The Slow Boat to Barf-Town
Ah…look at our naive, happy faces. We had no idea we were about to board the worst ferry ride ever.
As our ferry made its nauseating journey from Montevideo to Buenos Aires, I kicked myself between verps for buying the cheapest ticket on the website. What I didn’t realize when I secured this “hot deal” was that in exchange for a few pesos I’d inadvertently booked us a four-hour slog on what I’ve come to call “The Slow boat to Barf Town.”
My head lolled side to side with the unfortunate rhythm of the waves and I tried my best to not lose my empanadas. Not even the trio of pan-flutists doggedly serenading us from the deck below could make me feel better. In fact the breezy, melancholy background music reminded me of that scene in Titanic where the string quartet plays as the ship sinks. I closed my eyes and laughed to myself. It was the perfect ending to one of the weirdest weekends I had ever experienced.
Two days earlier, we took the fast boat to Montevideo (much recommended), to meet with Mikhail Ivanov of Russia, formerly Michael Williams of Ohio who was the estranged, much older cousin of my best childhood friend and who happened to be living in Uruguay at the time. According to legend, Mikhail was about 50 years old, had been imprisoned by both Russia and the US for being a spy, accused in Canada of “high art theft” and was living in Uruguay for the tax breaks. He rarely talked to his US family except for holiday phone calls but had learned from my friend that we were living a few hours away in Buenos Aires and invited us out.
Rendezvousing with unknown nefarious characters is not usually my M.O., but when you’re a budget traveler and a friend of a friend offers you a free place to stay for the weekend, you pretty much have to say yes. Plus, I was with my 6’3” strapping boyfriend Jeff and ride-or-die travel buddy Kelly so between the three of us I figured we had a good chance at survival.
We hopped off the ferry in Montevideo and within minutes arrived at the address I’d written on my hand. We knocked. Then we knocked again. And again. We nearly left dejected and sweaty when a gorgeous, bronzed, 20-something-year-old man wearing nothing but mid-thigh track shorts and an apron finally answered the door. This was definitely not Mikhail.
He stared at us a moment then asked in Russian-accented English “Are you Brittany?” “Um. Yeah.” I replied. “I’m looking for Mikhail Ivanov. Is this…?” “Oh yeah, he went out. I’m Viktor, but this is his place. We’re painting the house so excuse the mess. You want a rum and coke?” A little thrown off, but never ones to turn down free booze, we shrugged and followed the paint-splattered Russian model inside.
“I’ve got to finish painting the hall but here you go,” Viktor said as he handed us a liter of Coke, a bottle of rum and three glasses filled with ice. “Mikhail should be home soon.” And off he sauntered leaving us to cocktails.
The first thing we noticed were the massive six-foot by 10-foot murals of renaissance men in…leisurely poses, and that the young man in most of the paintings looked suspiciously like Viktor. After a few more refills we really began to look around. The whole apartment was decorated with five or six of these large oil paintings plus several smaller religious paintings on wood. There were dusty figurines peeking out from behind drop cloths and a wobbly wooden table in the corner. Our curiosity was flirting with our fight or flight response when suddenly the door rattled and in walked Mikhail with bags of groceries.
“Hello!” he bellowed. He had a full head of bright white hair, an impressive pot-belly and was wearing those three-quarter length European jean shorts. “I just got stuff for Borscht. And some wine to go with the cheese. I know you like wine. But you like cheese right?” he asked without taking a breath.
“Hi! Yes, I do like cheese. Nice to meet you! WemetViktorandhesnice…andthanksforhavingus” I blurted. I had the verbal-shits. I didn’t know what to say. Here’s this dude accused of spying and art theft and we’re sitting in his living room among his museum worthy collection, drinking rum and Cokes, and he’s asking me if I like cheese.
I cooled it enough to get through introductions and we began to feel more comfortable and less like he was going to sell our organs for another painting.
Fast-forward through a few more rum and Cokes, lots of beets and two bottles of red wine, and we brilliantly decided to go head-first down the slippery slope of American versus Russian politics. Now, I’m not exactly a “‘Merica Fuck Yeah” kind of girl, but I do love my home country, despite its many faults, and as much as I thrive in the wider world, I always breathe easier when I return home. Moreover, anyone who knows me knows I loooove a good debate, and this was irresistible.
I drained my wine glass and Mikhail brought out the cheese. A whole wheel of cheese (minus the mold he cut off of course) and it was on. I was team-America all the way and considered it my civic duty to eat and argue my way through that moldy wheel of cheese in defense of our Capitalist, freedom-loving ways.
I can’t remember when we finally called a truce, or when Jeff, Kelly and Viktor went to bed, but that wheel of cheese was long gone, and another bottle of red was dry. Mikhail mumbled something about haves and have-nots, I stuttered back about hard work deserving rewards and we both passed out on the couch. The last thing I remember before I drifted into an alcohol and dairy-induced sleep was the smooth glow of Viktor’s benevolent, oil-painted face staring down at me from the wall.
We woke up early to catch the morning ferry and our eyes felt like two pee holes in a desert. The hangover was going to be bad. After a breakfast of leftover Borscht, we exchanged quick conciliatory hugs with Mikhail, thanked he and Viktor for everything, and promised to come back soon.
We never did return, nor did we confirm whether Mikhail was a Russian or American spy, or if he was an art thief or an ex-prisioner, and we certainly never came to an agreement on American-Russian relations, but we did have one hell of memorable night together in Montevideo. We shared ideas and ideals, frustrations and some very solid arguments, and in the end, we ate a lot of cheese, drank a lot of wine and talked about life as we saw it.
As our “slow boat” finally chugged back into Buenos Aires I silently thanked God. Thank God I can get off this freaking boat, thank God we survived - kidneys and wallets in place, thank God for the leftover Borscht that most likely saved me from barfing mid-route, but mostly thank God for experiences like last night. Where fears morph into friendships and funny stories, existential differences evolve into midnight debates and wheels of cheese, and promises to return fade into lifelong memories, nostalgic smiles and “remember whens…”
