Gringochos Chip Livingston (bio) I didn't mean to scare the Gocho. I was falling in love with the guapo and I wanted him to be comfortable, to trust me, and to see a part of Uruguay he'd never seen—this last part was the motivation I used to convince him to leave his routine. "Come on," I said, "it's a weekend. You have to know Cabo Polonio, La Paloma, Aguas Dulces. Everything's closed for the election on Sunday. We should take advantage that we can't vote and go up the coast." I'd been nervous to spend so much time with the Gocho, no more than one or two nights actually "slept over" in the year we'd been dating. His light snore more trolling motor than chainsaw. The weekend away was my push to change the dynamic, to test our compatibility, capaz, for something more established than a weekly hookup or to simply show him I wasn't a typical Gringo with bohemian grooming tendencies. And he had to know more of his new country, the eastern beaches at the least. The Gocho was on the conservative side; "Cuadrado," he described himself, drawing a square in the air before finally accepting my invitation. I kept both hands on the wheel driving east from the capital, the rambla congested with home-from-work commuters plus political campaigners waving flags and pamphlets at every backed-up stoplight. Once past the Sofitel casino in Carrasco, the traffic petered out, and the Gocho asked me if I'd been inside the old baroque hotel. I pushed my lips toward the traffic light in El Pinar, where a busker spun fire-lit bowling pins in thick yellow gloves. "We should give him fifty pesos simply for not juggling political signs." The Gocho took our first selfie out on Punta Ballena, our Ray-Bans angled to reflect the sun setting over Pan de Azúcar, silhouetting alchemical Piriapolis, and behind us a glittering Punta del Este skyline. We kissed in the car, in the almost dark, in our Airbnb overlooking [End Page 92] the Atlantic, on the starlit beach, in the two-person Jacuzzi with a view of the ocean. I tried to keep my hippy down, but funky Cabo Polonio was the place to let it all hang out. The Gocho didn't mind the tobacco I rolled and had smoked on the balcony. He even choked down two smoky puffs of the joint I'd bought, and we barefooted the beach and the sand dunes, the tiny surf and fishing town, climbed the lighthouse and posted our videos of sea lions to Instagram. We ate algae fritters and grilled corvina and fried octopus, took the last dune buggy back to the parking lot at 5 pm, everything shutting down early for Sunday's obligatory presidential vote. I'd been playing tourist guide and deejay so far, pulling from my playlist a favorite mix from Spain and the Americas, so I asked the Gocho to pick the music as we drove toward Aguas Dulces. He connected his phone to the Bluetooth. "Hola Siri, play Los Pericos." He sung to me as the first song began, "Cuídame bien, lo mío es serio." We couldn't see the sunset from Aguas Dulces, but we walked the sleepy shore till dusk, shared a short flat white coffee as the moon rose, sat on a rock until the surf splashed us to chills. Driving back to La Paloma, his playlist kept up the romantic ballads, one after another. Finally he said, "I think Siri thinks we are boyfriends." A cluster of stars hovered northwest of the road, and I asked the Gocho if he knew what planets were visible that weekend. I said I'd read about them lining up. He cut the music to ask Siri, and his phone reported that Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn would appear thirty minutes after sunset on the horizon. "Do you believe in aliens?" he asked as we drove in that direction. "Obviously," I replied. "I'm an alien. You're an alien. We're lucky we found a country so welcoming. A lot depends...