The funniest (and most embarrassing) things about shopping in Uruguay

People say women love to shop, but I’m not so fond of it. Mostly, it’s too exhausting and I don’t care for the way money disappears just like magic every time I spend it. Does that mean I’m not a woman, or is that flawed logic? There’s been quite a bit of discussion regarding flawed logic lately. People do rather odd things, in my opinion. Where the law that says we have to explain ourselves?

Today I went shopping even though I certainly didn’t want to. True to my profession, I write and shop at the same time. That is, I keep myself amused, by writing in my head little observations about the goings-on. I invent jokes about the prices.  I think there’s a bit to joke about in that department.

Somewhere before in this blog I mentioned the erratic tomato prices. Today at the store they were close to 100 pesos a kilo. I’ve seen them under 40, too. I’ve also seen them as high as 125, and no, these were gourmet tomatoes sliced, diced, and at your service. Eggs have gone down. I was afraid they’d reach 50 pesos for a half dozen. Recently I’ve seen six for 25 pesos, which is the lowest I’ve seen a half dozen since my arrival. Likewise, we can purchase 30 for under 100.

“Psst…Buyer beware, the dude down the street sells the same item for one-third the price….”

But please, don’t squeeze the Charmin, especially since we don’t have any here. Many brands are different. A woman from USA might panic the first time she buys sanitary supplies here. “What, no tampon applicators?”  I haven’t seen any yet. Who knows, they might be coming any day now. The latest thing. Tampax. Yes, we do have condoms, and they aren’t called Trojans. Yes, you will find them right at the register, along with “nips” of booze, candy, gum, junk food, light bulbs, batteries, and mini bags of mate. If you look closely, you might find a cheap cell phone, too. But don’t say “cell phone.” I tried that. I was handed our version of Lysol Spray Disinfectant. Say telefono celular. If you want it recharged, say recarga.

We do have Kotex stuff, but they look different, or the ones I bought did. These were those mini pads, often called “panitliners.” The Kotex ones I bought had these teeny flower thingies printed on the part you peel off and throw out. Honestly, please throw the other part out, too, when you are done with it. Don’t throw it out the window like my neighbor did in the States! Especially not from the fifth floor window while Puzzle and I are walking past.

Coffee? That’s about the one thing that doesn’t grow here. We import it. So that means import tax. Tax the hell out of the stuff, 22% but our taxes are so complicated it does indeed take rocket science to understand them. We have a number of brands. All contain sugar, even ground coffee. I’m serious. Sugar is added to the grounds. Do you think I buy that stuff? Oddly, the sugar-free, which really does mean unsweetened, costs tons more. Yep, I splurge. There’s only one brand I can tolerate here. It’s Cafe Señor. I’ve tried Montesol and the one by Nestle’s. I don’t like either. There’s another one, called Casino, but I haven’t seen it for ages. Maybe it got gambled away. The only place you can get very fresh coffee beans is in Montevideo, but I hear it’s hard to find. Bet Starbucks would make a killing here. Have they thought of expanding to Latinoamerica? They’ll do far better than McDonald’s I’ll bet. (Psst, I don’t think people go there for the food.)

It’s never time to make the doughnuts here. That’s because we don’t really have them. Nor peanut butter. Yes, you can find it for slightly less than the price of gold. We do have peanuts, like 50 different types. In the shell, raw, peeled, not peeled, peeled but raw, sweetened in various ways, salted (salada), Japones, or something called Garapinda, which I do not like. You can buy them done up in soy sauce if you want, too.

But I was going to tell you the funny parts of shopping. I know I’ve told you this before, but for those who haven’t read it, here’s what happened when I first arrived. I saw a few stores, and all were selling “ABIERTO.” I had no clue what that was, but I knew many must buy that thing. What was it? The new, latest, trendy cell phone accessory? Oh, maybe it’s a magazine or newspaper. Naw, candy. Cigarettes. Sure, maybe Abierto Man instead of Marlboro Man. I didn’t dare go into a store to buy one. I was too scared to ask.

This was a good thing, I’d say. Later on, the stores darkened, and no longer had ABIERTO on sale. Now, in dark of the evening, they were selling CERRADO. Oh my goodness, that’s a very strong alcoholic beverage, no? I didn’t want that! Yuck! However, when I went to go peek into the store, not only were the lights out, but the store was closed.

Okay, I get it. ABIERTO is open and CERRADO is closed. Just kick me.

Then, the next day, I walked into a glass door. This is because I had no clue what Empuje meant nor did I know Tire. These are push and pull, but i still mix them up. Please memorize these, since people cannot walk through glass last I checked. Wasn’t it Michael Cunningham who wrote that amazing short story collection and in one of them, a kid walks through a glass door? Never mind. Alice walked right through a mirror. You can, too, but don’t try it at home.

Needless to say, I learned that Salida means exit. Not to be confused with salada, which means salted. Ensalada is the word for salad. If you hear word salad here, don’t worry, it’s Spanish but they’re speaking so fast I cannot understand.

Meanwhile, fútbol is and always will be the rage. If you buy something that says fútbol on it, you will pay three times the price. If you buy a flashlight that says fútbol, you, it’ll still break down within days after you buy it, since that’s what flashlights here do.

Today, I checked out the baseball caps. Apparently, the only baseball team they are aware of here is the New York Yankees. Um, hey, I’m from Boston. We’re supposed to hate the Yankees. I can’t say I do.  Today I looked for a long time at all the caps. Not a bad collection. But only NY. I like the other ones, though. some say Fútbol things on them, some say nothing but they look nice anyway. There are girly ones too, pink and all sorts of yucky “femme” colors. Sorry, I don’t like wearing flowers. Where Have All the Flowers Gone, anyway?

I must admit, I get embarrassed at the checkout. Why? I am from USA where customers get pushy and yell at each other. I don’t want that, though here, I suspect the only ones that do that are very drunk. I’m always a little nervous watching those numbers go up and up at the register. One hundred, two hundred…”Um, this will have to be on the card,” I say to myself. If in doubt, I ask “Tiene tarjeta Visa?” Si means yes and no means no. I hold my breath as the cashier slides the card through. When I see that register door pop open, I know I’m okay. Yes, I really do hold my breath.

Then, I gotta get the bags out. I don’t like to dawdle on this part. My mom said I dawdled all the time when I was little. I suppose the opposite of dawdle means to rush out of there. I do. Once outside, I feel free. Relieved. Done. Away from the Muzak.  Now, the carry home part.

In USA, I’d get poked fun at for this, but I carry home my stuff any way I can, even on my head. I carry stuff over my shoulder and draped over anything drapable. I don’t worry about anyone laughing at me here. We’re all loco, and it’s good to be that way. I’ve seen carts towed by bicycles, bicycles towed by bicycles, trikes with carts, carts pulled by one or two horses, motorcycles with four kids on them with one carrying the family dog. However, that’s rather rare, since most households have about five pet dogs at least.

¡Ciao!

 

On forgiveness

I dreamed this in the early morning hours:

I saw my psychiatrist, Dr. P, standing. All around her was a mist, the kind of mist that often we see in dreams. She seemed bigger than life at that moment. All around her was an audience. We were all there, all her patients. She began to speak.

She said, “I am sorry for what I did. I know I gave many of you too many drugs, and I realize this was irresponsible and unethical of me, even illegal. I realize that many of these drugs harmed you  and I know I denied the harm to protect my practice. When you confronted me, my response was to tell you you were crazy and needed even more drugs. I knew all along you were right but I didn’t want to face the truth nor admit I had done. I went through so much training to be a psychiatrist and I wanted so much to help you all. I studied psychiatry for many years, kept up with all the literature, and wanted to be the best doctor I could be. I didn’t want to face the truth, that my own field is so flawed that it fails just about everyone. It makes them sicker and keeps them disabled.”

There was complete silence in the room. Dr. P continued, “I am so sorry I was abrupt with many of you and failed to listen when that’s what you really needed. Instead, I gave you more drugs. This was inexcusable. I am sorry that the drugs harmed people.”

She said, “It was difficult for me to be a doctor under the circumstances. For years, I was suffering in silence from ____. No one really knew.”

In the dream, I silently responded, “Dr. P, I knew.”

Then, she said, “Also, the administration at Massachusetts General Hospital bullied me. I tried so hard not to keep my personal life from affecting my job as a doctor. I didn’t want to admit I was failing so many of you.”

I said, again silently, “Dr. P, I, too, knew all along, But I was also in denial that a doctor could possibly be anything but always right. I wanted the ideal doctor and flawless hospital. But there is no such thing. Doctors are human, too.” I was afraid to say this aloud. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt her.

Dr. P said, “I acted irrationally. I was only half aware of it. I wanted to be perfect. But I made many mistakes. I even ruined lives and caused deaths. I had no choice but to walk away and never admit any responsibility. I am sorry.”

I stood. I walked through the mist, right up to her. Then, I gave her a big hug. In twelve years, I had never touched her, never made any physical contact. I held her for a long time. She seemed so fragile. I said, “I forgive you, Dr. P.”

I told myself I had been cornered into forgiving so many times when I really didn’t mean it. All my life, I felt that I had been far quick to forgive and let things slide when I should have said something. Every time I falsely forgave, I felt resentful that I was forced or pressured to do so before I was ready. Was this just one more of those times?

When I was very young, I had a friend named Karen. She was a great kid. We were five years old or so.  One day, when we were playing, I punched her in the armpit. I have no clue why I did it, but I know I wasn’t doing it to be vicious nor did I have desire to harm her. I wasn’t angry. I was just playing. I was too young to be aware that what I did hurt. Puppies do the same thing. They use their mouths to express love, unaware that occasionally, they may bite too hard and scare those they love.

Karen began to cry. My mom heard and came running to see what the matter was. She took me aside and that’s when I got lectured. I was told what I did was bad. My mom said I should apologize to Karen.

I felt cornered. Such an apology felt fake. It felt contrived. I was very very sorry and ashamed about what I did. But to say a trite “I’m sorry” just because this was demanded of me seemed artificial. I think Karen already knew, in a way that children certainly know well, that I was deeply sorry and had never intended to harm her. Our mutual understanding and forgiveness went far beyond words.

For years, I remembered this. I cried every time I offended someone and felt deeply ashamed. I felt ashamed to criticize. I felt ashamed because somehow, other people’s flaws always reflected off of me. If another child didn’t do their school work, I took it upon myself to do the work myself, and then, cover it all up. I did homework for other kids. I shared test answers. I spent time comforting other kids when they cried, neglecting my own studies.

The idea of forgiveness in the religious sense made sense to me, but only half sense. I liked the idea I learned in the 12 step groups of praying for a person’s good health and wellbeing as a way of resolving my anger. I found this comforting. On the other hand, I resented when another person demanded that I pray.

Forced prayer is a form of religious abuse. I have seen this in churches many times, much of this on TV or in movies.  Kids in parochial schools and religious education classes are forced to kneel pray or forced to take communion or other rituals when really, they feel grossed out. Sadly, many never realize that forced religion in any form is a violation of trust and personal space. Isn’t it odd how there’s such a fine line between caring and abuse?

Such it was with Dr. P, I suppose. She did indeed care about her patients. But something went terribly wrong. Her tendency to push us away and her refusal to relate to us, but to manage us like property was not too helpful.

I am not a thing. I don’t want to be managed. I am human and have feelings. We all do. No one should be subject to assembly-line medical care or assembly line therapy, or assembly-line education or assembly-line religion. Are there too many mouths to feed, too many sick people out there? Is this what it has come down to? Are we all the demanding masses that need cake thrown at us?

I have an image in my head of a doctor visiting very sick people in a Third World country. We saw this on TV when I was a child, and in newspapers. My brother went into the Peace Corps, undoubtedly influenced by these images. We heard that these doctors were brave and heroic. Soldiers often did similar things when they came upon a city that had been bombed or attacked. They rescued survivors.  By all means, they were brave heroes, and I knew they wanted to do so even more than humanly possible for suffering people. Perhaps doctors, too, start out with these images planted in their heads. Do good for humanity.

In the USA, I did not live in such abject poverty nor had we been bombed. Where was the disaster? What fire or flood or hurricane? What crisis? Yet there we all were, lined up at the clinics, begging to doctors who, in truth, couldn’t help us. Yet we continued to beg and beg for more, when indeed we already had enough.

Dr. P was that woman who lived in a shoe, with so many children, she didn’t know what to do. So instead, she turned her back, unable to feed the masses, since this was an impossible task given the flawed nature of psychiatry. Unable to resolve an unsolvable irony, she resorted to _____. This was her escape.  She did this so she would not have to touch us. I saw that wall around her and never said a word.

I do forgive you, Dr. P. While I know I am retelling a dream here, I admit that I am embellishing it far beyond the fleeting images I saw while sleeping this morning. It’s not so much what we dream or what our minds randomly bring us at such times, but how we see them and how these illogical fantasy images carry over into our lives that matters. No one was standing over me lecturing me, nor demanding that I kneel in prayer. In fact, I had to work to get to this point.

What you did was inexcusable, and in fact, illegal. The harm is going to take many more years to repair, but I am working on it. I am sorry that things went so wrong. I wish you the best, and I hope that as I work on my own life, your life, too, gets better.

Julie Greene and Puzzle

Discouraged….

Oliver Twist asked, “Can I have more?” For that, condemned.

No, you can’t, they tell me. You are a mental patient and therefore, subhuman. Go back to “where you belong.” The wards, the halfway houses, the ghettos. If you don’t go along with that, you’re fucked I guess.