After our few weeks of pretending like we lived  there, part one of the two part Buenos Aires saga drew to a close.  With a mix of anticipation and heavy hearts we emptied our temporary dresser drawers and repacked our overstuffed and over heavy bags for the next dot on the map.  Instead of a bus or plane, we embarked onto a ferry the size of a cruise ship headed across the river to Colonia, Uruguay. 

Again we stamped our passports and again we converted currency with some familiar funny math.  Read any guide book and it will tout the old world charm of Colonia del Sacramento surrounded by it’s stone armaments.  In a way it reminded us of a smaller, less well funded Cartagena.  Outside the city wall we had to navigate a few rutted dirt roads which led us to the lemon farm that was to be our home for the next week.  A dirty golden brown and muddied pup named Hashie would be one of several of our canine hosts for the next few nights.  His compadres were similar sized, white, and fluffy; or large, and sprouting white wirery whiskers.  Seven or eight in all we were never without company on our lemon farm far removed from civilization. 

On our first morning after a breakfast slathered in dulce de leche, we set off to find our way into town.  We kicked a few tires, and decided to brave the rusted and rattled old bikes for the dozen mile ride.  Like a scene out of Wedding Crahsers, we kicked up dust on country roads while swiveling our handle bars to and fro.  We waved to local farmers and ranchers with gusto and pedaled ever forward. 

The actual old town was paved in cobblestones too rugged to ride our junkers over, and we opted  to slow our pace to that of the city in which we walked.   Ancient cars that once would have been prime candidates for a hotrod enthusiast, are parked casually along some of the narrow side streets.  Flowers sprout from their hoods and green vines curl over their doors.  Our slow wanderings ducked us through a hidden hobbit’s door and into a local wine cave in which we were king and queen for an evening.  Alone in our castle we let the day slip into night and we drifted further away from wondering what came next or what day it was. 

The next morning our sore seats ached for a break from the bikes.  So, with deliberate indifference we saddled up two local horses more befitting of our temporarily adopted royal stature.  Our German accented squire (read, ranch hand) wasted no time in demonstrating that this was not going to be your everyday American pony trail ride.  With sudden realization of the power of the beast beneath us, and absence of any brake or bike pedal; we gripped the horses’ manes and toured the countryside at a gallop. 

This place is easy to miss on a map.  For most, it merits nothing more than a quick day trip across the river. Its supposed most significant contribution to the present is the allure of it’s preserved past. It’s best version however, is only made available to those who experience this place slowly.  On our third and final night we walk along the white washed stone wall on the water; trailing the sun over the horizon.  After the sunset as the sky fades to gray, instead of turning to head home with the crowds, we slowly wait.  For a few secret minutes time reverses and the gray nothing in front of us blazes with pink fire. Only then do we walk home. Despactio as they say.