Rambla Ramble

They say (whoever 'They' is supposed to be this week) writers should write about what they know and so, now, after my morning walk, I'm going to ramble on about the rambla.

A rambla here is a paved walking area along the coastline. This one in Montivdeo, Uruguay is a 17 mile long line that separates its city centre of 1.5 million from the wide mouth of the Rio Plata as it babbles into the Atlantic Ocean.  Every so often, the rambla changes its name and the one I walk on most often is known as The Republica del Peru.  I know this rambla.

After the night's hard winter rains have rolled in from the South Pole and dumped, the depressions behind the man-made sand dunes fill up into freash water ponds next to the boardwalk.

Periodicaly, giant ramps lead down off the promenade and onto the beach.  This bahia's (bay) eastern edge where I begin my 45 minute walk is still in the shadows of the beach-front condos at 8am.

The sun wakes up in reflected glass long before warming the beachcomers.

My rambla ramble begins by going down the ramp and touching the black rocks guarding the East. 

Giant steps won't be necessary here for these

are the last rocks found on the sandy beach of Pocitos, my barrio (neighborhood).

Obviously, plenty of people want to live right on top of the rambla because of the view.

However, it's the beach itself that calls this writer

just as it calls the taggers (graffiti writers) and street artists to paint on the sea walls.  At first, it bothered me as I felt they were defacing the ambient serenity, marring the Mar's aesthetic.  

Then, for reasons unknown, my mind leapt back to an older memory of painted stick men with spears killing hairy animals on cave walls in France before there was a France.  Back to a time when there were more important things then churches and governments. Things like where the next meal might be coming from.  Suddenly, with x-ray eyes I looked through these condos to their dumpsters in the back and saw families diving for scraps to make up a Sunday brunch. Now, I say let them paint.

 All roads lead to the rambla and empty onto the beach.  Whenever they can, they come here...rich, poor, busy, idle.  Good weather or bad, winter or summer; they come and turn their backs on the civilization they've created and stare off into the deep-blue void for something different, maybe better

 Faced with the unconquerable forces of raw nature, who of us can say they wouldn't go primal?

 How can a soft little green plant bore through concrete?  Are you that tough?

 Can you bite a steel bar in two the way salty air can chew?

Who is more honorable, those who work to survive or those who lead them to die?

Now the rambla ramble is half done and the sandy road is traded for the eastern trek's tiled sidewalk.

Whereas, on the beach we could count on the outgoing tide cleaning up after Man's best friend,

here we are more dependent on considerate humans, an oxymoron, say those who often step in it. 

Flip-flop views for the walk,

a pocket-park oasis in the desert of concrete.

And, interestingly enough, car dealers from all around the world

because if you're selling cars you want to be where the people are

 and the people are on the rambla where you can see

excellent examples of Spanglish like the signage above and

manufacturer names you've never heard of or are able to pronounce.

Today, nonetheless, is a good day because next to (now here's an unfamiliar sight) the statue of a book a traffic cop prepares to close the coastal road to all motorized vehicles allowing only people-powered transportation to ramble along the riverside on this sunny Sunday. 

You'll be happy to hear, however, my rambling rambla ramble is now finished now, as I reach a crossroad and

must decide between foraging for a donut

or stoically waiting for nature's "last call".