Happy, I'm feeling glad, I've got sunshine in a bag...

We were now at 7800 feet above sea level in the town of Matucana, the capital of Huarochiri province. Founded in 1647, Matucana is a colorful, carefully-kept, happy-seeming community where even the dogs are really, really good at chillin':

there is a cat with striking smoky blue eyes, worthy of Daniel Craig,



and love is in the air.



Before beginning to explore, we hit up the public restrooms, and were consequently hit up by the local snack seller for half a Peruvian sole apiece for the privilege. No idea if she was actually entitled to the charge. There was a baño sign beneath the cat, so most likely; either way she had the necessary credentials, being both nearby and insistent.

After paying up, I tried and tried to ask her the name of that blue-eyed cat sitting on her counter but she flat-out refused to answer. Perhaps my Spanish is worse than I thought. I even bought a few chocolates and Chicklet Gum with an alpaca on the label from her -an attempt to loosen her tongue. Paying customer and all that, right?

Not a chance.

It seemed like a good time to break out the cheese and crackers. Not to mention the wine. The sunshine and fresh air and the excitement of exploring enhanced our appetites. Mike and April and Royce had been in Matucana before, but on a market day. Then the center of town had been bustling with festivities, families and food stands, and musicians.

Today we relaxed on benches, cups of wine casually in hand, and though the street had plenty of activity, we had the park in the town square all to ourselves, rather peaceful, the sounds of water flowing in a fountain and the cooing of pigeons, wind in trees and, wait...the boisterous sputtering of Tuk-tuks.

Tuk-tuks! Omigod! One of my favorite things in the whole world!

For those of you not familiar with the joys of tuk-tuks, they are the toughest, most adorable, three wheeled, up to three-cylinder engined, open-sided, burpitty bumpetty vehicles known to man.

Begging indulgence, even before I had savored a plastic cup of wine, or three, I simply HAD to go for a ride in a Peruvian tuk-tuk. Our schedule would accommodate my little whimsy, couldn't it?

It would. I did my happy dance.


April was up for a bit of fun as well so we left the guys behind and waved down the nearest tuk-tuk. We offered the driver 20 soles for a tour of the town, an offer he accepted quickly with a smile. Obviously we had overpaid, but what of it? Figuring it was worth every penny we girls plopped ourselves down in the slightly uncomfortable (yet another part of the tuk-tuk charm, yes, I have it bad) back seat and our fantastic ride buzzed away with us down the street.

Of course there aren't silly things like seatbelts in tuk-tuks. All a tuk-tuk requires is a sense of humor and willingness to take things as they come.

Our driver zipped us around, we grinning like little kids, to all the places at the edges of town where the road ended. Past puppies and children playing, the adults watching the children, working, or standing around talking, April regaling me with stories from her time in Africa, and of tuk-tuks she has known across the globe.

Matucana itself is situated in a beautiful valley. Past the buildings with their flaking, often colorfully painted concrete walls, sometimes with murals of sheep and bees and plants, the metal roofs held down with rocks, the sweeping green and blue hillsides begin. Beyond that the Andes rise, magnificent and white against the sky.

local honey for sale

While we were tooling around in our tuk-tuk the boys went out to play on the trains. Literally on them, in a working train yard. The poor fellow on duty there was just about wetting himself for fear that the idiot white tourists would get hurt as they clambered about.

Which they didn't.

Royce did, however, get some great shots there, and also of the local fussball table,

don't you just love the hand-drawn faces ?

and made a little friend as well. This cheerful bit of boy is named Sebastian, playful and a natural in front of the camera.



When April and I unfolded ourselves from the tuk-tuk, and after thanking our driver profusely, we found the two of them, thick as thieves, grinning over the images on Royce's viewfinder. Mike was happily exploring the nearby area to his hearts content.





On Royce's suggestion, before we left I gave Sebastian and the nearby children the chocolates I'd purchased from the baño lady. The smiles were worth every penny.

You can see why Mike and I like to travel with Royce and April; regardless of language differences, they always seem to know exactly the right note to hit with the folks we meet, a skill for the traveller that's right up there with being able to laugh at yourself, to be open to new things, and to never lose your sense of wonder. Friends with those attibutes are a treasure indeed.

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” – Tim Cahill

Crash into me, yeah...

An early start and an escape from urban Lima. That's what we said we were going to have. But of course, after the glorious French dinner of the night before, we ended up with a moderately-early-bring-me-Starbucks start. Which, what the hey, we were on vacation after all.

At least, I was. Good enough for the group. Royce, April and Mike had made most of the proposed trip earlier in the summer and were as enthusiastic about sharing it with me as I was about going.

The plan was to head up Highway 22 in a borrowed truck from Lima at sea level all the way up to a pass in the Andes mountains. (Yes, those Andes.) Then back again. In one day.

This was actually not too bad of a plan, believe it or not.

Armed with a drink carrier and 4 awkwardly ordered lattes and mochas, (our Spanish lousy, the baristas English comparable and everyone a bit shy about how to say what), we also hit up a rather swanky grocery store in Lima, a place obviously favored by expats, in pursuit of road food. Water headed the list, then wines, cheeses, crackers, and some apples.

Obviously we were going to be roughing it.

I was digging the absolutely giant kernelled purply-black corn they had there. Check it out:



Getting out of town was a bit of a trick. Finding the correct exit and then being relentlessly detoured through the outskirts of the city took more time than we, and my teeny tiny non-travel-friendly bladder, would have liked.

Fool that I am, I drank that damned coffee, knowing full well I would be looking for el baño within 45 minutes. What was I thinking?! Starbucks is a plague, I swear.

Then Mike had been (correctly) extolling me to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate to counteract possible altitude sickness. We were, after all, planning to drive from 0 to 15,800 feet. My doctor had said to drink a minimum of 100 ounces of water daily but she hadn't mentioned that I might also covet, wistfully, and unexpectedly, the convenience of Depends undergarments.

Perhaps you cringe. I don't blame you, though I have to point out that it's good enough for astronauts. Sadly, though ostensibly much more dignified, I was not equipped. And there is little that is dignified about whining to your spouse and friends but I really really gotta goooo!
The traffic was, in every way, South American. Honking, insane driving, visible pollution. Vehicles squeezed into every possible millimeter of space of the road. I was so glad Royce was driving. I would have had a heart attack. As a passenger, de nada, no problem.

The detour took us, among other things, over a questionable-looking temporary bridge. So questionable that we were debating with animation and ill-concealed fear the wisdom of going over it at the same time as a large truck. Of course we went over it just behind a large truck, listening for that creeeaking sound just before the thing crumpled like a brittle house of cards.

It didn't crumple, nicely for us.

Before the bridge and for several miles the traffic naturally slowed to a standstill, and so, naturally, the road vendors came out to try and sell their wares. These sellers extolled the virtues of their merchandise by holding them high up for us to see. I would have loved to snap a few photos but we knew better than to have anything visible that we didn't want stolen, so the cameras stayed safely below eye level. They seemed to have everything -from CDs to candy, action figures, kites, books, bottles of water, and even wooden cars, polished to a high sheen, were for sale. I do believe we saw a kitchen sink.

What they didn't have was a toilet.

Drat. I really needed one of those. I may have mentioned this already.

The truck windows were filthy by this point, and though often there was little to see of interest beyond the garbage lining the roads, and pale concrete walls of building after building, we were trying to spot distinctive landmarks to help us find our way back in the dark, once we survived crossing the bridge.

Royce spotted a train, evoking many guffaws that it might be there when we returned. A particularly tall and squarish building might do the trick, and then a completely unexpected Dutch-esque windmill seemed the winner. In the meantime Royce was battling the road and other drivers, admonishing one in particular that it would be beneficial to "make better lane choices in life" to gales of laughter from the rest of us.

I would have laughed harder, but frankly I would have wet both my pants and the truck's upholstery, earning serious scorn from my fellow travellers. As it was I was trying really, really hard to keep it below 5 whines a mile about needing a bathroom. Though I was well past the point of caring about modesty, there really was no place along the road to stop and drop trou. Through the haze of pain, my legs crossed so tightly it was doubtful I'd ever get them unwound again, I dimly heard Royce saying that we were pulling over at a petrol station ahead.

I'm not entirely sure the truck even stopped rolling before I was out the door and into a stall. There should be a word to describe that level of relief. I'll bet the Germans have one. Coming back to the truck, I tried not to feel too abashed about the whole thing. April asked how the bathrooms were and my face went entirely blank -I hadn't actually noticed, and couldn't have cared less. At the moment they were the Taj Mahal, as far as I was concerned.


April was scrubbing the windows with a sad excuse for paper towel, the best that could be had, and we got back under way. The scrubbing, surprisingly, actually did make a difference, and the view going past was improving vastly as the city dwindled to villages.


Though the names of candidates in the presidential election were still boldly painted on nearly every vertical surface, (see above -always Ollanta in red, Keiko in orange- stangely, they ran by their first names,) there were fewer and fewer buildings and now swathes of hill and tree made up more and more of the outside view.



We came to a straight section of road with policía cars alongside and the gendarmes themselves waving over certain unfortunate vehicles, those "randomly" chosen for special attention.

Not surprisingly, our nice truck with 4 gringos in it warranted special attention.

Special attention essentially means "lunch money for the police officers." You give them a nice bribe, they let you go on your way, everybody is (well, kind of) happy.

But Royce, well, Royce refuses to play.

What followed was a Keystone Cops/Who's On First routine, español version. The police officer and his younger partner established their dominance by demanding our papers, which were turned over. They were, of course, in perfect order, so then he wanted to see our...something.

It was not a phrase that any of us recognised. The policía became more and more agitated, and in the way of all those trying to communicate an unknown word to a non-speaker, the older one raised his voice. This was, of course, ineffective. But Royce was making sure it was ineffective, especially after the officer asked for about $50 and wanted Royce to sign some sort of statement.

Royce refused. Repeatedly. "I can't read this, I won't sign it," He averred over and over again, "English, English, does your chief speak English? Does your boss speak English? Go and get him."



Royce and the middle-aged policeman went round after round, neither one giving an inch. Royce, unfailingly polite but unwavering. The policia was doing a rather good impression of a little round pressure cooker. You could see his blood pressure going steadily up as Royce parried each thrust, refusing to turn over his license, for instance. The policia said he must surrender it immediately. He could come back and get it...mañana.

"No no!" Royce exclaimed "mañana aeroplano! Touristo! Touristo!" Including hand gestures of flying away.

The policía kept demanding the something-or-another-that-we-didn't-know-what-it-was. We kept looking confused. Royce continued his "leaving tomorrow, I'm a tourist" litany.

Finally the policía flung up his hands and, with narrowed eyes while snarling at us to wait, went back to his cruiser and brought back...the Peru-required-by-law to be in every vehicle first aid kit.

Aha. So that's why people displayed them on their dashboards. We found one under the seat. So, in hindsight, it may have been "cuadro de primeros auxilios" that the officer had been asking about. He said it so frequently you'd think I would have the phrase memorized, but I was busy residing in a very odd mental space where you're half amused...and half paralysed with fear. I'll bet the Germans have a word for that too.



The younger policía had philosophically given up on us long ago and gone off in search of easier pickings, but our fellow persisted a bit longer, Royce saying "Touristo!" until the policía looked like he was either going to shoot us or have a coronary.

He finally realised that it was hopeless, that gringo touristo or not, that Royce was too hard of a nut to crack and not worth it. Vamos!

Right. We vamosed.

Royce calmly explained to the rest of us that if he had turned over his license, not only would it be a huge hassle to get back, but that he would also have to use his passport as ID. If the next policía demanded that, well, Royce would be up a creek. Best to not give up anything in the first place.

Then he mentioned this choice bit: the Peruvian government has, with a shrewd eye on the bottom line, been telling their law enforcers to try and make Peru a more tourist-friendly country. To be welcoming and helpful to tourists. So Royce had said touristo as many times as possible.

No wonder the policía had done such a fine imitation of passing a kidney stone. His machismo and greed, good virtues in the past, were now fighting an internal battle with his instructions from the very top: be nice.

Poor bastard.

OK, actually I don't feel that sorry for him. He probably went and bullied some poor farmer after us. THAT guy I feel sorry for.

What could have been done? We were down the road.






Our second baño and provision stop (OK, tell me you don't distinguish parts of road trips by the rest stop, I know you do!) was at a line of little roadside shops, virtually indistinguishable from one another with the same sorts of goods and teeny tiny bathroom stalls. So teeny, in fact, that even April, who as you can see is quite slender, agreed that coming out of those was not terribly unlike being shot out of a starting gate chute at the horse races.



Royce got an incredible photo of this little Peruvian girl. He is so much...braver than I am with the camera, unabashedly taking photos of who and what he wants, and his easy smile won over this girl-child.


Back on the road, adding to our cache of booty some gum, Coca-cola, and some dusky plums. And came around a corner to our first major crash of the day.



This was a good one. Note that the truck is utterly on the wrong side of the road. I'm glad we didn't come around a corner to see that careening at us! Brush had been piled before and after the truck and draped with bright cloth of some kind.

Safety first.



Nicely, it didn't look like anyone had been hurt. There was produce scattered across the road, with two men chasing wayward oranges. There was plenty of evidence of crashes not so fortunate: shrines to those who hadn't made it to their intended destination were commonplace.

We left the main road to revisit a place my three companions had discovered on their previous trip -a village off the main road, and there I had my first glimpse of village life in South America.







Which I loved.

Best of all, and for these we pulled over: heavily laden donkeys.



Aaaaawesome. Ass jokes ensued, not surprisingly, but not until we had worn ourselves out snapping photo after photo of the floppy eared beasts of burden with their tiny hooves and swishing tails.

A rugged little road led beyond the village through a beautiful valley. The three of them had been out there before as well, putting my mind mostly to ease about leaving the beaten path and inadvertently running into drug smugglers.The guide books have emphasized over and over again that the consequences for that sort of mistake are, let us say, not so good. However, what we found was the occasional farmer, an enchanting ghost town,



and a spot where we could look out over a now-collapsed Bailey Bridge.



Mike and Royce were enamoured with this bridge. It's an inevitable and sad side effect to being an engineer, not to mention male. Here's a Wikipedia link for those similarly afflicted: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bailey_bridge

April and I wandered away after getting our fill of the bridge (I know,) following the maddening-to-attempt-to-photograph bird, April's favorite, the Vermillion Flycatcher. Cheeky scarlet little thing, it flitted just out of suitable lens range. I think it was laughing at us in Spanish as well. There were odd spikey orange flowers in the dust and grasses along the roads, and we kept an eye out for serpientes.

The boys had finally exhausted their seemingly inexhaustable enthusiasm for the Bailey bridge and, piling back into the truck, we headed out again, though in fits and starts, needing to pause to take a photo of a blue shuttered shack, for instance, or a stunningly orange bridge beyond a clump of cactus. This was my kind of road trip.




Even if the day had ended there I could have gone back to Lima happy. But there was more, oh yes, there was more.

note: I borrowed and used Royce's excellent photos from this road trip with abandon.

Elle est comme l'eau vive

Mike met me back at the hotel room after my day of introducing myself to Lima, handsomely concealing any surprise he might have had that I'd made it without anything untoward happening. As some days I can barely do that with our two children on our home turf, let alone in Peru, I wouldn't have taken offense.

That evening we were to meet with two of the most adventurous and likable people we know; April and Royce. Perhaps we like them because they're from the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps it's because they are not only adorable but also well-travelled, (and therefore full of great stories,) have world views similar to our own, and, while they're at it, can swear with accuracy and aplomb.

I should explain that last bit, as it does sound like an odd reason for liking a person. Swearing is a time-honored tradition, and therefore an acquired and necessity skill, when working on an overseas construction site. You either talk trash and swear with the rest of the crew or you get crushed, not terribly unlike being in the military. It's all about being able to use the skill, but in the right place and time. Otherwise, you're simply, pitiably, a victim of your own poor manners.

We met our friends at the Ricardo Palma stop after hoofing it through a good bit of the upscale part of Lima, Miraflores. Especially when compared to most of the rest of Lima, it is a manicured sort of area with cafés, shops and parks, where tourists hang out. The pan pipe and guitar music synonymous with Peru slips out of the stores onto the streets and women walk in clicking heels with large shopping bags.

For some unfathomable reason the concrete of the sidewalks in the area is polished absolutely smooth. This probably seemed like a good idea at the time, but when they are even the littlest bit wet the unwary risk slipping and sprawling. Perhaps it is a subtle revenge of the workers against the pampered. I kept expecting a well-heeled shopper to go sprawling, bags flying, but none did. Perhaps it takes practice.

Along our way were street sellers, my personal favorite being the hat seller who wore two hats upon his head, his many wares laid out all along the sidewalk. He was a bit of a flirt, and gestured that he was willing to have his photo taken when I asked in my awkward Spanish.





After taking the shot I surprised myself by blowing him a thank-you kiss, and he burst into a wide Zorba the Greek grin, spreading his arms and saying...something. Using prepaid cards, through a turnstile, down stairs, we smashed ourselves into the excellent Metro, Lima's urban train. It was reasonably clean, felt safe enough, and while crowded, was obviously far more efficient than braving Lima's roads.

flower delivery VW. We saw many of these with enormous floral displayes lashed to the tops, bumbling down the streets.

Night was falling as we disembarked the train near the heart of Lima headed to El Circuito Mágico del Agua in the Parque de la Reserva Nicely, even my Spanish was sufficient to translate those names. Entry to the park was 4 Peruvian Soles, $1.47.

It was a velvety evening and there were many families out, spending time together and, like us, enjoying the spectacle of many, many water fountains set to lights and music throughout the park. A brilliant show, and one which Lima residents are justly proud. It was also a wonderful place for people watching, laughing with the children who were shrieking in joy, getting gleefully soaked in the fountains and wandering through semi darkness. It had the same feeling one gets going to see Christmas light displays, that uncomplicated happiness and delight in color and sound. Our favorite fountain was one of the interactive ones, where you could walk through an arched tunnel of water.

We were like little kids: "Hey, look up! It makes you dizzy" and threatening to douse one another by misdirecting the streams. Hunger began to assert itself in earnest, so we tore ourselves away from the water fountains and went in search of a restaurant Royce and I had independently read about, L'eau Vive.

L'eau Vive, which means water of life, met our dining desires on just about every level. First of all, we were pretty sure we could find it. Second, it was quirky. How quirky? you ask.

Well, when was the last time you ate a dinner, a gourmet dinner, whilst being serenaded by nuns?

Exactly. This restaurant is...wait for it...run by a French order of nuns, and the money you spend to dine goes to feed the poor. Which is a good thing, having walked past many of them to get there. The French cuisine is also a good thing. A very good thing.

L'eau Vive during the day

But first you have to gain admittance into the place. We were sure of the address, which turned out to be a huge colonial building in the historical district of Lima with an equally huge wooden door. Doors in Peru are either Peruvian-sized, that is to say, tiny, or enormous. This one was the latter. A discrete sign marked it as the correct place, and an intercom seemed the way to proceed. We stood there uncertainly for a moment until Royce took the bull by the horns and pushed the button, enquiring, er, dinner, por favor? There was a crackly reply, which we didn't quite catch, and nothing happened. We hesitantly tried the door, which, not surprisingly, didn't budge.

This gave us enough time for us to wonder if we'd made a mistake after all. Then the door swung slowly open and we were greeted by a cheerful looking, bare-headed woman beckoning us to enter. She was wearing a simple skirt and cardigan instead of the admittedly hoped-for nun's habit. Visions of The Sound of Music, I admit. The interior was wood upon wood; high ceilings and empty spaces, which gave way to a pleasant, somewhat plain dining room with many empty tables. Only one other table was occupied, with that group of four nearly all the way through their meal.

With the restaurant so empty, we wondered afresh if we'd made a mistake. But Royce had heard of the place, and my guide book had sworn that even if your time in Lima was short, that you really should make sure to dine at L'eau Vive.

The menu reassured. Beautiful wines and lovely French cuisine, which, when the latter arrived, (we'd already made some inroads into the former, a ruby Malbec) were artfully and deliciously prepared. I had lapin (with apologies, rabbit) which was tender, richly sauced, and surrounded by golden puffs called humitas, lighter and fluffier versions of the traditional corn-husk wrapped Peruvian corn fritter.

Lordy, it was goo-ood. Mike's French onion soup was perfection, and I can report that the creme brulee really was the last word in creme brulees. It was odd to be the only ones in the echoingly large room, as we dined like lords and ladies, the food and company were so good it proved to be an entirely memorable meal.



There was a rustle of fabric, and in practiced movements, all around the edges of the room and in front of a painting of the Virgin Mary the nuns assembled themselves to sing. One slipped song cards to us. We sat, feeling slightly unsure as to expectations, as they swelled into song. It was not Bach or Schubert, but an entirely new Ave Maria to me, sung sweetly with real devotion, echoing off the ceilings. Here is a YouTube video someone posted from when they dined at L'eau Vive: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKC8RH0djIs if you would like to hear it.

When the song ended we felt a bit awkward; do you clap as though it was a performance, or nod, acknowledging and respecting the expression of worship? We went with the latter, murmuring our thanks as the nuns smiled gently at us and disappeared back into the kitchens and darkness.

We paid with exclamations at the affordability of such a magnificent meal, and went out to try to find the Metro again, mellowed and flushed from the good food and wine, and feeling at peace with the world.



As it turned out, the nuns from whom we asked directions were too kind to point out that the Metro was closed for the night, instead urging us to find a taxi. We eventually figured it out for ourselves. The rattling taxi we found brought us at a good clip from the old beauty of the historical district and deposited us, slightly breathless, at the sleek modernity of Miraflores.

April and Royce, true travellers who have gotten on random planes on the spur of the moment, trekked the world from tiny schoolhouses in Africa to Everest Base Camp in Nepal and beyond, said that it was one of the most unusual and memorable meals they had ever eaten.

Now, there's a recommendation.

Our weekend had began on a high note, and, with an early start the next morning, was fated to continue in much the same way.

This world is awfully big, girl this time you're all alone.

Dame Freya Stark, a particularly amazing Frenchwoman who wrote and travelled fearlessly, once wrote "To awaken alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world."

She has something there. If you get to explore on your own and get to come back to your husband and hotel in the evening, not to mention that the kids are happily ensconced in the doting care of grandparents, you, my friend, have it made.

It is an amazing feeling to have responsibility for no one but yourself. Go where you want, not a thing that you have to do...now that is a vacation.

Mike was out of the hotel at 5:30 am to get to work. Three hours later I got out of bed and drew myself a leisurely bath...in the extensive bathroom. Don't you just hate it when that happens? After washing off residual airplane grime I put on my best Mary Tyler Moore face and headed out to see, well, what Lima was all about.

First things first, I bravely crossed the street.

Perhaps this desription of a most mundane activity has you rolling your eyes in disbelief that I would even bother to write it down, let alone expect you read it. Wait, my friend, wait. If you ever go to Peru you're going to need to know this stuff.

In many places crossing the street is, as it should be, a straightforward and predictably mundane procedure. One does not generally need one's husband to, as mine did, carefully and emphatically in the wee hours of the morning, spell out the dangers of such an ordinary enterprise. But in Lima, things are different.

Since Mike had nearly been run over in the Grand Caymens during our honeymoon -having, like so many tourists, looked the wrong way (I yanked him back from certain death shrieking "they drive on the LEFT here!!!") and then again in New Orleans (oh, wait, that had to do with the necessary and I believe city ordinanced alcohol over-imbibing), I figured he knew what he was talking about and listened. Which in itself is pretty phenomenal, I have to say.

Having your wife smooshed into roadkill on her first day in South America might not be the best way to begin a vacation, one might suppose.

Although I also suppose that depends heavily on the state of the relationship. Let's move on, shall we?

Lima drivers are mad creatures. Not in the least concerned with life or preserving the structure of their vehicles, the take lanes as mere suggestions and hurtle along in their sputtering, fume belching cars, honking incessantly. The noise on many of the streets can be overwhelming. Amusingly, the worst of the vehicles are inevitably decorated with stuck-on Ferarri logos, truly, lipstick on a pig.

With patience, Mike's warnings, and persistence, I made it across without being flattened.

First, however, I had needed to gently but firmly disengage a small boy latched around my leg before attempting the crossing.

With impressive and well-practiced technique a young mother nodded in my direction and her child had flung himself at me, wrapping his arms around my leg and gave me his great dark eyes as his mother confronted me, hand outstretched. "Beautiful lady, pleeeeeease give me." Ten feet from the hotel and already I was expected to pay a ransom for my release. Sheesh.

I patted the smaller of my assailants' head and said no, no, no and no to the mother, then to the child vamos, while giving a little shake of my leg. He let go, looking bemused, and I made good my escape across the street, all the while keeping my purse to my body and looking all around. But projecting confidence. That's supposedly important.

The routine would have been more convincing if that mother hadn't been already carrying a bag of groceries, but you couldn't blame her for trying. She got points for persistence, she continued entreating me even after I was on the other side and walking (confidently?) away.

I was, without apology, a little on the nervous side. Several reasons for this.

Reason #1: the guide books had lots of warnings about crime in Lima. Lots. There are many poor, so, sadly, there is much crime. Some friends of ours, a husband and his pregnant wife, had been waiting at a red light in their car. Doors locked. A man smashed the passenger side window and tried to pull the wife's purse off her arm. She fought the thief, and he husband, a tough Alaskan fisherman when he's not engineering, boiled like a wolverine out of their car. The thief, wisely, in my opinion, let go of her purse and bolted for his life.

This is such a common crime it's described on the US Department of State website. No, really. But it's way down after the narcotics trafficking, guerrilla terrorist and unexploded mines and...OK, it's WAY down the list, past "safety and security" warnings to the "crime" section.

The thought of having my purse razored off my arm gives me the wobblies. True, I had my travel special purse, the one with mesh in the lining and a cable though the straps.

No really, you can buy such things! I love mine. My worry therefore went a little like this: when faced with not being able to get the purse, wouldn't a razor-armed robber be a little upset? Bet it wouldn't be that clean of a razor, either.

And I'm no Alaskan fisherman. More like a cupcake. A rather vanilla cupcake.

Other highly pertinent warnings in the guidebook included: never get into the wrong sort of taxi. Making a mistake like that would get you kidnapped...or worse. My other favorite warning was to not to wear any jewelry whatsoever.

So I needed to walk with purpose and confidence, look like I belonged there, not get lost and need a taxi,not wear any pretty shiny things, be alert, and still have a good time.

To pull this act off I needed a cup of coffee at the very least.

Now, the hotel is nicely situated across the street from Larcomar, a shopping area cunningly built into the side of a cliff overlooking the ocean. There I found my coffee, trying my best to order using that all-important phrase in Spanish, café con leche, por favor.

Reason #2 I was a little nervous: I speak almost no Spanish. I speak Sesame Street level plus a little Rosetta Stone. This does not a UN translator make.

The waiter didn't buy my Spanish for a moment, repeating my order back to me in English and persisting in speaking English to me in a passive sort of rebuke against my Spanish attempts. At least he didn't make that sound Rosetta Stone makes when my accent offends her sensibilities for the millionth time.

She and I are not on the best of terms, if you must know.

The same thing happened in France; there I know I deserved it. It was worse in Dubai, once, during one of those conversations where the Yank has to be the butt of the acerbic British humor. I didn't mind that, it's kind of a rule. What I did mind what being informed that the American accent is painful, offensive even, to the ears of those who speak the Queen's English.

I protested (a foolish thing to do...there is no arguing with the acid Brit, they who have perfected their skills since birth) that my accent is Pacific Northwest, the cleanest of the bunch, the one that is adopted by national newscasters and nowhere near the worst accent to come out of the USA.

Like what? the circling Brits queried.

How about New Jersey? I asked, putting on my worst Jersey Shore, drawing out vowels and probably offending half the East Coast with my lousy imitation.

Can't hear the difference, I was loftily informed, sounds the same to us.

Wud-ever. Lousy toffee-nosed Limeys.

I say that with a level of jealousy that I simply don't have their mad skills. Or accent, for that matter.

Far away from that little encounter, I deliberately put the memory aside to enjoy sipping excellent coffee. Pacific breezes in my face, poring over my little self-made itinerary for our time in Peru.

It was an excellent itinerary, if I do say so myself. I'll tell you more about it later.

I consulted my notebook again for the proper phrase, asked for the check, got it translated back to me, but at least I was ready with my Washington State driver's license number when I paid with credit card. Every time you pay with credit card in Peru you are expected to write your "ID number" below your signature. What good it does, I haven't the faintest, since they don't actually check to see if it matches.

I headed for the beach. I believe the way to battle jetlag is to drink a goodly amount of bottled water and walk and walk and walk. This is stolen wholeheartedly from Ricks Steves , and I think he is onto something. If nothing else, at least you won't be wasting your precious vacation feeling icky in your room. At the very worst you feel icky but get your body moving and hey, you get to see something of your destination.

For me, the beach is the thing. I went down the coast, looking for a possible way to the waves far, far below. Mike had ventured that perhaps my perception of distance was flawed and that it might be a bit further than I thought. The guide book said that some of the beaches were more dangerous places for tourists to go.

But I needed sand for my collection and was going for it anyway.

First I walked south, and rounded a corner to construction workers lounging idly next to the sidewalk. Oh, here we go, I thought, brace yourself for Latino catcalls.

I projected confidence and walked straight ahead.

Not a peep. Nada. What the hell?

The total lack of attention was a bit bad for my ego. I'm in freaking South America and the construction workers don't hoot and whistle? Damn, I need to go on a diet or something.

I walked further and decided I didn't want to risk the long path down to the water that way. There were homeless folks ambling about and no security people. As there had been plenty of security people near the hotel I gave the construction workers a second chance to remedy their obvious oversight and whoop at me coming back the other way.

Didn't even look up. Jerks.

Maybe their boss was visiting the jobsite or something. Maybe it was my safety purse. Perhaps I was projecting too much confidence, like I was packing a weapon of mass destruction in said safety purse?

On the other side of the mall there was a path down to the ocean, with one of those security guards standing next to it. Unfortunately, it had been blocked with a 4 foot wall, which one would have to scale, which I would have done less than glamorously, but there it was. So I asked the guardia de seguridad if I could climb it and go down to the beach.

Aaand of course he said no. Informed the tourist that she needed a car if she wished to go to the ocean. Helpful that fellow, but not surprising. So I kept walking. What else could a gringa do?

The area along the top of the cliff is quite pleasant, with paragliders riding the thermals and manicured parks with interesting artwork, a picturesque lighthouse up the coast. I followed another couple down a long, promising looking pathway among flowers. The way ended up with a dodgy stairway, but the beach was just beyond.

There didn't seem to be any lurkers in the stairway so I hurried through. The trick was to not step in the fetid puddles of urine and not to touch anything.

The beach, with a surf school and noisy stones rattled vigorously in glorious rhythm by the surf, was a reward. Peru is known for its surfing, with huge swells and some of the longest waves in the world. Where we were, though, it was pretty tame, perfect for beginners. Wetsuits were laid out, and surfboards, and muscular, tanned fellows looking to teach.

I plopped down on the smooth round rocks and watched the wobbling students, looking terribly inadequate compared with their instructors who made it look effortless. Pathetically, I was relieved to see few security guards patrolling the shoreline. Amazing how quickly you get used to that sort of thing.

Up the beach there was a young man with his head on his knees in a attitude communicating exhaustion or despair. Photo op.



I got this shot, with which I am very pleased, before this seagull (below) landed and began speaking in what was obviously Seagull Spanish. It didn't sound the least bit like our seagulls back home; its wails were higher pitched and faster, and somehow impertinent.


The young man lifted his head and stuck out his tongue in our general direction, though whether at me or the bird I am not sure. Darned near anything after being shunned by the construction workers was pretty much welcome, as far as I was concerned. So I grinned at him.

Plus, I got my photo.

After skittering back up those stairs and to the top of the cliff again, I spent the rest of the day exploring the area, the lighthouse, the beautiful tiled walls along the parks and paths, watching the paragliders swooping on the thermals, and drinking bottled water.

I made sorry attempts at conversation with a few friendly locals, (confirming once again that my Spanish is horrible!) reveled in a military band who played and sang what I could only assume was the Peruvian national anthem with booming, patriotic gusto, and finally retired back to the room to put my feet up and feel ridiculously proud of myself.

I survived my first day in South America all by myself. No one seemed to even really notice me. Except the seagull.

Pretty fly...

the destination: Lima, Peru, and a new view of the Pacific

Stepping off the plane in Houston, I had a mad impulse to stay in the corridor. There the heat of Texas had slipped through the otherwise unremittingly air conditioned expanse of George Bush Intercontinental. Sadly, the flight staff would undoubtedly have been less than congenial concerning my whimsy so I sighed and moved on into the concourse, hoping to find a kalache for a sort of late breakfast-early lunch.

What? You don't know what a kalache is? Well, we discovered them years ago, eating roadside food in Texas, a heartily recommended pastime. Kalaches are Czech goodness, with a Texan spin. A sweet bread pastry sort of thing that makes ideal breakfast, most tasty, I assert, stuffed with sausage. You can also get them with all sorts of fruits, or cheeses, or even the beloved jalapeño. My friends, a jalapeño one with a coffee will wake y'all right up.

Here's a recipe link to give you the idea: http://homesicktexan.blogspot.com/2007/03/sweet-escape-kolaches.html

Anyway, I wanted one. But one was not to be found by me. (Though later, and therefore not relevant, internet research revealed I could have had one at Shipley Donuts in Terminal B.) What I did find was a Starbucks. The ubiquitous, if not unwelcome, Starbucks. I settled for a prosaic cup of oatmeal and cup of coffee. Lo-cal instead of local and also armed myself with a nice thick paperback at the bookstore.

Getting to read a fat book uninterrupted my telephone or kids? Bliss.

It even makes waiting for your flight a pleasure.

Boarding the plane, it was immediately apparent this was to be a bilingual flight. All communications, including the greeting by staff as passengers entered the place were in Spanish and then English. I'm a total travel geek to be titilated by this.

So sue me.

As I slowly navigated my way to my seat in the very very last row of the Boeing 767 (hey, no biggie! Close to the bathrooms and no one behind me kicking the seat or sticking stinky sock feet through to plant on my armrest,) past other travellers attempting to lift, shove, and cram their carryon baggage into the overhead bin compartments.

There was a tiny woman with graying hair in the aisleway, also waiting to get to her seat, and she apologetically tried to move aside to let me pass. I smiled. "De nada, no hurry," I said, "we'll all get where we're going." She reached up and lightly touched my cheek, which startled me. We are so hands off in the States, I had forgotten that most of he rest of the world is not.

Bohnee she murmured. I stuttered "thank you, er, gracias" and found my seat.

I had no idea what she said...but I think it was nice. Sadly, my Spanish is limited to a slender few key phrases.

Back to the plane and continuing with the 'nice' theme, I even had an empty seat next to me, and a slim and amicable fellow to my left who never even once tried to steal my armrest.

Men, you may not even be aware of this armrest phenomenon, but ladies, you know I'm right.

surfboards, Miraflores

It was cold in there, bordering on frigid actually, and I turned off the overhead air blowers to settle in beneath the usual insubstantial (in both size and thickness) airline blanket. After about 15 minutes the speakers buzzed with this message in Spanish and English: We are asking you now to take your seats. The plane will not move until you are sitting. We will wait for you. I grinned into my book.

Eventually everyone must have sat down since the plane did its thing and we were soaring. I amused myself by trying to translate the Spanish safety spiel. Then the captain came on, beginning in English this time: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have now reached our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet on our way to...hold on...(long pause)...Lima."

Wow. I hoped someone had interrupted him rather than that he had forgotten where we were going. True, pilots are a sort of glorified bus driver of the skies, (don't get me wrong, I sure couldn't fly that thing!) but I prefer one who at least has a good grasp of where we're going.

I know. Picky, picky, picky.

It got colder and colder, and finally I jumped up and investigated the ceiling above me. Sure enough there was a gap and freezing air was escaping gleefully from it. "no offense, it's not you" I told the fellow next to me, and moved to the empty seat. Which was out of the draft and much better.

He proved himself amicable again when they passed out the emmigration forms. I had tried, and failed miserably, to trick the flight attendant into thinking I was a Spanish speaker. He answered me every time in English, though others got the pleasure of his melodic Español. Squinting at the blurry form, I finally gave up the pretense and asked him for one in English. This one is in English, miss. he assured me.

The copy quality was so lousy it made me question whether I was going to have to bow to age and get reading glasses. A new thought, that. However, with patience and the help of my bespectacled seatmate we decoded the form and got the thing filled out.

Lima, from the night skies above, home to nearly 9 million people and the third largest city in South America, spreads out brilliantly along the dark waters of the Pacifc. I didn't even try not to be excited.

After customs, where I had apparently filled out the paperwork correctly, I retrieved my suitcase from the carousel and proceeded to a new experience in the realm of security. We all had to line up to get out, and as each passenger got to the front of the line they had to press a button. If the light turned red they were pulled aside and their luggage was searched. My light flashed a friendly green and I sailed on through to the greeting area where throngs of people waited with signs and smiling faces.

Somewhere in that crowd was Mike. But he missed seeing me and I missed seeing him, and I waited outside in the night air with the taxi drivers for awhile, they practicing their sales pitches in English on me, I practicing polite refusals in Spanish. I spotted my spousal unit once through the windows, moving through the crowds inside, but found it impossible to enter the doors where several passengers were coming out until they had finished their exit, refusing to give any quarter. Of course Mike had disappeared by then.

This sort of thing has happened at the end of nearly every race when Mike has come to to cheer me at the finish. We can never find one another! Admittedly, part of the problem may be that I'm kind of short.

Finally, though, we were reunited with one another (me yelling "Mike! Stop! Don't Move!") and I got my first taste of Lima driving. Mike has refused, wisely I think, to even attempt it in Lima, so we had a company driver who was a typical Peruvian, squeezing us into the tiniest spots, revving and screeching, weaving, adding his horn to the cacophony around us and speeding with glee into any gap.

The little car survived, as did we, and I can honestly say that being relaxed while such insanity is going on must be a lifelong skill once acquired, because the experience didn't bother me one bit.

Finally I got to see the hotel where Mike has been spending so much of his life lately, found it luxurious and well-situated. I didn't take much time to admire, though. A quick bite from room service and we collapsed to sleep, Mike needing to get up in about 4 hours to go to work.

Not I. My unapologetic plan was to sleep in.

And then to explore Lima on foot...and on my own.

the rocky beach and a discarded bottle

Send me on my way...

security purse and a couple of backpacks...happy happy.

So here's the ugly truth, much as I hate to admit it: the girl whose personality has more than once been compared to that of a golden retriever, (that would be me,) wasted most of the last year of this precious thing called life...in a funk. In a slump. Which is lame. Capitol-L lame.

Sure, I had reasons: Last August I acquired (and still have) an injury that kept me from running. There are few things sadder in everyday life than a runner who can't run, and the injury was utterly my own fault -not listening to my body when it said woah! This did not make for a happy camper. It has gotten better, and I can run...some. Which is way better than nothing, y'all.

Also, admittedly, I was having a hard time letting go of Dubai, not just of the friends and amazing running community there, a painful loss, but also of the travelling and closest-thing-I-was-ever-going-to-come-to-glamorous lifestyle.

I've always subscribed to the no matter where you go, there you are saying, buuuut now I think perhaps I was wrong. I definitely like myself better when I'm running...or travelling. Maybe it's the excitement. Maybe it's the chance to learn something new about myself and the world. Maybe it's that nicely widened margin of acceptability for appearing a total idiot.

Whatever it is, I thrive on it.

So it was with entirely glad heart (Funk? What funk?) that I donned the backpack, checked a single piece of luggage, and boarded a plane (after the "traditional" airport massage...twice makes a tradition, right?) for Houston and then South America.

South America. A whole new continent. With a loved one waiting for me and a land to explore without a single memory in it yet.

Delicious. Enough to make a girl's spine tingle.

It all began with zipping effortlessly through security at SeaTac, interested once again to note the number of people who seem both befuddled by the system and unhappy to be there. Many were obviously people setting off on vacation. A time to be happy. Personally, I think the airport security staff do an awesome job of getting everyone where they need to be in a timely and friendly manner, seemingly without getting frustrated by the overall noncompliance of the flock.

On the plane the airline (who shall remain unnamed) informed us that if we wanted television we could pull out our credit cards to pay for it. I objected to this on principle, and turned the screen all the way down, though most people didn't seem to mind the inveigling "There's still time for On-Demand!" message, but then, I could afford principles. I had reading material and I didn't have kids in tow. With the kids I would have coughed up for sure.

On my right was a mother who did have her brood alongside, three small children. Dad was waiting for them in Houston.They seemed to behaving pretty well but as the 5 hours progressed their mom got more and more stressed. Stressed enough that my offer to hold her adorable baby girl, initially meeting with a polite refusal, resulted in baby sailing over the aisle to me for me to hold multiple times. Little Justina and I became good buddies. Mom was whispering threats to her other two offspring, trying various and sundry options that didn't seem to garner the result she was looking for.

Finally the breaking point. The flight attendant asked what they'd like to drink -there were no meals served, at least, not to Coach Class scum like us. Justina's brother, about 4 years old, wanted juice. There was no more juice. Mom said, in what I would describe as a resigned tone, but no worse than that, "fine."

The flight attendant went ape. I apologise for the expression, but it fits the situation. She raised her voice to that scary command and control tone they teach in cop school. The one they use with a cocked weapon pointed at your head, a snarling, barely restrained German Shepherd alongside.

She barked, "I don't like the way you are COMING AT ME, Ma'am!" with a sarcastic twist to that last bit.

HOLY

Mom turned white and her mouth dropped open. It was the exact same reaction one would have gotten from backhanding the poor woman. I'm not sure what the stewardess was trying to accomplish. Flying alone with children that you're not only responsible for but also trying to keep civil is an experience that deserves the sympathy of those around, if not an entire cheer squad.

As it turned out, this mom had a cheer squad. One composed entirely of complete strangers, to be sure, but when she lost it, started to cry and, between hoos, sputtering disbelief that she was being accused of such a thing, three rows on either side stirred angrily to her defense. This only made the flight attendant more belligerent, so much so that she had to be bodily dragged away by another female flight attendant who took her handily by the waist and wrangled her back, still trying to pick a fight, to the attendant area at the back of the plane.

I kid you not.

In retrospect, I would have given a lot to have been privy to that little conversation between the flight staff once they disappeared behind the service curtain.

I'll bet it was good.

The nice (and apparently martial art or animal handler trained) flight attendant came back and took the now crying Justina away from the still bawling mother and her concerned children, holding the baby while trying to calm the now full-of-righteous-anger mother.

It's possible we fellow passengers might have set her on said path of righteous anger with our indignant comments on her behalf. It was impressive to hear her turn on her Texas Momma and retort, 10 minutes after the incident, I don't wahnt her back door apology, ah want her name.

I can tell you, it totally cancelled out any need for paid in-flight entertainment.