It took flying to the Southern Hemisphere, but I’d escaped a New York winter. It was summer in Uruguay, and even at twilight the air was hot. In the kitchen fire, potatoes crisped with paprika and tallow in a pan, and onions roasted in glowing coals. Outside, children lay half asleep on their mothers’ laps, and music married with the clink of glasses. A breeze floated up from the wide mouth of Montevideo Bay a few blocks away.