AirBnB Number Two

Hola y buen día desde Uruguay!

On Friday, we migrated—like stressed-out, over-caffeinated geese—from our first Airbnb to our second. If you’re wondering why we moved again before finding a permanent home, the answer is simple: the first Airbnb kicked us out on November 21 (Okay, kicked out is a little too dramatic. Our reservation ended on this date). Apparently, someone else wanted it more. That’s life when you’re an international nomad with too many suitcases and two dogs who think they’re people.

Anyway, back to the chaos. We dragged ourselves out of bed around 8:00 and, with all the enthusiasm of wet laundry, started stuffing our belongings back into the suitcases. This time, who cared about airline weight limits? Mr. Tetris (aka Mikey) packed every square inch with something. He even squeezed in the dog beds—from the crates and the two thick plush ones. I don’t ask how he works his magic; I just enjoy the results. Six trips later, the car was full of suitcases, backpacks, a violin, grocery bags, and our remaining dignity.

Pablo, our driver, helped load the car. He was worried the dogs might jump up during the 15-minute drive and scratch the tinted windows. I assured him they don’t do that. Look, I get it—I, too, have met dogs. When we loaded them in, he also worried they might puncture the vinyl seats. Again, I reassured him. And then spent the entire drive silently praying they wouldn’t puncture the seats.

Speaking of the drive: the dogs and I shared a bench seat about as deep as a sheet of paper. They kept sliding off, so to keep Tyson from stomping on Oaks, I held his 90-lb self standing upright in my lap. Not quite the Friday morning plan I had imagined, but life is full of surprises.

Because of scheduling and the size of the vehicle, we arrived at the second apartment just after noon. Check-in wasn’t until 15:00. Fabulous. We messaged the host and she replied, “Give me 30 minutes.” Excuse me—30 minutes? That’s unheard of hospitality magic. We waited, she delivered, and all was well.

Well… almost.

To get into the building, you press a button and talk to a mysterious agency who buzzes you in. Easy, right? Add street noise, add two people who don’t speak Spanish, and suddenly it becomes a full-blown Olympic event. Mikey tried his best, but they kept hanging up on him. Not “one moment please”—just click. Done. After the host contacted the agency (it might as well have been the mother ship, given their secret identity), someone finally let us in. A kind woman in the lobby took pity on us and showed Mikey how the key fob worked. We got inside, got the dogs settled, and everything seemed fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Oaks had already started her heavy panting at the first apartment. When she does this, her tongue hangs out, it starts turning purple, and she spirals into a full panic attack. Normally, we give her meds to help her calm down—though “calm down” is really “go into a very peaceful nap.” Unfortunately, those meds were living their best life in Bristol, CT, because I totally missed them while packing.

By the time we reached the new apartment, she could barely stand. She even had an accident inside—her personal nightmare—and that made the panic attack worse. We tried petting and holding her, but it wasn’t working. Mikey asked what the vet had prescribed. Trazodone. Easy—I take the same medication, just at a more… robust dosage. I found my bottle, did the math, broke a pill down to 12 mg, and gave it to her. Within 45 minutes, she was blissfully relaxed and dreaming of the world’s largest, sloped, fenced yard.

Today she’s doing much better. She’s settled, routine established, and far less panicky. The dogs are adjusting, but I don’t think any of us have fully embraced Montevideo life yet. It’s a big leap, and it’ll take time to call this place home.

Thanks for reading this far down. More adventures to come!