The blue-white legendary historicity of football

Fast-paced. Bustling. Crowded. All idioms many metropoles and/or capitols would easily put on their calling cards. All descriptions that would feel very out of place in Montevideo. In fact, if 'crowded' found itself in the Uruguayan capitol, even in the pub district of La Ciudad Vieja after midnight on a payday Friday, it would nervously excuse itself and haul a taxi to get on the next speedboat across Rio de la Plata. Even if 'bustling' and 'fast-paced' assured it that they could do this, together. Solemn. Relaxed. Spacious. Now those are some words that Montevideo can stand by and give the thumbs-up. Even in the restaurant district, on a Friday night, eating my chivito and sipping my Patricia, the vibe was laid-back and cool. Solemn, relaxed and most of all spacious. But I didn't magically materialize at Plaza Matriz. Lets start from the beginning, shall we? What beginning, then? The one where the singularity and our whole universe was in a hot dense state? No, because just like Ken Hamm, I wasn't there. The one on Dec 21:st 1974 when I uncrying crawled into this world? Maybe not, but pay attention to that date, it might be important later. The one with me applying for time off in order to go travelling to far-off places? Could do that, but no-one wants to read about my overtime and workhours spent between that point in time and this. Nah, let's start with what all journeys start with: A step. A step out of my office baby, a step into the lift, a step into my friend's waiting car. And a step through the security at the airport, and I was on my merry. Due to the random nature of flight times, most airlines and airports put a minimum layover time between flights. In Guarhulos/TAM:s case that minimum time is 1:30. My booked flight was scheduled to land 1:25 before my connecting flight, which obviously ruled out the morning flight, so they changed me to the afternoon one. Seven hours later. As a bit of an extra neener-neener my flight landed on Guarhulos more than an hour early, meaning I would have had a pleasant 2:30 layover had they let me keep my first-booked flight, but ended up with a nine hour instead. And Guarhulos is not the most wondrous airport in the world. Never did I leave the airport, and yet twice I went through the demeaning process of security. Nevertheless, at long last I landed in Uruguay, the country with the, by far, most impressive football record per capita. And so I found myself on Plaza Matriz in the Old Town, eating the Uruguayan staple steak-and-veggies-sandwich known as chivito, and sampling one of the local beers, Patricia. As Uruguay is one of those countries that aren't USA, Canada, UK, Ireland, Belgium and Sweden, I had not even entertained the embryo of a thought of any other type than lager; something that I was soon to be proven mistaken about. And pleasantly so. The sky was indescribebly blue, and the sun was probably all yellow-like. Had there been some streaks of white clouds, the heavens would have made a spitting image of the Uruguayan flag. The one with the yellow sun and the blue-and-white stripes* that is. Apparently there's another one competing for attention: The blue, red and white of Russian design. An explosion of Russian settlers, displaying their patriotism, perchance? Yet another invasion of wealthy Russian tourists? Not exactly, but it did turn out that the great eastern bear had at least some symbolic connection to this alternate banner being hoisted from cars and windows and painted all over town on walls and fieldstones. Upon closer examination, the stylized letters FA were printed on some of them, and after apt altavisting I found that it was the party flag for Frente Amplio (Broad Front), a left-wing coalition party boasting a roughly 52%25 majority. With nice 25 degree weather and a fully charged GPS watch on my wrist, I strapped on my walking sandals and embarked on a promenade that would take me 30 kilometres around town. Those sandals had not been worn for over a year, my feet were not used to them, and by nightfall I had blisters and ache. No reason to complain, though; better get my feet used to them anyways, get some hardening built up, right? In 1930 the very first Football World Cup was held in Uruguay. The host nation proved the most effective, and won the final played on Stadio Centenario in Montevideo. The vividly painted stadium still stands, still holds the biggest games (both club and international) and remains one of the most historic sites when it comes to football. That would make it an excellent site for a football museum. Therefore, in Stadio Centenario, there is a football museum. I draw the short straw however, for it was closed due to maintenance. Free guided walking tours can be found in all major cities in Europe, and apparently so in Montevideo as well. Unfortunately I couldn't find an English-speaking one, but thanks to the wonders of modern electronics, an audio-guided tour found its way as an app on my phone, and so I perused the not-at-all narrow streets of La Ciudad Vieja. There are tourist buses as well. Mock all you want, but the system of hop-on/hop-off combined with the brief audio summaries provided through borrowed headphones is a great way of exploring large areas of a town, including the hard-to-reach outskirts. Try to get up early, though, in order to make the most of the fee. Mine took me to botanical gardens, shopping centres and most importantly along the Rambla, the road and pedestrian/cyclist/rollerblade/snakeboard lanes along Rio de la Plata and its beaches. Along the shoreline, the locals gather holding their gourds with Yerba de Mate, clutching their thermoses. Some go fishing, and everywhere families join for football, barbecue and socializing. After having sat on a bus most of the day, occasionally walking through parks and shopping districts, I found myself needing to move. As such, I dropped some things off at the hotel, including, I suppose, the kids at the pool, tied my shoes and went for a run along the beach promenade. I was on a lookout for a certain village without a street, as I had heard it would be situated not far from Rio de la Plata, almost at the edge of the blue Atlantic. But I couldn't find it. I guess it could be on the Argentinian side, as it supposedly has Pampas behind it, many hundred green miles. I'll have another look in a couple of weeks. Though nice and safe and not overly exciting, the downtown and central areas of Montevideo are not as cosy as La Ciudad Vieja, nor as vibrant come nightfall. My hotel was situated on the pub street, and if I ever was in doubt that I was in a town, I would not need to look furter than next door. Lo and, indeed, behold: There was an Irish pub! An interesting lack of Guinness, Magners and Kilkenny was made up for by the local brews of Pilsen, Mastra and Davok; all of which boasted a lager and an oscura (stout-y but not as full-bodied). Mastra had a pale ale and an amber ale, and Davok even an IPA. The surpisingly splendid selection of cervezas aside, I'm a bit conflicted as to how important Montevideo is as a travel destination. Relaxed and stress-free for sure, but I know that many people take the ferry from Buenos Aires for a day trip to Montevideo. Perhaps that is a better choice, I guess I'll know in a couple of weeks, when I have tried the reputed bustlyness of BA.

To summarize: Montevideo is spacious and relaxed, has a surpisingly solid selection of beer and was the host of the very first World Cup final, in an 84 year old stadium that still stands.

Fun factoid: It is well known, to those who know it well, that the risk of getting bitten by a shark is way smaller than getting bitten by Uruguayan football star Luis Suárez. That is not the case in Montevideo, however: Rio de la Plata possibly hosts at least one shark, but Suárez is nowhere to be found in Montevideo. Him playing in Barcelona, and all.

*) Heja Blåvitt!