My new home is in El Pinar Sur in Departamento Canelones.  (Have you ever noticed that a couple of the departamentos are named for food?  Canelones, Durazno (peach), and in San Jose the capital is San Jose de Mayo (hmm, maybe that’s the month and not the condiment).

El Pinar Sur is 15km East of Carrasco and is at the eastern end of the local municipality “Ciudad de la Costa”–that part of Canelones along the shore that is outside of Montevideo and inside the first peaje (toll-both) on the Interbalnearia (intercoastal highway).

There are three main roads that get come here from Montevideo:  1) the Rambla, which becomes the Costanera when you enter Canelones–this is my favorite as it parallels the beaches all the way here; 2) Avenida Italia (sometimes called Montevideo Main Street because of all its business districts) which become Avenida Giannattasio in Canelones (everything you might want to buy is on Giannattasio including Geant (sort of like a Walmart); and the Interbalnearia connector to Carrasco International Airport (which is usually the fastest way back to Montevideo from the Eastern Beach towns).

Unlike some of the small beach towns farther East, Pinar is alive all year round.  In US terms, you would call it a bedroom community.  City buses come out here within a few blocks of my new house 24/7, every half hour during weekdays until late at night.  As such, it is a great compromise between city and countryside.

Pinar has a small Centro Comercial (shopping district) with all the basics, and a goodly sized Disco supermarket on Giannattasio, 2.5km from my house and accessible by side streets.  Later this week I will venture there on my electric scooter and report back.

And, Pinar’s beaches are, in my not so humble opinion, among the prettiest in the country–pure sugar white fine sand with nice sand dunes.  The water may not be as nice as Punta del Este, but the beaches are better…

Best of all, rents are half or less than the going rates in Montevideo better districts.

I really am impressed with Pinar now–let’s see if I am still impressed in 6 months.  I will certainly let you know.

For those with Google Earth Pinar’s Latitude and Longitude are 34° 48.25′ S / 55° 54.5′ W.

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One of my readers was kind enough to send me the following information in an email:

Hi, I just happened to find your blog and found it really interesting. Just to let you know, ‘Canelones’ isn’t named after the food but after a sort of tree that’s very common there: the Canelón. At least that’s what my teachers used to tell us during our geography classes :)

We left the house about 2 p.m., topped off the tank with Esso premium, and headed north. Our trip took us through parts of the city we had never seen before north and west of Parque Prado–I suspect we were the only gringos around: I am sure we were the only gringos driving around in a Ford minivan with Florida (the state of, not the Departamento of) license plates.

We actually went on streets and roads north through the city, into the nonurban area of the Departamento of Montevideo, and then across the border into Canelones; through its campo and into its city. The Departamento of Montevideo and of Canelones have the biggest speed bumps I have ever seen! In the West Indies, they called them sleeping policeman. If these were policemen, they’re fatter than me. We finally connected with the main highway, Ruta 5, which was four-laned in a vast improvement over the side roads.

The highway north was very similar to the road to Salto, about which I wrote last September. The entire affect was to reinforce the fact that Uruguay is indeed an agricultural powerhouse.

Borko when I had an argument about whether or not the countryside was boringly the same in every kilometer. He was wrong. It was not the same. Sometimes the trees from the left, sometimes the trees were on the right, sometimes they were in the back, sometimes they were alongside. On some farms there were brown and white cattle, but others there were black and white cattle. Some had sheep, others had horses. Sometimes the ponds were square, sometimes they were round.

Maybe Borko was right…

We continued north through Florida, and Durazno, and even cross the border into Tacuarembó at Paso de Toros. We didn’t spend much time there, and we turned around and came back, making sure this time to take the Ruta all the way into Montevideo, bypassing the back roads and side streets.

I am not going to give you any more details now, because on the next trip I will take you my laptop, camera, and digital cell phone modem (assuming Antel gets them in as promised) and Outlook in my blog in real time as I travel. So stay tuned, for the next adventure of the Blue Bullet and her crew.

A few hundred meters from the river was the rental agent from whom we had arranged our accommodations. We had 4 cabañas and a house, all within a short walking distance of the Springs (but a considerable rolling distance in the wheelchair. The house was closest to the Springs, so Harry the Westie, Lucy the German Shepherd’s dog, Borko the Serb, and yours truly, the Southron took up residence there.

Each of the 5 units we rented was fully furnished, had a full kitchen and had two bedrooms with two beds per bedroom. (They also all had bathrooms—there were no comfort stations out back—this may be the interior, it is not 1920.) Everything was very nice and lines and towels were included. Since it was the edge of the high season, the rental cost about US$200 per unit for the three nights.

Because we were on holiday, which is always a cause for celebration, we had asado on Friday night at my house. The yard was large and fenced, and the back patio had the traditional Uruguayan parrilla (barbecue grill) and plenty of space for chairs and a table. Sueco is our official company asador and was in charge of the grill. Everyone else pitched in organizing chairs, the table, and the condiments.

I do not mention the bar being organized, because that was the very first thing that was done, even before lighting the fire.

We ate and drank well into the evening. At that point, being old and feeble, I went to bed. That however, was not the majority point of view. Those who were younger and with weaker morals (or morals they hoped to weaken) headed out to the nightclubs and drank and danced until dawn, primarily at the W Lounge in Salto.

One of the little things I like so much about Uruguay are their roll-down window shutters. They blot out the light so effectively then it becomes very easy to sleep late. I slept in until 11 a.m. on Saturday, and I was the first one up. People started straggling to my house for “breakfast” about 1 p.m.

A bit later, we all made our way to the Termas de Dayman (Dayman Hot Springs). Amazingly, they actually had handicapped parking, so I pulled out my Crip sticker from Florida and stuck it on the rearview mirror. These were the public Hot Springs, not to be confused with the private “Spa Hot Springs” next-door.

I think the admission fee changes during the course of the day, so we may only paid for afternoon and evening access—whatever it was, it only cost a bit more than two dollars per person. The park itself was huge and sported at least a dozen swimming pools, which were I am told, of varying temperatures. A few were even covered.

Signs informed us that health regulations required that we had to shower and use soap prior to going to the pool. Borko rolled me to the showers nearest the pool we had chosen—it was either the hottest, or the second hottest. I understand my swim trunks and hobbled under one of the showers. The water was scalding! I can’t imagine why soap would be required, the water itself took off the top three layers of my skin, and more than one of the guys was seriously worried about his ability to father children in the future. I quickly got wet all over, and got the hell (the water seemed like it had been directly piped from there) out of the shower and into my bathroom.

We then made a very quick trip to the chosen pool; Borko rolled a right to the steps, and I gingerly went into the water. It was right around 38° C. (100° F.). But after the shower didn’t seem all that bad. I was the last one in the pool, save only for Borko. One of the nice things about being fat is that fat is lighter than water, hence it is easier for a fat person to float and swim than for a skinny person. If I ever succeed in losing a bunch away I may drown!

The water was wonderful and relaxing, but also enervating. After a bit, most of the gang got out and went to get something to eat and drink. I stayed longer, because it takes longer for the heat to penetrate all the way inside. Eventually however, even I gave up when I reached the point that my legs felt like spaghetti and I was mightily unsure of my ability to get out of the pool without a crane. Somehow I made it, with only hand from Borko, and I joined the gang for lunch.

The weather was perfect. We sat outside in the bright sun warm and content. Mono’s wife is a doctor, and she warned me to keep my un-bandaged leg wound out of the sunlight because of a hole in the ozone layer over Uruguay—apparently too much sun here works about the same as kryptonite on Superman.

After lunch, I had Borko taking home, and passed out until dinner.

For dinner, we went to an all-you-can-eat buffet called El Rancho, between the Hot Springs and Salto city. The food was pretty good and plentiful—the usual meat heavy Uruguayan diet; you can even order directly from the grill. The cost was ridiculous, it was only about six Yankee dollars per person.

After dinner, guess what? I went to bed, and everyone else went partying until sunrise as they did the night before.

Stay tuned for Part 3 of this adventure—coming soon.