This morning, I walk down Calle Uruguay, all the way to the Rio Uruguay.

This river separates Argentina and Uruguay. Though it isn’t the Mississippi or the Nile or the Amazon, it meets the rock test. If a body of water is so big you can’t throw a rock across it, it becomes a river. The rivers, long ago, were the original freeways and big paddle wheels moving up and down the Mississippi are still romantic. Mark Twain, as great a writer as he is, looked fondly back on his days as a riverboat captain as some of his happiest.

Walking down Uruguay Street is an easy walk and when you come upon the river you are surprised there are so few craft on it. There is a new pier that lets me walk out over the river and I look way up and down, both directions. A lady walking her dog takes a few snapshots this morning but no one else, but us, is on the pier. A ferry chugs past us taking people to Argentina – those who have the right papers.

I spy a fisherman dock his small boat on the river bank and take his photo.

True to colors, he stands in his boat, lifts two huge catfish he has caught and gives me a thumbs up when he sees me. People here are so friendly you wish some of it could be spread around the world. His catfish are so big I can almost see their whiskers from the bridge I’m standing on. 

“Go catch some more,” I urge him.

He doesn’t understand English, but he knows what I am saying.

Big fish give you bragging rights.

One of them is worth more than ten little ones, even if they don’t taste as good.

 

 

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