Overheard at Breakfast: José Ignacio
Overheard at Breakfast: José Ignacio
One of my favorite perks of traveling alone is being the observer. The quiet woman in the corner- reading a book, writing in her notebook, overhearing the conversations of others. Breakfast is a time when the music isn’t loud, strangers are gathered in a space, and some of the most ridiculous statements seem to surface naturally.
As a pastime, I began writing them down.
Location:
Posada del Faro, José Ignacio, Uruguay.
The twelve-room boutique hotel is perched on a quiet stretch of sand, radiating laid back sophistication and beach-house warmth. The breakfast room is a stylish, modern, art-filled space with several tables, a sofa, and wall-to-wall windows overlooking the pool and gardens.
My breakfast consists of scrambled eggs, avocado, rye bread, orange juice, and a small pot of freshly made Brazilian coffee.
A table of New Yorkers. A mother and her two adult children, likely in their early twenties. All dressed head-to-toe in designer summer wear. I know because the brand names are prominently featured on nearly everything. Each holds a book and an iPhone.
The mother is beautiful. Natural shoulder-length light gray hair, glasses that look like part of her everyday uniform, and a straw beach hat. She approaches the table with sophisticated ease as her daughter, son, and his girlfriend remain absorbed in scrolling their phones.
The daughter looks up briefly when her mother arrives and starts talking loudly about getting a tattoo.
Mother: “Darling, I’ve told you this already, if you’re going to get a tattoo, make sure it’s above the elbow so when you’re my age it doesn’t sag as much.”
She pulls up her sleeve to demonstrate the exact placement.
Daughter: Barely acknowledging the remark, returning to her phone. “What time are the daddies back?”
Mother: “I don’t know, darling. They’re at Carnival, so whenever they decide.”
She glances at the son’s girlfriend’s shirt. “Is that Doên?”
Son’s girlfriend: “No, it’s French… vintage.”
Mother: “Of course.”
An early-forties Danish woman with long brown hair and a thin frame storms into the breakfast room in a huff, speaking English loudly to all patrons and staff simultaneously.
Her: “Somebody took my tea.”
She scans everyone’s cups as she circles the room.
“Somebody took my tea. I wasn’t finished….I had been brewing that tea and now it’s gone…. Who took my tea? I would really like to know.”
Still visibly distressed, she plops down beside the New Yorkers. They’ve clearly met over previous breakfasts.
A middle-aged woman from Brussels enters the breakfast room wearing linen pants and a Félix T-shirt from one of the shops down the road. She surveys the room: the family at one table, two women at another, me sitting alone.
She chooses a table and motions for the attendant. At check-in, guests are given a card to complete their breakfast order for the following day. In the morning, you simply tell the attendant your room number.
Her: “I’m in room three.”
Attendant: “Tres, sí, gracias.”
After the attendant leaves, she announces to the room:
“I know I’m here alone, but I’m not alone. My husband doesn’t want breakfast. It’s not like I’m a single mom… pfff, could you imagine?”
She giggles at the absurdity.
I don’t have children, but I’m still amused by the comment, especially considering I am, in fact, sitting alone at my table.
A group of wealthy American twenty-somethings, now commonly referred to as nepo babies, arrives for breakfast, still in pajamas, all from Félix, of course. Their food appears quickly, so they must have called ahead. Smart.
It’s hard to know who they’re talking to because they never look up from their phones.
Nepo 1: “Everest is blowing up my phone. She was really hurt. It was the first party she ever hosted and Paragon didn’t show up.”
Scrolling.
“Everest told Par (short for Paragon) that she was tracking her and saw she was in Brooklyn, and she never came or responded.”
More scrolling.
“Oh my God, she confronted Par about it. Said Paragon gaslit her and is evil.”
Nepo 1 still not looking up from her phone “I think Par is just uncomfortable with her emotions.”
No one seems to be listening except me. They are individually engrossed on whatever it is they’re looking at on their phones.
Nepo 1: “Everest said, These are my feelings and I’m allowed to do whatever I want to protect them.”
She looks up, looks at Nepo 2 & 3, tosses her napkin at Nepo 2 to get his attention.
Nepo 1: “Hello. I’m really worried.”
Nepo 2: Still staring at his phone. “Well, good thing you’re in Paraguay— I mean Uruguay.”
Nepo 3: Never speaks. Just scrolls. Occasionally nods.
The quality of the above conversation aside, the scrolling begs a footnote.
I’ve been in Uruguay for a week now, and one of the most unexpected pleasures of this country is the absence of public screen time. In California, one thing is certain: everyone is on their phone all the time.
Walking and scrolling.
Standing and scrolling.
Eating and scrolling.
Talking while scrolling.
The phone has become an extension of the body, a portable television, a constant companion. We’re Cyborgs in the making.
In Uruguay, phones exist, but they don’t dominate. People make eye contact. They have conversations without referring to the phone for information. The phones are not present at the dining table. And you don’t realize how radical that feels until you’re somewhere that life without the phone is still normal.
Breakfast can be enlightening.