Negotiating the Curves

Wow, has it really been four and a half months since my last post? For those of you who haven't totally given up on me, our move to Piriapolis in April actually turned into two moves. The second move being in June. Needless to say saving money on a cheap place to live isn't always the best thing to do. 'Nuf said about that.

We are loving where we are except for the unusually cold and rainy winter. The name of our new barrio in Piriapolis is Punta Fria (I guess we should have paid more attention.) We are extremely excited to have our electric bed warmer, gas stove and two electric heaters.

Old business out of the way, it is time to talk about culture shock again. Right now I am in the midst of major negotiations with my new found home. For me, this phase is a combination of stages two (cultural shock), three (initial adjustment), and four (mental isolation). It is the time when differences between the old and adopted cultures seriously collide. What it boils down to is a frustration that things are not the way they are supposed to be. According to experts, mood swings are the norm and depression is not uncommon. Hellooooo!

These stages manifest within weeks of arrival and last anywhere from six months to two years. I am at month 18 and there are still days I have trouble coming to grips with life in a 2nd (some days I would argue 3rd) world country. I guess the sociologists and psychologists had to come up with a "one size fits all" definition of culture shock, but let me tell you, it varies greatly from person to person.

I do actually have moments when things seem fairly normal and I feel like this is home, so maybe I am moving in the right direction, albeit slowly. I just hope the normal moments increase exponentially. Like really soon. Let's just refer to this as the 'winter of my discontent'. Not terribly original, but an apt description nonetheless.

On a lighter note, we are meeting great people, both locals and expats alike. Our circle of friends is larger than it ever was in the States, so I guess there is something to be said for life-altering, mind-numbing change. Oh yeah, and Uruguay placed 4th in the World Cup. I felt extremely proud for our little country. What a huge accomplishment. And this week Joe and I found out we are officially Uruguayan residents.

A perfect transition to the final stage of culture shock. Coming soon...

Remembering the Honeymoon

We recently celebrated our first anniversary of living in Uruguay. It has been an amazing year. I think time passes faster in the southern hemisphere, or maybe it's an illusion due to my advancing age.

We are now in the process of preparing for a move to Piriapolis to save $$ and to get away from the din of the city for a few months.

I thought I would take a break from packing to begin my series on the five stages of culture shock. What better time to reflect on the honeymoon phase than at the first year mark.

We arrived in Montevideo on a balmy Wednesday morning last March at 4:15am after a 30-hour travel odyssey with our small terrier. After a few hours of well needed sleep at the hotel, we kicked off our adventure with a lively parrilla lunch in Ciudad Vieja at the Mercado del Puerto.

We were instantly captivated with the city, the food, and the people. The first few weeks at the hotel were like a dream. Playing the tourists, we tried all of the great restaurants, explored the streets on daily walks with the dog, tested our language skills (or lack thereof) and stretched our wings for the first time in a long while.

How invigorating it was to be in a strange place with no idea what the next minute, hour or day would bring. We knew no one. We had never been here before--we moved here sight unseen. Everything was new and exciting.

Even after moving into our apartment and developing a daily routine, I still felt as though I was on some sort of a high. I was amazed at my patience when trying to get things done, such as setting up Internet access for our bank account and working through the minutiae of the residency process. Nothing seemed to fluster me.

Our circle of friends grew and we felt like we were settling in nicely to our newly adopted home.

Then, without warning, reality started to seep in and the veneer of my seemingly idyllic existence began showing signs of wear...

There's No Place Like Home

I've been out of sorts of late. Up one day, down the next. Kind of tired, kind of restless, kind of bored, kind of anxious...not myself. Yes, I'd say I am flummoxed. What a great word.

It all came to a head last Sunday as I watched the Italian classic Ladri di biciclette (with Spanish subtitles, of course) and went into a two day funk. You see, the protagonist realized the city he knew as home had utterly defeated him. He was dejected, confused and without hope.


After pondering his fate for a few hours, I realized that was exactly how I felt. The city I had chosen to call home had defeated me.

Now, before you get too concerned and suggest I get my hands on some good meds, I will tell you my symptoms are quite normal. What I have is a good old-fashioned case of culture shock.

I am happy to report culture shock is not a medical condition. I don't have a "disorder" or "syndrome". My brain is just confused over the many changes it has experienced over the last 11 plus months.

Culture shock is not just a term describing the realities of living in a foreign country. It's more nuanced and longer term.

While in Piriapolis over Christmas, Joe and I shared a conversation with a Uruguayan sociology major who described in detail the five stages of culture shock. We listened with rapt attention, recognizing each one, except, of course, the final stage of acceptance and integration. Check back with me in year.


For a while. the stages were progressing in true textbook fashion. Now they seem to be flip-flopping all over the place. Apparently this is quite common as well. Wonderful.

Considering culture shock is such a large part of the expat experience, my next five blog posts will describe witty and engaging personal examples of each stage. Maybe not so much witty and engaging as frustrating and irritating.

Today, I'm happy with my life in a strange land. Tomorrow may be a different story. I will say living in a foreign country is like the mother of all amusement park rides. Woohoo.

Mate: A Drink for All Seasons

In case you were wondering, the image in my blog banner is that of maté gourds. Maté (mah'tay) is a South American tea, if you will, prepared by steeping the dried leaves of yerba maté in hot water (in the gourd) and sipping the infusion from the gourd from a silver straw or bombilla (bom'beesha.)

Yerba maté is a species of holly that is native to parts of Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay, Chile and Brazil. The origins of the use of maté in South America is attributed to the ancient Guarani indians. Legend popularized the plant and described yerba maté as a magical herb providing strength, promoting health and nurturing friendships. As word spread, the popularity of maté grew and the herbal infusion became the main ingredient of many home medical curatives. Today, the yerba maté is dried and chopped into a somewhat powdery mixture that is sold in bags (just like coffee) and available at any market. Grocery stores even feature a maté aisle.

Maté contains virtually the same chemical stimulants found in coffee and chocolate. It's effects are said to be quite similar, which probably explains why you see people sipping the beverage at all times of the day. It is unique in that people carry their maté accoutrement (yerba maté, thermos, gourd and straw) with them in a leather case with a shoulder strap.) The beverage is generally consumed in a social setting -- although I have seen solitary drinkers walking in the mall, strolling the Rambla and at their desks in an office setting. More common is the practice of sharing the maté with friends and acquaintances.

The preparation and consumption of the drink is as much ceremony as it is science. Here is my simplistic description of the process:

One person (generally the owner of the thermos and gourd) is designated as the preparer and server. The maté gourd is filled to about 2/3 capacity. The gourd is covered with the palm of the hand, inverted and shaken for a few seconds. This action brings the finer yerba toward the top of the maté. It is further shaken to move the maté along one side of the gourd. A small amount of tepid water is poured into the emptier side and the water is allowed to absorb into the yerba maté. The straw in inserted into that spot, so the wider end touches the bottom of the gourd. The gourd is then filled with hot water from the thermos, steeped and is sipped by the host. The server refills the gourd with hot water and passes it to another person, who in turn drinks the contents. The gourd is passed from server to drinkers until the hot water from the thermos is gone. Yummy!

I have yet to try maté. They say it's an acquired taste reminiscent of dried grass clippings (not sure how you would know) or a cross between green tea and coffee. I think for now I will stick to coffee!