Drink This: The Note Read
Both Gulliver (Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift) and Alice (Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll) found themselves in worlds where they were alternately enormous and miniature. They had to adapt quickly to avoid being squished or stepped on. Turns out, Mikey and I can relate.
Yesterday, in our Spanish lesson with Ignacio, we learned that he and his family had just returned from a two-week trip to the U.S., Washington D.C., upstate New York, and Vermont. He said they had a great time, but he was shocked by two things: the amount of plastic and the size of everything. “The portions were huge,” he said. “One meal could feed a family.” He wasn’t kidding. He and his family would order one entrée and a kid’s meal and still be full. He was equally stunned by the size of the drinks and hotel rooms. “Everything was bigger,” he said—and this was without setting foot in Texas. Imagine that.
Meanwhile, Mikey and I are living the opposite reality. We’ve gone from the land of the 32-ounce drink (that’s 0.95 liters, for those who measure like adults) to a place where a “large” at McDonald’s looks like something from the 1970s (ah, remember the fashion? I don’t, I was only 8 by 1979). Food portions are appropriately sized—enough to feel full, not like you need a nap and a cardiac consult. Houses follow the same trend: smaller rooms, fewer bathrooms, and a general absence of “bonus space.” Translation: no need to Marie Kondo your life—Uruguay already did it for you.
But here’s the thing: the downsizing makes sense. Possessions don’t define status here. No one cares how big your house is or how many gadgets you’ve collected. What actually matters is how you treat people. Character isn’t measured in square footage or car models—it’s measured in kindness and community. When you lift others, the whole community rises. Revolutionary concept, I know.
This philosophy—caring for others while still taking care of yourself—feels much more aligned with how I was raised. It’s a refreshing shift from the “look out for yourself and maybe wave at others on your way up the ladder” mentality that’s so common elsewhere.
Mikey and I decided to treat ourselves to a little taste of home—bacon for breakfast. Simple enough, right? Wrong. We scoured the store but couldn’t find anything that looked remotely like what we buy in the States. Eventually, we admitted defeat and asked for help. The attendant led us to the butcher counter—you know, the spot where they slice meat with confidence and judgment in equal measure.
That’s when the language barrier kicked in. The butcher asked how much we wanted. I confidently said, “A pound.” She blinked at me as if I’d just asked her to measure it in unicorn wings. So I tried again: “A kilogram.” Big mistake. Her eyes widened like I’d just ordered enough bacon to feed a small village. She turned to consult her coworkers, and soon, everyone in the area was glancing over, probably wondering who the ravenous Staters were.
After a quick session with the all-knowing phone translator, we discovered that what we actually wanted was 100 grams—not a kilogram (which, for the record, is 2.2 pounds). The butcher sighed in relief and sliced off about eight perfect pieces. Crisis averted, lesson learned: I need a crash course in the metric system before I accidentally order a cow.
Later, I cooked up our modest haul, and honestly? It was amazing—crispy, flavorful, and possibly the best bacon I’ve ever had. Yummy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Today marks eight days in Uruguay!
We found our coffee shop. Just one street over, terrific coffee, excellent edibles (not the ones with marijuana), and friendly staff. We will be going back! The picture on the main blog page is a serving of coffee from there.
Ignacio gave us a heads-up that locals are starting to practice for Carnival, which means random drum circles and dancing could break out at any moment. (I’m just hoping it’s not outside our window at 2 a.m.)
We also met with a real estate agent to help us find long-term housing. Let’s just say the rental process here deserves its own entry—and possibly a glass of wine.
In case you want to know, there is a 2-hour difference between us and the Eastern time zone (sorry, Connecticut, that you are having freezing temperatures) and 3 3-hour difference between us and the Central time zone.
