Contrary to the lyrics, I checked out AND left, so miracles do happen, although I have encountered this particular wonder before in Bahrain's sister hotel - giving an entirely different aspect to the Golden State altogether. Montevideo's version was staffed by glum dumpy middle aged men in blue sweaters while Manama's met you with chirpy Asian bonhomie. There were no brazen knocks on doors or offers of massage in the highly Catholic, highly conservative Uruguyuan capital.
Montevideo is a city that you may never think about and certainly never expect to go to ... and here we are atop a ridge on a long narrow peninsular overlooking the mouth of the Rio Plata ... staying at the Hotel California ... in a smoking room ... miracle after miracle ... even though the streets are clogged with traffic yet silenced on Sunday ... and a promenade stretches east round the tip along, first of all, a high-rise public housing project a la mer, followed by beachfront populated by the aging affluent with smart doormen on marble steps and where the city's populace walks and cycles and roller-skates and winds down, often with beer served in chilled liter bottles.
Translation skills going into overdrive I ordered what I thought would be mussels with baguette yet ended up with fried Dore fish and potato noissettes followed by fresh fruit salad washed down with the house red and I can understand why one glass of that a day will do you the power of good. Top it all off with café con leche and you’re laughing, hombre.
Bill paid, hands shaken with waiter and it's outside for a smoke next to the Gran Teatro where a play about Pink Floyd is performing and a long line had earlier snaked round the corner now empty. Across a screen of glass I spy couples resting elbows on the bar top, taking a glass of wine before bustling off home for who knows what and so I wandered up a slight gradient onto De La Paz Square on which was erected a large marquee with rows of seats occupied by Uruguayans from all walks of life and on the stage performed a gang of what looked to be semi-reformed street urchins with a set of music and skits to which the audience responded with enrapt laughter while the performers kept straight faces and clowned around, dramatically bursting into another tune or gag before bowing to rousing applause and then the lights dimmed and into the ruck two policemen rose and exited, one asking for a light to his cigarette as he passed by, winking his thanks, and the Hotel California beckoned with its smoking room tucked away at the back, out of sight, and as I walked there, stopping for cigarettes at a 24 hour store, a scruffy fucker sidled up and mumbled, "Weed or coke, man?"
"Eh?"
"You want weed or coke?"
"I don't want either mate - nothing ... nada."
"Nada ..."
As I walked away (I'd be crossing the border into Brazil the next day and the guy was dirty and dodgy) leaving him kind of non-plussed, an elderly lady, followed by an incredibly elderly lady with a stick, came out of a restaurant and handed Mr Dealer a polystyrene box filled with take-away grub. He had just been about to give me another "Weed or coke, man?" query but this stopped him dead in his tracks, jaw dropped, before he shuffled off to sit on the kerb and scoff it down by hand, no table manners whatsoever.
After a final mooch on the street I entered the hotel lobby to find the elderly lady and her cohort, the incredibly elderly lady with a stick, down on their knees on the stone floor, stick discarded, looking for coins dropped from a purse, and the rotund receptionist suddenly hurried round to help and tripped over himself as if in slow motion rolling to the floor then onto his back like an upturned tortoise, stubby legs wiggling, and as I watched this scene it dawned on me that this is what the song meant all along: try as you might, you can't leave ... even the bloody receptionist and old ladies throw themselves in your path ...
Ola Montevideo!