Colonia is at its best in the mornings, before the first ferry and tour bus has arrived, and in the evenings after the last ferry and tour bus has departed.

In the morning the squares are empty of all but the most dedicated sellers; in the evening they fill with the music of buskers entertaining patrons at the outdoor cafes and restaurants that line the edges. At both times of the day it feels like a caesura, as if the town has breathed a sigh as it prepares to begin or end another day.

I arrived Saturday morning on a bus from Montevideo. I slept most of the way and missed the scenery en route. The bus station sits at the eastern end of town by the ferry terminals. From there it’s an easy walk to the Barrio Historico along leafy cobblestoned streets or along the sealed Main Street lined with shops and restaurants.

My room wasn’t ready and so I left my luggage with Bruno. He was from Montevideo but had moved to Colonia 10 years ago. He’ll never move back. It’s quieter and safer here and it’s where he’s chosen to make his home. Over the course of the next three days I’d come to know and appreciate exactly what he meant.

I spent the morning walking the cobblestoned streets first laid by the Portuguese in 1680, past plazas with historic foundations and colonial buildings housing restaurants, shops, and galleries. I walked towards the river and the harbor, and along the shore before winding my way back into the Barrio Histórico.

For lunch, I ducked into the tiny El Buen Suspiro, walking past the counter and dining room to a narrow courtyard. I ordered the local charcuterie platter and a glass of rosé. The food and wine were fantastic, the setting perfect.

After lunch I sought to climb the lighthouse for the views but was told I couldn’t in flip flops. I walked back to the hotel and Laura told me my room was ready. My bags were already in place. It’s a cool hotel with a stone courtyard and a central fountain. Later in the afternoon, while spending a little time enjoying the courtyard I watched as a hummingbird hovered by the fountain, drinking from the bubbling water.

I changed shoes and walked back to the lighthouse to join the line of people waiting their turn to climb to the top. The wait was not long and soon I was climbing the metal steps. When I reached the top I was rewarded not only with views of the city, but with a view of Buenos Aires in the distance. From the ground, you can see the tips of the skyscrapers, but from the lighthouse you could see the entire city. At night, their lights line the horizon.

I had dinner at Charco Bistro, another amazing meal. I was seated by the window with a perfect view of the sun as it set behind two trees poised on the shore of the river. A family sat on the rocks by the shore. Now and again a ferry would make its way to or from Buenos Aires. Their wakes sent waves crashing onto the shore.

At night Colonia becomes at once quieter as the day trippers have left, and more lively as live music fills the squares. In the modern parts of the town bands play on stages that block streets in front of the larger bars.

Back at the hotel, I opened the window so I could hear the singer crooning in the Plaza Mayor. He sang in Spanish, Portuguese, and English, segueing from The Girl from Ipanema to Elvis to Elton John. I let him lull me to sleep.

The next morning I took a bike out to ride up along the river.

But first I rode my way around the Barrio Histórico. It was early and there was almost no one about. I took photos of the streets devoid of tourists and locals alike, capturing the town as it was just waking up. Almost all of my favorite photos were taken in the mornings, as the sun warmed the city walls and cobblestones, and traffic was light.

Towards the north of the historic quarter I saw a small Sunday market and dismounted so I could walk through it and see what was for sale. It was a mix of foods and other items; the food was what caught my eye most. A few stalls sold cheese, huge wheels sat in the back of pickup trucks waiting to be purchase and consumed. An older couple made Venezuelan arepas. Catty corner to them a middle aged woman made the same.

I biked up past parks and beaches to the Colonia sign. It was already a hot day. The sun shone down on me relentlessly. There was no shade along the road. Looking at the map I decided to turn back, but not before changing into my swim trunks. I left my bike on the beach and waded into the water. The ground was silty and soft and then rocky. The river depth was shallow along the shore and i could see people far out barely up to their waist. I lowered myself into the murky water for a quick dip before returning to the shore.

In the afternoon I sat on the terrace of Queriendote, overlooking the river. In the distance I could see the skyscrapers of Buenos Aires poking out of the water. It was like looking into the future. In a few months I’d be back, gazing across the river back at Colonia and Uruguay.

I wrote postcards and drank tea. Now and again I would see a ferry pass to or from Argentina. The afternoon was hot and the sun beat down on the city though as the afternoon wore on a slight breeze cut through the cafe and across the terrace. As the sun sank the water became more reflective until I could barely look at the river for how bright the light shone on it.

I watched the sunset from the Bastion de San Pedro on the eastern edge of the Barrio Historico. A small crowd gathered as the hour drew near. A child fell nearby and started screaming its head off. His parents drew him away and yet we could still hear his cries. I chucked and the woman next to me laughed, commenting on the scene. I smiled and nodded. I caught a small fraction of the words but all of her intent and made a promise to redouble my efforts to learn.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon the people gathered clapped. It brought a smile to my face and I clapped along with them.

Behind us, two uniformed men drove up in a truck and lowered the flag, packing it into a wooden trunk.

I had dinner in the Plaza de Armas in the shadow of the Basílica del Santísimo Sacramento. The food was good, the preparation simple. A small band played at the restaurant next door and we were the beneficiaries. I asked the waiter his recommendations and ordered his top choice.

When he brought me the check he asked me where I was from. I told him and he asked if I were studying Spanish. I said yes but slowly. Mi español es muy malo. No, he said and praised me for where I was. I laughed and thanked him for his kindness. When I had ordered I had misunderstood some of what he had said and what I received wasn’t quite what I had anticipated, but it was delicious.

This morning I breakfasted at a small cafe in the shade of a large Bougainvillea tree.

The owner was teaching a new waiter, and he showed the recruit how to carry my juice and food on a platter and how to place it on the table. From his stereo he blasted instrumental versions of famous operatic arias.

When it was time to leave I was surprised how sad I felt. I had grown used to the slower pace of life, the fact that there wasn’t much to do and so I could allow myself to do little but sit in cafes and squares and listen to the birds and watch the ebb and flow before me. I took one last stroll around the neighborhood before shouldering my bags and heading for the bus station and the road back to Montevideo. In the back of my mind, I held onto the fact that it was a short ferry ride away from Buenos Aires; there’s a chance I might return in the spring. 🇺🇾