are starting to believe that coach Joe Schmidt might just have enough tricks up his sleeve to take them to the promised land.
Of course, there are plenty of obstacles in the way. Assuming Ireland get through their group, they’ll likely face either New Zealand or South Africa in the quarters. It’s hard to say which would be the greater challenge. New Zealand have been the best team in the world for years, in addition to being the reigning champions, but they’ve looked fallible in the past year, and Ireland have a solid winning record against them recently. South Africa, who share a group with New Zealand, arrive from the opposite direction. Having been in the wilderness for a few years, they’re now looking as good as any team out there, led by coach Rassie Erasmus, formerly of Irish provincial side Munster. I’d actually back them to beat New Zealand to top their group and would even mark them as current favourites to win the whole thing.
As for the other main contenders? England are brutally efficient and have worked hard to eliminate the fallibilities that have undermined them in recent years. They took an undercooked Ireland to the cleaners in their most recent meeting, but which side will have benefited most from that lopsided result is hard to say before the tournament is over. Wales are the closest side to Ireland in terms of their ability to beat anyone when their system clicks, and they’re probably a little more reliable in terms of recent results. They share a group with Australia though, and the mercurial Ozzies are likely to surprise someone before the tournament is over. A far bigger surprise would be if France were to achieve anything of note—they’ve been a shambles for years—but that’s practically France’s raison d’etre, so England will not be comfortable sharing a group with them. Last of the tier-one nations, Scotland share a group with Ireland and are far from favourites to come out ahead in their meeting, just a week away now, but they can sparkle in attack if their opponents make the mistake of letting them do so. Ireland under Schmidt will have to be well prepared.
For neutrals and tournament organisers though, the tier-two nations are where it’s at. Teams like hosts Japan, who famously defeated South Africa in the 2015 RWC, as well as perennial also-rans like Georgia, Fiji, and Canada, and larger nations with the potential to spread the gospel of rugby union, like Russia and the USA. The better these teams do and the more competitive they are—especially if one or two of them can spring a surprise against the larger teams—the better it is for the tournament, both this year and in the future. Both fans and organisers will be happier too, so there’s no downside unless you’re in or supporting a team on the wrong side of one of those surprises. (Looks nervously at the boys in green and crosses his fingers.)
But given that there’s only a few hours to go, and you don’t know much about rugby (its rules are less straightforward to parse than football’s), what can you do to catch up quick? Well, the first thing I’d advise you to do is hop onto Twitter and search for Squidge Rugby. This rugby-loving channel offers an affectionate and funny take on this sport of thugs, played by gentlemen, and he’s in Japan as I write this, preparing to serve up videos throughout the tournament. Even better, before the tournament he provided brief profiles of each of the competing teams—their history, players, and chances in the games to come—so a small amount of entertaining effort will give you plenty of facts to drop into any rugby-related conversation you find yourself in.
For more immediate information, seek out Murray Kinsella on Twitter (@Murray_Kinsella). Possibly Ireland’s greatest living store of rugby-related knowledge, he’s been providing detailed breakdowns on Ireland’s games for years on the42.ie, and he’ll likely be working flat out during the tournament. Lastly, for listening while on the go, there’s the Blood & Mud podcast (@bloodandmud). A relaxed but engaged take on the rugby world, it’ll fill any gaps you’re seeking to have filled.
That’s as much info as any person, novice or otherwise, is likely to need. Apart from those, sit back, find a handy screen that’ll be showing the games (most of them in the early morning here in Ireland, due to the time difference), and enjoy. I know I will (with possible blips should Ireland’s participation turn into a nightmare once more). This should be one of the closest RWCs ever, and it’s genuinely impossible to pick a definite favourite from among the world’s top six teams. #shouldertoshoulder
One of the inevitable consequences of long journeys abroad is the period of adjustment afterwards. Everything that’s been put off or ignored while you’ve been off exploring must be dealt with on your return. I’ve done these kind of trips so often that I can mitigate the worst of it, but even so it took about two weeks after my return from South America before I felt that I’d caught up with the life I left behind.
Delivering write ups of my travels was part of that catching up, and that element of the checklist was ticked off about a week ago. Still, there are a few thoughts that never quite fit into the posts that I’ve already put up. So for the sake of completeness, here follow a few suggestions for anyone who might be tempted to follow in my footsteps.
Bring a Guidebook: First off, don’t rely on my words. Get yourself a guidebook. Lonely Planet usually serves me well, but your mileage may vary. Even though the Internet has usurped many of their functions, a collection of suggestions about places to stay, sights to see, and culinary delights to sample will serve as good bus or train reading in the space between places. Lonely Planet’s guidebook for South America added a hefty lump to my baggage, but it did what I needed (except perhaps in Rio, where its broad approach was spread a little too thin).
Pack According to Your Needs: This will depend heavily upon your habits and plans, but it’s possible to minimise what you’re carrying on a long overland trip. I generally go for a daily bag containing everything vital to the trip (passport, electronics, medicine, etc.) and a larger backpack containing clothes and anything I don’t need immediate access to. Judicious trimming of what you bring will make this even more functional: I only needed to use a laundry once during my three-week-plus trip, and I kept dirty clothes separated in waterproof internal bags.
Stray Dogs Everywhere: Start in the west and travel east and you’ll notice a change from canine to feline. Chile and Argentina both have stray dogs aplenty, though most of them look as though they’re well fed, and I didn’t come across any who were unfriendly. It wasn’t until I hit Buenos Aires’ main cemetery that I saw cats in the open. By the time you reach Rio, balance has been restored, though the marmosets on the Sugarloaf are surely an outlier.
Don’t Rely on WiFi: I did without buying a traveller’s SIM card for my phone, figuring that a bit of disconnection would be good for me, and that WiFi would fill any gaps that there were. Which was more or less true: wandering around cities is better if the world doesn’t intrude on your thoughts, and there’s WiFi aplenty in public spaces. However, be aware that most of these WiFi networks are unsecured, and even in hotels, where the networks are more secure, the strength of the signal may not be the best. In short, accept the disconnection and know what you’re going to need before you go online. (And don’t use data roaming except in an emergency—the 30 seconds that mine was active before I remembered to turn it off cost me about €20.)
The Roads are Pretty Good—Mostly: After driving north and south through Chile, my ambition to some day traverse the entire Panamerican Highway is stronger than ever. Probably not all of it will be as nice as the route between Santiago and La Serena, but what I experienced was exceptional in terms of quality and views available. I didn’t have much to complain about when it came to the main roads in Argentina and Uruguay either, so renting a car for travel is a definite possibility.
Don’t be a Competitive Driver: This is more of a general rule, as opposed to something specific to South America. Drivers who overtake at high speed, dive into the tightest of gaps between cars, and are allergic to the use of indicators, are best left to their own devices. Especially when you’re a foreign driver. If there’s going to be any consequences to that kind of behaviour, the further away you are from it, the better.
Carry Cash…: Many places will allow you to use debit and credit cards, especially in and around the major tourist sites, but it’s always handy to have some cash if you’re planning on exploring further afield or if the tourist stuff holds little interest. Of course, if you’re country hopping, that means you’ll need to make use of currency exchanges, either in banks or the smaller cambios. Also, the usual rules for travellers apply: don’t keep it all in one place, and don’t flash it around either. As always, be safe.
…but Beware of ATMs: If you need cash, you’ll likely need to turn to ATMs, of which there are plenty. Most of these will be in indoor lobbies, so they’re safe enough to use, though take the usual care. The major issue is that the fees for using them are not small. Limit your usage accordingly, because those fees do add up.
Trains are good, but buses are your friend: I’m as big a fan of train travel as you’re likely to find, but buses are the better option in South America. The passenger train network is disconnected, and the one I did take was a good bit slower than the bus alternative would have been. Buses go pretty much everywhere, and the major cities are connected by coaches run by multiple companies. Do your research and you can get where you need to go cheaply.
Go for comfort…: On the coach routes, you’ll often have the option to opt for “cama” or “semi-cama” seats. These will be on the lower tier of double decker coaches, and they’ll provide you with well-upholstered seats with lots of legroom and an ability to recline far enough to provide you with an opportunity for snoozing. Pick the right coach provider and you may even be offered snacks.
…but mind the view: The one problem with those cama or semi-cama seats is that since they’re on the lower deck of the coach, you’re going to lose out on some viewing opportunities. You can mitigate these problems a bit by selecting the right seat when booking your trip. For example, when crossing the Andes from Santiago to Mendoza, sit by the right window for the best views, and sit on the left when going the other way.
Avail of “las verduras” where you can: Especially in Argentina and Uruguay, meat is a way of life. Vegetarians are going to have to put a bit of extra effort in, and vegans might find themselves restricted in terms of their dietary choices. (Well … more restricted.) That said, there are some really good verduras and frutas to be had, and if you’re not aiming to pursue a purely carnivorous diet, you should grab them whenever you can.
Brazil is different: There’s a lot of commonality across the three Spanish-speaking nations I visited, but once I landed in Rio, there was enough of a change to inflict just a little culture shock. Whatever preparation I’d done for the start of the trip went out of the window, and I was more or less starting again. Language was a particular issue, with Spanish and Portuguese far enough apart that there was little knowledge to transfer, and few people speaking much or any English. In short, put the effort in to learn a little about the country that you’re visiting. But isn’t that always the way?
It’s absolutely worth it: Sticking to road and rail to cross a continent is something that I’ve done four times now. Seeing the landscape close up is a massive improvement over staring at it out of a tiny plane window. Getting outside of the big cities, or just walking around a city from dawn to dusk and knowing that just a week or two ago you were sat by a different ocean is an amazing feeling. Every trip generates thoughts of things that you could have done or moments that you might have missed, but focus on the good memories. Trips like this will generate plenty of them.
Ah, Rio de Janeiro. City of blazing sunshine, sultry heat, and tropical mountains piled up around bays of crystal clear waters washing onto white sand beaches. Or, in my case, a city of clouds, rain, humidity, and walking. Lots and lots of walking.
Such are the problems of travelling in South America in winter, I suppose. I’d been lucky enough as far as Montevideo, but Rio was a lot further north and east. I’d planned to get there by bus, via São Paulo, but I’d already ditched that plan in favour of flights, accepting a bit of extra carbon guilt in exchange for more time to explore. Courtesy of Azul, a much nicer short-hop carrier than Ryanair, I was dropped first in Porto Alegre’s Salgado Filho International Airport, then into Rio’s city-centre Santos Dumont Airport.
A nighttime landing meant the city was nice and cool, but plans for getting to my hotel ran into a non-functional metro card dispenser, so I ended up walking instead of taking the tram. Luckily, my hotel, the Lapa Ville in the Santa Teresa neighbourhood, was as central as could be, if a bit basic in its amenities. Stage one of my Rio visit successfully achieved, I chilled out for the evening and made plans for the next few days.
My first full day in Rio was the one with most of the walking. The first item on the menu though was the Escadaria Selarón, which was just around the corner from the hotel. This lesser-known sight of Rio is a fabulously colourful tiled staircase, the work of one artist, who has expanded it over the years with contributions from around the world. I also explored it on the best morning I’d see in the city, with sun and heat to match the best Irish summer.
As Santa Teresa is so central, another short stroll took me to the Lapa Arches of the Carioca Aqueduct, and beyond them to the conical mountain of the Metropolitan Cathedral, far newer and more imposing than any of the cathedrals I’d seen so far on this trip, with its cavernous interior just about illuminated by the light pouring through great banks of stained glass. I peered in before moving on, doing a little more of a wander around the city centre and picking up both some cash and a USB charger to replace the one that went missing somewhere in Montevideo.
A brief visit to the Praça Quinze de Novembre (November is the month here, not July) waterfront was as far as that walk went though. I needed a few items from my hotel room (hat, sunglasses, extra sun cream), so I grabbed them and moved on after a short break.
I should have known better than to tempt fate. On this pleasant day, I decided to walk down to the railway that climbs to the famous Cristo Redentor statue overlooking the city, but the long walk down Rua do Catata and up Rua das Laranjeiras was all the time that was needed for the rain to start falling. And keep falling. By the time I reached the Corcovado tram station, the top of the mountain and the statue were completely lost in rain and clouds. Somewhat reluctantly, given the length of the walk, I decided I’d try again later.
I did manage to salvage something from the trip, picking up a Rio Card for the city’s public transport system, which got me back to the Cinelandia stop near Santa Teresa. Lunch at a nearby restaurant was a let-down, but I wanted to get something out of the day, so I headed to the nearby Museum of Modern Art (after figuring out how to cross the lanes of traffic in between). The Museum was pleasantly air conditioned, and some of the exhibits were interesting enough, but I kept on moving, and before long I was on my first Rio beach.
Flamengo Beach, unlike the more famous (and longer) Copacabana, faces the Baía de Guanabara instead of the Atlantic Ocean, but it shares the same white sand, and it was nice to take off my sandals and just walk in the surf. And get wet. Next day would be shorts, I decided then.
The day still had enough time to take another shot at either the Sugarloaf or the Cristo Redentor, so I had a decision to make. As it was a bit windy and I couldn’t see any cable cars crossing to the Sugarloaf, I decided that the Cristo was the way to go. I thought I might even be able to catch the sunset up there. Sadly, the rain and clouds had other plans, and by the time I made it to the tram, it had shut up shop for the evening. An offer of a taxi alternative didn’t seem that appealing, so I called it quits and headed for home base.
Day One had been a bit of a bust, but at least my hotel was just around the corner from a range of bars and clubs. So I got to sit and chill out with beer and fries at a street side table and watch Rio’s (somewhat meagre) winter crowds wander by before it was time for sleep.
Given how badly day one had gone, my second and last full day in Rio had to be a busy one. I headed straight down to the Largo do Machado metro station and up the familiar road to the Corcovado tram. This time, despite warnings that I wouldn’t be able to see anything, I bought a ticket anyway, and after twenty minutes of ascending through the cloud forests that flank the Corcovado mountain on which the Cristo sits, I was dropped at the base of the mountaintop complex and climbed up to see Rio’s most famous face.
Except that the big lad was being a bit shy, and by the time I was at his feet, his head was lost in the clouds. Everyone else was sheltering from the rain under plastic ponchos, whereas I had only an umbrella to keep the rain off my shorts, sandals, and t-shirt. Luckily, the clouds soon cleared to a round of cheers and the mountaintop became selfie central. We even got a view of the city and the bay below, though the clouds never quite cleared enough for that view to become as epic as it promised.
So that was one sight down, with one to go. I came down from my mountaintop meeting with god (sans tablets of stone but plus a couple of fridge magnets) and headed for Pao do Açucar, better known as the Sugarloaf. The metro dropped me off at the Botofago station, and I walked the rest of the way to the cable car. It’s a two-stage trip, first to the Morro da Urca and from there to the Sugarloaf itself. Not quite as tall as the Corcovado on which the Cristo stands, it offers just as good a view because it stands right at the mouth of the bay. Plus, taking the trip to the top gives you a chance to wander around the forest trails there, and to spot the marmosets begging for scraps from the tourists (you’re not supposed to feed them, but people do anyway). The best bit of it though was looking down on the planes as they approached Santos Dumont either through the mountains surrounding the city or from the mouth of the bay.
Despite the rain, it had been a productive day, and there was plenty of daylight left. I wanted to make use of it, so I looked into the Museu de Ciencias da Terra, which seemed interesting (and had dinosaurs!) but was sadly closed. So instead, I walked some more. The Ladeira do Leme climbed over a saddle between two peaks, and beyond was the Copacabana. Not as deserted as the Flamengo had been the day before, it was washed by some serious Atlantic surf, and even my shorts weren’t enough to save me from getting a bit damp.
I passed by some foot-volleyball players showing serious skill, but I didn’t want to stick around too long, as evening was finally drawing in, so I went in search of the local metro stations. There were some issues with the Rio Card again, as I needed to top it up, but before too long I was back at Cinelandia, returning to the hotel to rest my feet before another evening of beer, fries, and cocktails, with samba music providing a backdrop at the Leviano Bar. I even dropped in on the local Irish bar, where decent beer wasn’t enough to make me take part in a session of death metal karaoke.
The last day in Rio was also the last day of the trip. So I dawdled over packing and made sure everything was in order before checking out. After two days of venturing south, I turned north instead, aiming for the Sao Cristóvão stop, where I had access to the Park Quinta da Boa Vista. The plan was to visit the National Museum, but it turned out to be closed. (Something of a theme for Rio in the winter.) Thoroughly closed, as in surrounded by scaffolding and gutted on the inside. So I wandered around the park instead and said hi to the cats.
Back across the road and a short stroll away was the Maracanã Stadium. If the Centenario in Montevideo had all the history, the Maracanã was a temple to football on a gigantic scale, having hosted both the Olympics and the World Cup. Runners were circling the entire complex as I walked widdershins, and I was getting a little sunshine for the first time in a few days, so all was going well enough.
I checked my travel plans for the evening at the train station before heading back into town, getting off at Central and heading down the Av. Marechal Floriano before angling north to the Museum of Tomorrow on the waterfront. If the rest of Rio’s attractions were underpopulated, this one was packed, with a queue that only got longer. A multimedia marvel in a building that looks like a spacecraft come in to land, it was an excellent way to use up what remained of the day, as was the restaurant underneath, where I enjoyed some grilled fish and a disturbingly alcoholic caipirinha as I enjoyed the view.
That was more or less it though. One last walk down the waterfront to the hotel and grabbing my bags, then a three-stage trip to the airport. That was the plan, at least. Except that on stage two, I was seized by a moment of fear. Had I screwed up the time difference and missed my flight? Rushing wouldn’t have solved the problem, but it did make me feel a bit better, so I used up some of the last of my cash to finish the trip in a taxi to Terminal 2. Was I too late?
No. No I wasn’t. Panic over, after double-checking the departures board. My long journey across South America was at an end, and British Airways was waiting to take me away. And that is as good a place as any to end. Thanks for listening, and farewell.
(Okay, there’ll be an epilogue later. But you’ll have to wait for that.)
Ferry ports are rarely impressive things. Thus my first impression of Uruguay was mostly of concrete and rust. I didn’t have time or opportunity to explore the reputedly beautiful city of Colonia either, for we were loaded straight onto a bus for Montevideo (comfy, if a little frayed). The driver wasted no time in getting us going either, taking us out of the port city and onto a main road that was still under construction in some parts but otherwise ran smooth and straight through the countryside.
As for that countryside, it proved remarkably familiar in a lot of ways, with green grass, hedgerows, and both cows and sheep in abundance. These were interspersed with more tropical vegetation, and every so often there would be the glimpse of a bird the likes of which you just don’t see in Ireland, but otherwise I was starting to feel very much at home. When I reached Montevideo, this feeling faded, but only a little. It’s a bustling, active city, like a cross between Dublin and the cities of Buenos Aires and Córdoba that I’d only recently passed through.
A long walk along Av. 18 de Julio (July was obviously an auspicious month in South American independence) from Terminal Trés Cruces brought me at length to Independencia Plaza, where the massive and oddly shaped Palacio Salva stands above an equestrian statue of José Gervasio Artigas (itself above his mausoleum). My hotel, the Lonely Planet-suggested Hotel Palacio, was just a street away, and I was soon settled into a cosy, old-style room, with a balcony that offered a view over, well, a man varnishing an expanse of wooden decking.
I had enough hours of daylight left to explore a little, so I spent my time walking out to the end of the harbour’s breakwater as the sun faded from the sky, then having a chocolate caliente at Piwi, before retrieving some money from the bank machines (after a bit of struggle) and eating a Uruguayan speciality, a chivito sandwich, with a Chopp beer, before returning to the hotel. I’d been having second thoughts about the travel plans for the latter half of my trip, and a few hours walking around Montevideo had decided those. As what would prove to be a nine-hour thunderstorm rolled in, I made some changes to the week to come.
Even as I was wandering through Montevideo on that first night, I’d been recasting my plans for the rest of the trip. The plan had been to spend just one full day in the city, then head out on the following night on a 31-hour bus trip to São Paulo, spend a night there, then head on to Rio de Janeiro the next day. However, that stretch had already faced some changes—I’d been considering jumping on another bus to Rio after only a few hours. A short stay in South America’s megalopolis held little appeal, and it was time better used in Rio.
But Montevideo deserved better as well, and though it would mean abandoning my bus ticket, I had another option. I could spend a decent amount of time in the Uruguayan capital, then hop on a plane to Porto Alegre on the 15th, with a speedy connection to Rio from there. It was a far more appealing approach, though it would also mean eating some a carbon footprint hit. With my arrival in Montevideo, I’d crossed from Pacific to Atlantic, and that was the ground travel I was interested in. As the thunder rolled, I made the bookings, and the next morning amid the misty remains of the storm, I sorted out an extra two nights in the Hotel Palacio.
The rest of my time in Montevideo and Uruguay divided into three days and three parts. The first was exploring the Ciudad Vieja (old city) and the headland that it’s built on. The second was using a tourist bus to explore some of the city’s outer reaches. The last, a Sunday, would be a necessary day of rest, though it would have its own points of interest. It wasn’t as complete an itinerary as it could have been—I could have used the city’s extensive bus system to range as far out as tree-filled Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, and given more time I might have spent a day in the resort of Punta del Este (though at this time of the year it would be a ghost town)—but overall I’m happy with my decision.
The morning of the first day, then, was all about museums. The first of those was also the best. Museo Andes 1972 celebrates the story of the Miracle of the Andes, in which a Uruguayan rugby team crashed high in the Andes in winter, near the Chile-Argentina border, and some of those who survived the crash lived through seventy days on the mountain before rescue. The museum fills its limited space with relics of the ordeal, as well as plentiful descriptions and video overviews, but it also examines the philosophy of survival in the face of such odds and the inspiration it has provided for others since then.
More wandering down to the waterfront and around the oldest parts of the city, where relics of the colonial era can still be seen, brought me at length to the Museo del Carneval, a much more open space that celebrates the history and vibrant life of Montevideo’s carnival, a celebration every bit as central to the city’s culture as Rio’s more famous version is to its. There are masks and costumes aplenty, along with videos of past carnivals, but the key to the museum is its focus on the history of the event, from an era when each neighbourhood had its float to the more modern, sponsored era.
The mist wasn’t easing at all as I kept on wandering, and the tops of the taller buildings were lost in low cloud. This at least kept the temperature mild. On subsequent days, when the sun came out, the temperature tended to drop. The last museum also had a familiar name: the Museum of Pre-Colombian Art. This time, though, it had more space than either of the previous two I’d visited, it struggled to fill that space up with pre-Colombian relics, art-related or otherwise. There were things worth seeing there, and the entry fee was paltry, but it was the more modern exhibits that garnered the most interest, such as a collection of masks from cultures around South America and photos of the Mapuche people, one of the few native cultures not completely erased by colonial efforts.
After a frankly excessive pork-based lunch at the El Puerto market, which is something of a meat-lover’s Mecca in these parts, I went hunting for a relic from a different age. During World War II, the German pocket battleship Graf Spee found itself pinned in Montevideo harbour after the Battle of the River Plate and was subsequently scuttled in the shallow waters just outside. Some pieces of the ship have since been brought to the surface, but they’re not widely advertised (Nazi paraphernalia are a bit of sketchy topic these days), and the anchor and ranging tower in particular are hard to reach. With the help of a tourist office worker and a nod from a security guard, I got through and wandered around the Buquebus ferry terminal for a little while before snapping some shots of these pieces of the Third Reich lost far from their home.
There wasn’t much more to the day than that. As darkness fell I learned that political gatherings and protests are much less of a cause for concern in Uruguay than in Chile and Argentina, with one such gathering in Plaza Independencia providing its own musical accompaniment in the form of drums and singing, as well as the odd rocket. That was more or less it though. I retired to Patagonia bar for some beer and nachos and headed for bed not long after.
If day one was random rambling and stumbling across sites of interest, day two had a plan. That plan wasn’t mine though—it was the tour bus company’s. After peeking at Ciudad Vieja’s cathedral, I headed down to stop zero, where I paid for a 24-hour ticket and climbed aboard. A top-deck seat wasn’t warm, but it offered the best views as we headed out along Av. 18 de Julio, heading for points east. I hopped off at the 1 de Mayo Plaza, where I explored the Legislative Palace and its surroundings, as well as the nearby market, where I grabbed a sustaining ice cream before rejoining the bus tour.
By the next time I jumped off, the sun had come out again, providing a little warmth as long as you stayed in its light. I took a stroll around the greenery of El Prado park, enjoying some sculptures, one of which, the Monumento a la Diligencia, I would see another version of later in the trip and another of which celebrated the native Charrua inhabitants of Uruguay. There was also a photography exhibit in the open air, some parakeets to spot, and a quick look around the nearby botanical gardens, but I was determined to get my money’s worth from the tour bus ticket, so on I went again.
After a twist in our course that brought us near to the Trés Cruces bus terminal, we headed into a large area of parkland, the highlight of which was Centenario Stadium, where the first football World Cup was held in 1930. As a kid I’d read about this tournament, which Uruguay won, and it had sparked my desire to visit this nation. Thirty-plus years later and here I was, ducking into the Museo del Futbol to take a tour through Uruguay’s (and the world’s) football glories. “La Celeste” won not only the World Cup but also a couple of Olympic Games back then, so most of those glories were a bit faded, but it’s a jam-packed location, even for a non-football fan like myself, and getting to take a walk around the inside of the stadium, with its massive winged tower, was a treat.
Circling the stadium after leaving the museum, I spend a few minutes watching a kids’ football game on a dirt pitch and an ox-and-cart monument to match the horse-and-cart Diligencia I’d seen earlier in El Prado park. There was a bus calling though, so I was soon back on board and heading for the beach. I stopped off in the naval museum first, for a refresher on the Graf Spee and the Battle of the River Plate (including a deck gun retrieved from the sunken ship). There was plenty more there too, including a cannon from Nelson’s HMS Agamemnon, complete with examples of cannon shot that demonstrated just how heavy and damaging those earlier big guns could be.
After that, it was all beach, all the time, as I headed south and west, then just west. I fulfilled my transcontinental plan by dipping a booted toe into the sea at Pocitos Beach, then kept on going, following the line of the Rambla coastal road until it brought me to De Las Carretas Point, the most southerly point before reaching the Ciudad Vieja headland. In the late evening sun I passed parascenders testing their parachutes, then went as far out on the headland as I could before returning to the Faro and climbing its 76 steps to enjoy the late evening sun in the company of a few other romantic souls.
I stayed as late as I could, though not quite late enough to catch sunset, before time forced me onwards—rather than walking all the way back, I wanted to catch the last tour bus to Ciudad Vieja. That meant some serious walking at speed in the dusk light, and I motored past the Montevideo golf course and Rodo Park in the dusk light until I came to the amusement park at Punta Carreras. Sadly, I didn’t have time to indulge under the light of the waxing moon, instead just enjoying the cheers and cries of those who did while I waited for the bus to arrive.
My tour having taken up the entire day, I found myself too late to indulge in another meat extravaganza (probably a good thing) at the Mercado, but a little way uphill I found Alvarez, a restaurant offering more civilised options, including pizza and fine beer, and enjoyed those heartily instead. A street party provided a nice surprise instead of dessert, complete with dancers and drummers, but the last of the night was spent in The Shannon Irish bar, not too far from the Hotel Palacio, so I didn’t have too far to stumble to bed.*
If Sunday was sunnier than Saturday had been, it suffered from the fact that Montevideo isn’t really a Sunday city. Most places are closed down, though I did secure some orange juice and avocado toast from Piwi**. I popped into Teatro Solis for a look around and a fridge magnet, and I descended into the Artigas mausoleum under the equestrian statue in the middle of Plaza Independencia, which is an impressively large and solemn space. However, some skimming of WiFi networks had told me that there was sporting drama to be had, and I returned to Hotel Palacio to watch the end of the fifth set of the Wimbledon men’s final.
Which ended up taking several hours. When it was done, I re-emerged blinking into the afternoon light and headed for the Palacio Salvo, the largest building on the plaza and once (though only briefly) the tallest building in South America. A concrete edifice with an oddly bulbous tower, it served first as a hotel and then later as apartments and offices, in which station it still exists. Our tour guide took us around several floors, from the roof to the mezzanine, showing off the view, the fine fittings that guests were presented with, and the slightly shabbier side of the servants’ quarters.
I wasn’t quite done with walking though, and I headed downhill and south from the plaza to the shoreline, where the day was ebbing away and I was determined to catch the last of it. A stroll past some of the few parts of the seafront that I hadn’t walked yet brought me to somewhere more familiar: the harbour breakwater that I walked out to on my first night in the city. This time I arrived in time for sunset, and I climbed up on the concrete harbour light for a better view, once again joined by several souls in search of a view worthy of ending a day.
We got that, though I didn’t have much luck in the rest of the night. The lack of places to eat that were still open forced me to resort to McDonald’s, and it was only afterwards that I discovered that the Patagonia Bar was not only open but serving pizza. That would have been a nice thing to learn a little earlier. Still, I had one last beer to round off my stay in familiar style and headed hotel-wards for a final night of comfort amid this most pleasant city.
Packing and checking out took little time the next day, and after more avocado toast and orange juice at Piwi**, as well as a poke around the gorgeous bookstore beside the Hotel Palacio, I hoisted my bags and headed out along the Av. 18 de Julio. Trés Cruces Terminal was quickly navigated and I found myself on a COT bus heading for Punta del Este. Unfortunately I wasn’t heading for the beaches, and after a run through the very pleasant looking suburbs of the city and the equally appealing Roosevelt Park, I encountered the last of the pleasant surprises Montevideo had for me.
I’ve been to my fair share of airports at this stage, and I have to say that I don’t think any of them are as appealing to see or experience as Montevideo’s Carrasco International Airport. A graceful arch of concrete conceals an open and airy space within, and checking in and getting through security is so easy as to be almost a delight (comparatively speaking anyway—the security theatre doesn’t require you to take your laptop or liquids out of your bag. Almost before I knew it, I was through duty free and in the queue to board a tiny Embraer 190/195 jet, only heavier by a couple of souvenirs and treats.
Uruguay was done, Brazil awaited.
*If my mum is reading this, I don’t drink too much on holiday, especially not when I’m drinking alone, and I do eat properly. Well, I eat whenever I’m hungry anyway.