Summer Montevideano Ciudad Campo
Montevideo in summer is a city as flat as a field under a blue sky. It is the summer solitude of the rural environment brought to the concrete streets, in whose lethargic afternoons the birds sing, the groups of friends stationed on the sidewalks drink mate and walk, with enough parsimony and calm, dogs, some cats and some long-legged birds that I haven't managed to find out their names yet.
The glasses of some trees, of a thick and insulting green, They throw their shadow, The sound of the wind tangling on their hairs and its colors against the sidewalks, against traffic lights and against some walls or doors against which, hopefully, Sleep a heated dog or someone parked a green or blue car. There we have an impressionist scenario or a plane of a slow and promising film, cheap, de series B. The offer of textures, With an outstanding sensory load to be only an urban stamp on Wednesday afternoon, It encourages the walker to stop and start the traditional observation mechanisms and throw themselves, Like dog naps, to the simple exercise of getting carried away.
"It's not so easy to get carried away", They will tell me some detractors protest and stressed. Certain, I will say, It is not so easy, I don't know myself, But those street crosses with lagging cobblestones invite delivery and vital dance, to leave the spirit travel, with closed eyes.
"It's not so easy to get carried away", They will tell me some detractors protest and stressed
", How exaggerated, Anyone would say that they are talking about Asian meadows, From the fields of Serengeti ... if it's just Montevideo!”, The Uruguayans will tell me, They always protest their own country. And, yes, There is the matter. It's just Montevideo. There is the spell of this city, that I do not think it is exceptionally colorful or magical or that protrudes between the rankings of cities for anything particularly peculiar, But that's why he has a field, why, Among the tiles that conspire against the walker ankles, A breeze passes calmly that looks a lot like, in its semantic plot, to the pasty wind of the rural nap.
The Pando River, The beaches of Rocha, Blue hills of blue hills have a scent of nature and pure fresh leaf. It is easy. Once in the Natural Uruguay one passes directly to the dimension of quiet beauty and to the harmonic densities of the former Castilian and is already, right away, The plane of the authentic ready to enjoy, With his feelings of the summers by bicycle without brakes. But in the city it is not so simple, is nothing, There is still no jump to make, There is no border, There are still text and empty plastic bottle, Young people without a weight to go to the Pinar beach that play the guitar on desert street and families bullshit, grandparents taking mate, neighbors making braids and children, in front of the house, playing on the street with open doors in the city.
There is no purity, There are mixtures of pure and impure plots, of music and bus, of cement with tree branch torn by the storm, dog poop with blue sky. The wheels sound on the asphalt and a mate cloud fills a plumb of gray smoke, A little nostalgia, perishable, It gives way to the night joy of beers with Manis in the Rambla and summer friends, The hands that are touched and the awake senses float at dusk in this country of blues.
