When I first received an invitation to attend the 48th International Book Fair here in Uruguay this October, I was very excited. Uruguay … that sounded like football, palm trees, and South American adventures. Then followed a sense of trepidation. October? Wasn’t that when I was supposed to be in California? It was. “Oh well,” I thought, “I’m sure I can squeeze that in.” It was a chance to go somewhere I’d be unlikely to end up twice by chance. And after all, I was in the Western Hemisphere anyway. How far could it be from San Francisco to Montevideo…
…Very far, as it turned out. When you’re from Europe and used to the idea that an hour on a plane can get you to a place with a different language, culture and history altogether, it’s hard to conceptualise just how large the Americas are. I ended up flying seven hours to Panama alone, disembarking the plane without even being halfway to my destination.
The climate difference there highlighted how far I’d already travelled. I’d entered the plane in the mild pleasantness of the California autumn. I exited it walking into a wall of tropical heat and having been informed that a world inhabited by friendly locals and furry sloths was to await me if I might be tempted to leave the airport.
There had been an earthquake in Panama – also something not often on my Western European radar – which caused significant delays and meant hanging around with thousands of hot and grumpy fellow passengers stuck in transit like me. Then another 8 hours or so on the plane before we landed in Montevideo, where it was springtime, featuring the equivalent of English April weather.
When I finally arrived at my hotel, my window overlooking the Río de la Plata, it felt like I had travelled to the end of the world. But history has a way of finding its way even to the most far-flung places…