Every day, we walk the dogs two or three times. The first walk is usually around 6:30 a.m., when either Tyson or Oaks politely informs us that sleep is over, peasants. Mikey takes Tyson, and I get Oaks—who, at her age, is less “greyhound” and more “vintage luxury model.”
If you don’t know 12 Oaks, allow me to introduce her. She arrived with the name Lady Deidra, a retired racer from Tucson, AZ who suddenly found herself unemployed when dog racing became illegal. The rescue agency was drowning in greyhounds and asked if we wanted another (we already had Tara). We were thinking about expanding our family anyway, so naturally we said yes.
They presented us with three dogs: one male with such high prey drive he practically sized up the fish tank like it owed him money, and two girls—Cossette and Deidra—who fit right in. We took both (zero regrets). On the way home we decided to keep Cossette’s name (bonus points if you can name the musical for which there is a character with the same name) but changed Deidra to 12 Oaks, because Tara was named after O’Hara’s plantation in Gone With the Wind and we apparently decided to go all-in on fictional plantation real estate. Yikes. Of the trio, 12 Oaks is the only one still with us—almost 14, which in greyhound years is basically “old enough to have opinions.”
Back to the walk. Oaks moves at a pace best described as “medieval procession.” She doesn’t rush toward bushes or trees like she’s breaking news; she simply takes in the world. And because she moves slowly, I move slowly. Yesterday, it hit me: she’s right. Life shouldn’t be a sprint. Walk it. Notice things. Exist like you mean it.
In the U.S., the message is always “Work harder! Be smarter! Sacrifice your entire life for that productivity buzz!” And where does family fit? It doesn’t. Where does joy fit? Also doesn’t.
A professor at Texas A&M once told us, “No one on their deathbed wishes they had spent one more hour at work.” He was absolutely right. We don’t regret missing emails. We regret missing people. This professor is now the Vice President for Student Affairs at Texas A&M.
Here in Uruguay, no one asks what you do for a living. No one cares. The culture here is gloriously unbothered by hustle—more about community, family, and living life at half-speed without apologizing for it.
Last night proved it. We went to Stazion Garibaldi Cucina y Pizzeria, a tiny spot six minutes away. The owner welcomed us, explained he didn’t speak English, and let us pick a table. He took our drink order, went back to the kitchen, began cooking our meal from scratch. The lasagna was incredible, the tiramisu divine, the cofe strong enough to wake the ancestors. Each part of the experience was never rushed. Minutes would pass but no one was in a rush. Not us, and not the staff. We ate slowly, talked even slower, and loved every minute.
Here, you ask for the check when you feel like leaving. There’s no “I’m going to leave the check with you. No rush. Pay when you are ready,” followed by your waiter disappearing into the Bermuda Triangle.
When he cashed us out, the owner chatted and told us to come back—cofe’s on the house next time.
Dinner lasted almost two hours. No rushing. No pressure. Just living. Uruguay in a nutshell.
Life here moves gently. I’m hoping it rubs off on me—less stress, better for my bipolar disorder, and fewer demands. Just being.
Anyway, we’re off to walk the dogs. Oaks and I will be doing our signature slow-motion stroll. Take care—and slow down. It’s not a race.
