A relatively recent development in Montevideo is the regular arrival of cruise ships. (To my mind any development since I lived here will always I suspect seem recent.) They dock in the port in the morning and thousands of moneyed tourists stream out, flooding the Ciudad Vieja, before returning to the ship in the afternoon and heading on to their next port of call.
Not so long ago an English friend of Jorge told him that an American friend was going to be arriving on one of these ships, and asked him if he’d mind showing the tourist and his partner around for the day. Jorge, who lives in Ciudad Vieja, said he’d be happy to.
The two tourists caught a cab the short distance to Jorge’s flat in Bartolome Mitre. The friend’s partner turned out to be male, which delighted Jorge. He showed the Americans around the old town. Passing through Plaza Matriz, Jorge pointed out the cathedral, noting that it had little architectural interest, but the Americans expressed a desire to look in anyway. On their way out, Jorge noticed one of the men crossing himself, and asked if he was Catholic, which the man said he was. From Plaza Matriz they ambled down to Mercado del Puerto, Jorge taking great pleasure in pointing out phallic symbols concealed within the cityscape. At the Mercado the three did what any self respecting non vegetarian does, and consumed considerable quantities of red meat. Jorge learnt that the two men came from Wisconsin and Seattle respectively. They exchanged stories of how they came out to their families, and by all accounts everyone was having a suitably high spirited time of it.
After they meal they continued to wander. Only now did Jorge begin to observe that, in spite of all the common ground, there was a great deal that neither man had talked about. Such as what jobs they did, how they sustained their relationship in spite of the distance, even how they actually met.
With the afternoon getting on, Jorge suggested the three get in a cab and go for a drive along the Rambla, as far as Punta Gorda and back. This is the best way to get a handle on the city as it stretches away from the old town, up the coast, rolling around the vast lip of the River Plate. Jorge continued to act as guide, but the reluctance of the Americans to open up began to seem strange, even rude.
On the return journey back to the port, Jorge finally decided he had to ask. Montevideo cabs are a tight squeeze, and from his description the two men were muscular. Jorge was crunched in between them. Summoning up courage he turned to the older of the two Americans, his friend’s friend, and said, in his most impeccably polite Anglo Saxon English : ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking – what is it that you actually do?’
The man sighed and looked away, out over the perhaps sparkling River Plate, named for a promise of silver, and replied: ‘I’m a priest.’ Jorge let this sink in. The man didn’t offer anymore information. Seeing it was all he was going to get, Jorge turned to the younger man, and asked: ‘And you?’ The second man half-smiled, like a kid, then he followed suit, looking out of the window. He said, without looking at Jorge: ‘I’m a priest too’.
A few minutes later, the three men were at the port. Jorge bid them adieu and the two priests re-embarked on their covert cruise ship voyage. A couple of weeks later Jorge received a card from the older of the two priests, thanking him for his hospitality during their brief stay in Montevideo.
Not so long ago an English friend of Jorge told him that an American friend was going to be arriving on one of these ships, and asked him if he’d mind showing the tourist and his partner around for the day. Jorge, who lives in Ciudad Vieja, said he’d be happy to.
The two tourists caught a cab the short distance to Jorge’s flat in Bartolome Mitre. The friend’s partner turned out to be male, which delighted Jorge. He showed the Americans around the old town. Passing through Plaza Matriz, Jorge pointed out the cathedral, noting that it had little architectural interest, but the Americans expressed a desire to look in anyway. On their way out, Jorge noticed one of the men crossing himself, and asked if he was Catholic, which the man said he was. From Plaza Matriz they ambled down to Mercado del Puerto, Jorge taking great pleasure in pointing out phallic symbols concealed within the cityscape. At the Mercado the three did what any self respecting non vegetarian does, and consumed considerable quantities of red meat. Jorge learnt that the two men came from Wisconsin and Seattle respectively. They exchanged stories of how they came out to their families, and by all accounts everyone was having a suitably high spirited time of it.
After they meal they continued to wander. Only now did Jorge begin to observe that, in spite of all the common ground, there was a great deal that neither man had talked about. Such as what jobs they did, how they sustained their relationship in spite of the distance, even how they actually met.
With the afternoon getting on, Jorge suggested the three get in a cab and go for a drive along the Rambla, as far as Punta Gorda and back. This is the best way to get a handle on the city as it stretches away from the old town, up the coast, rolling around the vast lip of the River Plate. Jorge continued to act as guide, but the reluctance of the Americans to open up began to seem strange, even rude.
On the return journey back to the port, Jorge finally decided he had to ask. Montevideo cabs are a tight squeeze, and from his description the two men were muscular. Jorge was crunched in between them. Summoning up courage he turned to the older of the two Americans, his friend’s friend, and said, in his most impeccably polite Anglo Saxon English : ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking – what is it that you actually do?’
The man sighed and looked away, out over the perhaps sparkling River Plate, named for a promise of silver, and replied: ‘I’m a priest.’ Jorge let this sink in. The man didn’t offer anymore information. Seeing it was all he was going to get, Jorge turned to the younger man, and asked: ‘And you?’ The second man half-smiled, like a kid, then he followed suit, looking out of the window. He said, without looking at Jorge: ‘I’m a priest too’.
A few minutes later, the three men were at the port. Jorge bid them adieu and the two priests re-embarked on their covert cruise ship voyage. A couple of weeks later Jorge received a card from the older of the two priests, thanking him for his hospitality during their brief stay in Montevideo.
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