The Sausage of Renting
I warn you up front that this entry may be less entertaining and more factual. I know, I know — facts are the vegetables of storytelling, and I’m inviting you to eat broccoli. But let’s dive into a topic I keep promising to cover later. I hate it when presenters say that and then never do. So here we are: LATER.
Before moving to Uruguay, Mikey and I debated what to do for housing. Buy or rent? (Both are wildly different than those in the States.) We chose to rent because we’d like to get to know the country before we commit to planting roots — or buying land that might come with a surprise llama. How cool would that be, a llama farm? “What do you do?” “We own the Two2Mikes Llama farm! Would you like a scratch sweater?”
In June, locals advised us not to look for rentals until we returned in October. Housing moves fast here, and if we claimed something in June, we’d start paying rent immediately. Not ideal when you’re still 4,967 miles away.
Uruguay has just over 3 million people, and that number is growing due to immigrants coming from the U.S. and Europe. Montevideo alone holds about half the population. Translation: housing is snapped up faster than free samples at Costco.
When we arrived in November, the plan was simple: find a place in Montevideo to rent for 1–2 years. During that time, we’d explore Uruguay and later buy land elsewhere. Plus, living in the capital means we can walk everywhere or take public transportation — both of which are infinitely cheaper than buying a car. Ah, the dream.
Enter Uruguay Real Estate: the “Guess Who?” of international property hunting. Whether renting or buying, it is to your advantage to use a realtor. And no, they don’t wear gold pins, wave branded pens, or drive cars with pretentious decals. They actually… do work. We got connected to Andrés, thanks to our friends Rich and Jack. He’s fantastic and shows us properties while managing negotiations — basically, the man prevents us from accidentally renting a storage closet.
Now, here’s where Uruguay flips the script: the laws favor renters. Renters are protected from unjust eviction, sudden rent hikes, ignored repairs — it’s like someone actually believed humans deserve dignity. Stunning! But landlords, being creative creatures, found loopholes. So now renters are required to get an insurance policy guaranteeing payment and preventing “tenant-induced chaos.” Think mortgage application lite. A broker reviews your documents, runs numbers, and tells you how much you qualify for. This delightful rule adds 60% of your rent to your monthly bill. Yes, SIXTY. As in rent plus the price of a Netflix subscription, but make it torture.
Then there’s the community fee, which covers things like water and shared facilities (pool, gym, barbecue area…). These range from 1,952 pesos ($50 USD) to 39,051 pesos ($1,000 USD). That’s the difference between “cute and functional” and “Are we Beyoncé?”
Our household consists of Mikey, me, Oaks, and Tyson: two humans and two dogs. So here’s our wishlist (and yes, every bullet point eliminates dozens of options):
About 80 square meters or more
Accepts dogs (preferably large dogs — and if they don’t know what greyhounds are, we’re basically explaining a unicorn)
Furnished (because unfurnished means they don’t even provide a washer, stove, fridge, or water heater — basically four walls and hopes)
Single story
Green space (fenced, because free-range greyhounds are… enthusiastic)
Preferably ground floor with access to the green space
Within Montevideo, so we can avoid car ownership (COME ON, BYD)
Bonus points for ocean view
Here’s the real-life math:
The closer you get to the heart of Montevideo, the higher the rent and the smaller the space. You’re more likely to end up living in a vertical tower, and here the ground floor is “0” and the first floor is “1” (welcome to many other places on plant eath). The closer you are to the ocean, the more expensive everything gets. Some places accept dogs — but not large dogs, and definitely not two. If only they’d meet ours: 90% couch, 10% food-seeking missiles. Move farther from the center and prices drop, space increases, and — of course — corner stores and transportation disappear like socks in the dryer.
Once we finally find The One (cue romantic music), we sign an initial agreement and begin the approval process. This can take weeks. If it’s unfurnished, we order appliances and hope the delivery doesn’t take six months.
And that, dear readers, is our Rental Reality Saga.
If you noticed I left off a dryer, as a missing appliance, that was intentional. Most Uruguayans don’t use dryers — they wash and hang things outside to dry. More on that later. :)
Thanks for sticking with me to the end. Be safe and kind to one another.
