Uruguay > To the Theatre in Montevideo

It’s Sunday morning in Montevideo. The weather is beautiful. The sky is perfectly blue. As I step out of my hotel, I hear police sirens. A convoy of police motorcycles and cars drives along Avenida 18 de Julio. The wide boulevard is completely closed to traffic. Why? It looks rather odd to see no vehicles on such a broad main road. The Plaza Independencia is also blocked off. I want to ask a passer-by what is going on. At the word “Anglais” she flinches and pretends I’m not there. A little further on, a father is walking with his daughter. When I ask if they speak English, the father gestures that he doesn’t. Before his daughter can say anything, he adds, “but she does.” She looks at me a bit awkwardly. I ask why the street is closed. “Is it for a marathon?” I try. The father understands my question and gives a long answer in Spanish. With a tap on his daughter’s arm, he urges her to translate. All she manages is, “yes, a sort of.” Further along, it becomes clear. Loud music echoes through the street. It’s a running event for five, ten, and fifteen kilometres. The starting point is also where the Feria de Tristán Narvaja is held—a Sunday antiques and flea market. I skip the race and wander between the stalls. Everything is for sale, from fruit and vegetables to antiques and knick-knacks. Sometimes I’m amazed by the junk on offer. Who would want to buy that? But I’m equally fascinated by the antiques. What could they have been used for? I notice that it’s mostly locals here.

Uruguay - The antique and flea market on Sunday morning

I don’t see any other tourists. Only the fruit stalls seem to attract customers. I fear most of the items will be packed away unsold by the end of the day. Back in the city centre, I return to the Teatro Solís. I had read that they also offer guided tours. I’m recognised immediately when I walk in. “Ah, the gentleman from Holland.” The tour is given in Spanish, English, and Portuguese. I turn out to be the only English-speaking participant, so I get a private tour from Federico and María, who had already welcomed me warmly before. They tell me the theatre was built in 1840, but due to the independence struggle, construction took thirteen years. I doubt tours are often given in English—Federico and María frequently search for words, and I help where I can. Together we manage just fine. The interior of the theatre is stunning. Above the main hall, there are five more layers of balconies. María explains that the chandelier is over three metres in diameter and weighs 350 kilos. There used to be a special room for the president when he visited the theatre. Federico points towards the stage and set design—yesterday was the premiere of the play Madre Coraje. “All tickets cost the same,” he continues. “It doesn’t matter if you sit in the front or on the fifth balcony. Tickets are 190 pesos, less than five euros. For those over sixty, admission is free.” This is how the government keeps theatre accessible to everyone. As a joke, I ask if there are any tickets left for tonight. To my surprise, the first official night of the play isn’t sold out yet. The ticket office opens at three o’clock. I keep it in mind. I walk from the theatre to Plaza de la Constitución. The stage from the tango festival is being dismantled. The basilica, which was closed yesterday, is now open. When I enter, I find myself in a full church. A mass is underway, and the priest is in the middle of his sermon. I feel slightly self-conscious but take the opportunity to admire the beautiful church. Then I slip out quietly. During the day, Mercado del Puerto, the market hall, looks much more lively. The old, characterful hall is now completely taken over by tourist-oriented restaurants—elegant tables and smartly dressed waiters. As I walk through, the waiters call out, asking if I want to eat. I do, but I’m not after something so formal. I order a Spanish omelette at the simplest-looking place. It turns out to be a hefty portion, and I barely manage to eat just over half. Afterwards, I rent a mountain bike for the rest of the afternoon—to work off the big lunch. I’m warned to lock the bike well if I stop somewhere, but nothing about traffic rules. Should I ride in the street or on the pavement? Or maybe both are allowed? Before I know it, I’m cycling along the broad avenue. Cars clearly give me space—it must be normal here. By the Rambla boulevard, there’s a kilometre-long promenade—a broad strip along the river for walkers, runners, and cyclists. It’s sunny, it’s Sunday, and families are out relaxing. Some are sunbathing, others are fishing, and some are even in the water. I pass parks and white beaches—everywhere is busy. When I stop to ask someone where I am on the map, I happen to find someone who speaks perfect English but can’t read a map. His wife helps in Spanish. Parque Batlle, my next stop, can be less safe in the evening, the man warns. His wife says that was more in the past, but they still advise me to stay alert. The road to the park climbs steadily. Inside the park is the Estadio Centenario football stadium, where Uruguay became world champion in 1930. I cycle on towards Tres Cruces, passing the bus station I visited yesterday. In the city, I notice how warm it really is—along the coast there was at least a breeze. The thermometer at the bus station shows 28 degrees. My last stop is the Palacio Legislativo. This 18th-century palace sits in the middle of a wide roundabout.

Uruguay - Cycling along the Rambla boulevard

To reach it, I cross four lanes of traffic—fortunately, it’s not very busy. The Uruguayan parliament is based here. Via Avenida Lavalleja, I return to the city centre and park my bike in front of the theatre. The box office is now open. I buy a ticket on the second balcony for Madre Coraje. Time for a beer. On a terrace in Plaza de la Constitución, I strike up a conversation with Allen, an Australian motorcyclist travelling from Ushuaia to Alaska. He immediately has my attention—Allen is the first tourist I’ve met in Uruguay. Normally you hear your own language everywhere in the world, but here I haven’t heard a single Dutch word. Back in my hotel room, I look up information on the play. From a Dutch description, I gather it’s about a mother who loses her three children one by one during the Polish–Finnish war. At quarter to six, I’m back at the theatre. I’m shown to my seat, and an elderly lady sits next to me. She doesn’t speak English but continues chatting enthusiastically in Spanish. I only catch a few words here and there. The audience is mostly older people. When the lady beside me uses hand gestures to tell me she’s eighty and that everyone over sixty gets in for free, I understand the average age in the room. I conclude that very few people here have paid for their tickets. Thanks to my preparation, I can recognise who plays which role and follow the gist of each scene, though I can’t make sense of the dialogues. I use the time to admire the beautiful theatre from my seat. The woman on my other side is also struggling to follow the story—she falls asleep with a faint snore. Back at the hotel, the receptionist asks me how I liked the play. I say my goodbyes to him—he won’t be on duty in the morning.