So, Thursday, the paro, for Natalia, actually happened. It was called for by the national union of teachers to protest the conditions in which they work, and the entire body of high school teachers was supposed to take part.
Or so they told Natalia. Other sources have told me that it was supposed to be elementary school teachers, and that they had suspended the paro because the forecast called for rain in Montevideo, meaning they wouldn't get a good turnout for their protest, and they would rather do it the following Thursday.
In any event, Natalia went with what was said to her, and didn't go to work on Thursday. Meaning she and I had the day to wander Montevideo in a leisurely fashion. I've decided that paros are the Uruguayan equivalent of snow days - they come on sometimes, unexpectedly, and allow you to miss a day of work. Only you get docked a day's pay. But Natalia played along and was a good soldier, and around 10:30 AM she came by the lobby of the Hotel Oxford and picked me up.
While waiting there, I snapped a picture of this painting that hangs in the lobby:
It reminded me of the art you would see in Ecuador for sale at the park, at El ejido. It seems to be in tremendously bad taste, and is poorly executed, and generally has this creepy air about it that you can't quite put your finger on. I wanted to remember it always.
We then went to the old town, where I went into a bookstore called "Más puro verso". It's a new outlet for the bookstore "Puro verso", which is near where our hotel was, and is a fascinating architectural space. This one didn't disappoint, either:
We wandered on, and passed in front of the register of deeds or some such in Montevideo, where people get legally married, and are pelted with rice as they emerge:
Couple after couple, with a shifting crowd of well-dressed (or, in the case of one young couple, absolutely not well-dressed) well-wishers. I was struck because of the non-religious nature of it. I don't know if these people then go on to have a church wedding somewhere else, but they were stopping for photographers, kissing long and hard for the cameras, grinning ear to ear...It seemed like this was the main event. Natalia didn't have much to say on the subject - but from what she's told me, and her family, this is not nearly as devoutly religious a country as others I've been to in Latin America.
I took this picture to show the idea of turnos. This schedule shows the classes at an art institute on the same street as the register of deeds, where there are two shifts of students. I mean, this is at the post-secondary level, and they still have turnos! The advantage, I suppose, is that you can have double the number of students go through the same facility, using the space and the equipment twice. The disadvantage is that it's an awful way to treat your faculty, making them do everything twice, at widely spaced hours of the day. Saves money, but makes for a lot of wear and tear on the people you rely on to make the whole place work.
On we wandered, to our eventual lunch spot - the same place we had ñoquis the other day. Here's the front door:
Just as we were pondering whether to go in, a man came up, started to reach for the door, and stopped. He looked puzzled, then looked at us. "Isn't it open?", he asked (in Spanish). "No, it is," we said. "Why do you think it isn't?" He pointed at the sign, quoting it: "'No aceptamos visitas'," he said. "We don't accept visits."
We pointed out his mistake. He leaned in for a closer look, and then broke into a hearty belly laugh. I thought that was pretty hilarious.
The back entrance to the Punta Carretas mall, which stands on the grounds of the prison where President Mujica was held as a political prisoner back in the day. Just can't get enough of that particular fact. And here's a fusca, just to complete the last post I'll make involving Mujica:
I took this photo to show the usual placement of mannequins in shop doors in malls in Uruguay:
And this one to show the typical color palette in the styles worn by Uruguayan women. They are a tasteful, subdued bunch:
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