Montevideo feels like a sleepy city.
Sundays you walk through the park and there's men sitting playing their guitars.
Sometimes together, sometimes alone.
There are little tables made of concrete and colored glass mosaics, with little chessboards in the center. Old men sit and play cards, and a family eats their picnic lunch.
Every Sunday there's a market. You look down from our apartment window and it's a scattering of brightly colored tents.
You go down into the warren of tents, and it's a bustling market with clothes, and things for your home. Even some plants for your garden.
It's not quiet, but not so loud you can't hear yourself think.
Walking through the park again, there's a small lake with the little boats you pedal like a bike. Floating across and around.
Little kiddos chase the pigeons, while all the adults walk around cradling their various cups of mate in their hands, and their thermos of hot water in the crook of their arms.
It's so strange for it to be August, and undeniably winter. It rarely gets below 50 degrees F, but theres a disctinct chill in the air.
Monday nights, I walk around and find the streets close to my apartment mostly empty.
I get closer to the main street, and there are people commuting home; in cars, on bikes, walking to the bus.
In the grocery store, there are parents closely followed by children in their uniforms from school.
In the line to check out, friends greet each other and fawn over sweet babies.