Let's just go out and ride, talk about the things we try...

Herman Melville famously had his character Ishmael in Moby Dick describe the capitol of Peru as "tearless Lima, the strangest, saddest city thou can’st see."

It's too bad he could not come back and see Lima today. Perhaps he would like it better.

Once again I was meeting my friends John and Shuko and their kids for another adventure, this time in a company truck. While Shuko declines to drive in Peru,  John has been at it for awhile, and I must say he nicely avoided what would have been a nasty accident on the way to lunch. Having already been in an accident with John (many of us can claim this slightly dubious honor) I suppose it would have been old hat. Certainly business as usual in Lima. The taxi that he managed not to hit by the smallest of margins when it darted and stopped in front of us owed him big. As in, "not crushed into a tin can and then thrust into oncoming traffic" big.

I rather think Shuko is wise to not take the wheel. Who needs that level of stress? Not I. The role of trusting passenger is perfect for me; I have relaxing in the face of death or dismemberment related to wheeled travel down to a science.

Not that I was really worried about either. See what I mean?

scarlet flourish of bougainvillea

First we were off to the Barranco district of Lima, described in guide books as either bohemian or laid back, depending on which one you pick up. Either way, I like Barranco. It has personality. It's relatively safe, certainly welcoming and beautiful, and it has a restaurant that expats speak of in reverent tones: The Burrito Bar.

I had first heard of the Burrito Bar from my friend April when I asked what I should make sure to do in Lima. She raved. She ranted. She moaned. She tried to give me directions over the phone as I scribbled frantically. These included points such as "there's no sign but it's the only one with red walls inside" and "if you manage to find the street just sniff and you'll smell the burritos and find it."

I had little hope of finding the Burrito Bar by myself, but since every single person I had talked to had insisted it was a "can't miss" meal, I mentioned it to Shuko and John and they were more than on board with the plan.

Oh, yeah, you HAVE to eat at the Burrito Bar, they enthused, we'll take you there.

I couldn't have been happier; a rave review burrito was something I was going to have to investigate further. Better, the place is run by a Brit. What on earth could a British fellow know about making burritos that has the expat community on their knees in supplication to him? I mean, I remember Brits in Dubai who had never heard of tacos.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Sure enough, it was a little hole in the wall, but a very nice hole in the wall. As advertised, it had red walls and smelled wonderful. After ordering at the counter, we waited at a heavy wooden table for the food to arrive. John leaned over and conspiratorially whispered "This is where all the Mormons on their missions come to eat."

I must have looked incredulous because he spread his hands wide and said, "No really. I don't know how they know about it, but you watch, they'll be here."

It wasn't three minutes later that the first clean cut, white-shirted young man came in, followed by a group of his fellows.

John did Groucho Marx eyebrows at me, "See? Told ya!"

I couldn't help but smile.

The burritos arrived with limeade. Not lemonade. Lemons are unknown in Peru. In fact, Mike is determined to take one down there on one of his trips to show to the locals in the office on the job site. Peruvian limes are small and sweet and, in this case, nicely refreshing in a cold drink with mint and sugar. But the burrito...

The burrito was toasty warm and large, tightly wrapped in silver paper. I could get both hands around it, but only just. I unwrapped it to find a corn tortilla rolled around black beans and rice and mildly spicy meat, some peppers, onions in there somewhere. The juices had soaked into the freshly made and perfectly thin, warm tortilla a little. I took a bite.

Sweet Jesus. No wonder the Mormons come here; this was a spiritual experience. Wait, was it? Chewing. Swallowing. My God, it was.  

Another bite, a big bite. Angels singing. Pure heaven. Simple. pure good food. It was going to be hard to eat this thing with any sort of decorum. I wanted to face plant into this burrito; it was that good. I was obsessed with this perfect, amazing burrito.

It was so good, in fact, that well into stuffing this thing bite by divine bite into my mouth I only barely managed to force myself to stop eating it long enough to take a photograph; I realized that if I didn't do so soon my burrito would be gone from this earth entirely.

If Herman Melville had had a bite of that burrito, I think he would have had and entirely different opinion of Lima. In fact, he might not have written Moby Dick at all. He might have written Moby Burrito.

Sade dit moi, qu'est ce que tu vas chercher?

Everyone was out on the streets of historical Lima. This is something  I really love about Peru's capitol. People are outside. People don't exactly...go...outside in Seattle. I mean, we do; we hike or garden, but it's an event, and we tend to keep to ourselves. Being outside in a crowd, walking everywhere or sitting on the porch and watching the world go by? Not really. We're a car culture. Something to do with the rain...and the hills.

 

But in Lima the streets were absolutely packed and everyone seemed pretty darned happy about it. There was an infectious, lighthearted vibe

 

There were people from all walks of life; beggars, sellers, tourists, local families.  The policia in front of the President's Palace were sporting machine guns and riot gear, but appearing relaxed. Not a bad policy.

Flags were flying and the music of spoken Spanish was everywhere. It was a dance break in the walk of life. The people watching was fantastic.

Despite the crowds, I stopped dead to snap a photo of this guy gawking at the...brave outfit this young lady was sporting.

I'm not entirely sure what the woman with him thought of his nearly breaking his neck to get a closer look at what didn't really need a closer look to be entirely apparent.

Usually I hate crowds, but sometimes in the thrall of travel everything becomes amusing and interesting; even a urine-smelling corner of the Plaza made me smile. Actually, what made me smile was that my friends said "Hey, we're almost to the piss stink spot," and sure enough, they were right.

I doubt you can find that moniker and location in your guide book. Such is the benefit of exploring with companions who are also familliar with the area.

At the Lima Cathedral I encouraged my friends' children to try out the knocked on one of the huge, regal doors and then shrieked at them to "Run away! Run away before somebody comes!"

They did so, giggling like maniacs. Well, what are honorary aunties for than to stir up a bit of naughty fun?

While Shuko and I had both been to the Monastery San Francisco, the stunning baroque church from the 1600s, John and the kids had never been, and I was more than game to go again---the last time I'd managed to miss the convent's library, the oldest one in South America.

As we entered a beautiful room with skylights, romantic spiraling staircases and the parchment smell of books containing old secrets long forgotten, the guide explained that the library contains some 25,000 antique texts, some predating the church itself. The skylights were important: these books had been studied hundreds of years before the light bulb and one could not take candles into such an area.

Today, one could not take photographs either. I had to settle for buying a postcard of the library...and taking a photo of that.

The monastery is full of riches; carvings and silver, marble and gold and many, many paintings and frescoes; the large painting of the Last Supper where Christ and his Disciples dine on guinea pig and other South American dishes garnered a chuckle from us, and I found myself explaining to John's daughter why many of the saints were carrying their heads and to John what the Stations of the Cross and stigmata are. Somehow I had become the expert on Catholic faith for these good God-fearing Texans.

 

Detail from the front of the monastery,

The riches were all well and good, but of course what everyone was really looking forward to was the catacombes beneath the earth, and, the children twittering nervously, we went down the stone steps to the world of the dead. 70,000 souls rest there, their bones sorted by type into piles upon dusty piles; femurs and skulls and nothingness. The light is dim, the air old and dry.

John was especially into it. He'd managed not to crack his skull on the low ceilings, despite his height, had edged himself through the small doors and he was determined to get a photo, despite the guide.

I'll cover for you, I hissed, and lingered behind as the group continued forward, standing guard at a corner while behind John fiddled with settings and swore at his camera as seconds crept by.

I heard the guide coming back and burst out after her, saying "disculpe, disculpe" in my most innocent tone. She gave me a hard look but said nothing as she led me back to the group, not realising my subterfuge.

How she hadn't noticed that John the giant Texan and former US Marine was missing is beyond me, but it worked.

Well, sort of.

He sneaked back to join the group as well after what seemed like an achingly long while. I'd murmured to Shuko where he was and shushed the children who were starting to crane their necks and look for him as well.

"Well?" I asked beneath my breath.

"Nah, couldn't get it to focus and I didn't want it to make a noise and get caught," he said, looking down into the most famous ossuary in the catacombes, one with circles of skulls and bones radiating outward in rings.

Damn, those bones are badass! He exclaimed.

 

I turned a laugh that threatened to explode out of me into a smothered cough. "Badass bones?"

 

Oh. My. God. I figured that if I laughed now the guide would take a femur to me and tried to compose my face.

 

We managed to finish the tour without any other eventualities and emerged back into the rest of the world, vibrant and alive.

John ponied up for souvenirs for his wife and the girls, I got my postcards and we all wandered into the night, admiring the lights of the warm evening in Plaza Mayor, Lima's central square; horses and carts clopping by, pigeons clapping their wings as they headed to their nighttime roosts.

Oh love

 

I've said it before and I'll say it again; the quickest, and I think most pleasurable way to learn about a place is to go grocery shopping there. No museum or culture show can match the neighborhood market for teaching you what the people who live there are actually like.

 

In Lima, it seems the way to get your everyday foods is to go to a bodega. These are tiny, family-owned stores tucked into other buildings, and they're all over the place. You'll be walking along behind someone, oblivious, when suddenly they duck to the left and disappear into an open doorway.

 

 Follow them in and you will find what is generally a cramped but not unpleasant little space that contains all sorts of things. The tiny one nearest our apartment was a bit dark, but not so much that I couldn't see the fruit stand just inside the door positively groaning with beautiful piles of produce.

 

 

"Our" bodega. Note the Virgin Mary up above.

 

It was the enormous mangoes that caught my attention. I hefted one; heavy, even for it's size. Immediately a young man in an apron was gesturing to me to give him the mango, and I did, along with another one and some passion fruit, and two apples. He weighed them, nodded, wrote something down on a little piece of paper and carried this and the fruit into the second area of the store. There were containers of bottled water in several sizes next to the stand, and I grabbed some of these.

My policy of following the travel books' recommendation and not drinking tap water in Peru has worked well so far. No reason to mess with it.

 

The second space, past a display of jewelery to the counter, behind which was what appeared to be much of the rest of the young man's family; another young man, an older man and woman with squinty but kind eyes looking up at me, and then shelves and shelves of dry goods and sundries of all kinds, as well as canned food and eggs and several types of bread.

The store is perhaps 15 feet deep and 10 feet wide. You have to cooperate with the other customers to navigate.

 

To the side of the counter was a cooler with tidy small packages of cheeses and meats, and then a rack with all sorts of chips and soda pops.

 

OK, here we go. What could I buy?

 

Again going with what works, I asked for the things I knew how to say. Or could point to, or could cheat and read how to say by the label.

 

I ended up with sliced ham, despite pronouncing the j (jamón), a small round of cheese, (queso) butter, (mantequilla), some white bread (pan blanco) and some eggs (huevos). The eggs were a bit of a puzzle; the older man hefted up a large plastic bag of eggs. A lot of eggs. I wasn't sure how many were in there, but it was quite a few, maybe 30. Necessito piquito? I asked, and considering this was total gibberish (I should have said necesitará pequeña?) these folks get bonus points for customer service; he smiled and got out a smaller bag of only 10 eggs.

 

 

 

Perfecto! I said, instead of having to be told three times how much everything cost, the total was written down on a piece of paper and all I had to do was fumble with the 1, 2, and 5 soles coins.

 

The five pairs of eyes smiled patiently. Everything was carefully bagged and handed to me, and I put the packages into my shoulder bag.

 

If it wasn't clear earlier what an amateur I am with this sort of thing, let me just say that I wasn't out the door for more than 30 seconds before I spotted a Virgin Mary tile that I wanted to photograph. So I leaned up against a brick wall for stability while I focused...and crunch. There went two of the eggs in the bag over my shoulder.

 

Messy. The photo didn't turn out either.

 

Some bodegas had more to sell than this one, some less; in some neighborhoods the cashier was behind bars. We were a little more cautious in such places, just like you would be in the States. Often there were small children, too young to be in school, with their parents or grandparents, playing contentedly in the doorway or on the floor behind the counter.

 

 

fruit cart, Miraflores

 

Also in the streets were the snack vendors, and the fruit carts, the latter of which smelled wonderful; a just-broken open watermelon being hacked into rough chunks, bananas, bunches of coriander and mint and other herbs, pineapples, more elongated than the ones from Hawaii, strawberries and tomatoes, the list went on. And of course, the mangoes.

 

Back in the apartment, I cut into that first mango.  There was none of the fibrous resistance I'm used to. The scent of the sweet juices and that smooth, soft flesh was intoxicating.

 

In comparison, the overpriced, hard mangoes that go from rock to rotten more often than not in the US grocery stores must be embarrassed to even call themselves mangoes. There's simply no comparison.

 

 

I was happily surprised to find that half of a mango was the perfect amount for breakfast. By the time I was done eating this first one I had crescents of orange beneath every fingernail and was questioning the way we eat in the United States. Which was not a good sign since, you know, I live there.

 

There are other places to shop; similar to the sort of grocery stores that we are used to in the States, and the Mercados, open air markets, which I love. More on those later.

 

And of course, if there is some small something you are missing, you never know who might be just around the corner to help you with that.

 

 

 

Shoe brushes, cotton balls, Q-tips, all specially overpriced for the Gringa.

 

 

The cheese...was horrible. It was not what I would call mozzarella, no matter what the label said. The ham and bread and butter went uneaten. It was those mangoes and bottled water that I went back for again and again. Mangoes for breakfast, bottled water for drinking and brushing teeth  and carrying around as I explored.

 

Perhaps shopping for groceries told me more about myself than it did about the people who live there. 

Good day sunshine...

It's tempting to stop right here. Are you seeing this cappuccino?! This is a work of art.

Franco made it for me, that sweet boy.

Who is Franco? You ask. Well, it is all my husband's fault that I met charming Franco...and his beautiful coffees.

Mike, my beloved, had envisioned how I would spend my time in Peru the two days alone before he would join me from the States and the days when he would be at the job site and I would again be a woman alone; I would wander, take photographs, find a little cafe, drink coffee, write, and practice speaking Spanish.

You know you have it good when the one you married knows so well how to make you happy. Indulge my every whim and learn something to boot. Spot on.

Admittedly I was nervous about a second attempt to have any sort of conversation in Spanish, but the promise of coffee and pleasing one's spouse can make one bold.

I found a cafe with two tiny tables outside, one inside. At the counter there pastries beneath glass, a gleaming espresso machine, and a young man with a sweet smile.

"Un cappuccino, por favor," I requested. Si, si.

Then he asked the question that no matter how many times I heard it  I never understood what was being asked (and I heard it in every conversation I had with a Peruvian that went more than one exchange). "¿De dónde es usted?

Er...

Where are you from? He asked.

Ah! So then I tried to answer in Spanish and messed it all up. Hopeless.

Then he asked me how many days I was planning to stay in Lima.

"Diez dios" I replied. His face was a picture. I realised I'd answered ten gods, dios, instead of ten days, días.

So Franco and I made a pact. He would endure my Spanish attempts with good cheer and I would let him practice his English with me. So I asked Berlioz-worthy questions in English and learned all about him; school and work and family, how he had a cousin in the USA, and what he liked to do when he was not working, which was to listen to music and dance.

By this time I was both happy to be cheating by speaking in my own language and thoroughly in the thrall of the cappuccino, trying not to lick the remaining foam off the inside off the glass like some sort of porn star.

He had come closer to my table and we were trying to tell each other what kind of music we liked. Then "Dance, you, Natalie? You like the dance clubs, si?" and he did some sort of energetic yet fluid sensuous dance move to the 80's music escaping from the door of his cafe into the sunshine, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

Wait, was he flirting with me?  I wasn't sure. Not what my spousal unit had envisioned happening.

No, no dancing, no salsa. I said.

"Why?" he asked. Even closer.



Crap. What could be the word for shy in Spanish? How about clumsy? Gringa? I dance like a white girl? I was in a hole, here.

I'd carefully learned the phrase "¡Dejame en paz, soy casada!" -leave me in peace, I'm married! and a couple of uncomplimentary adjectives and a noun to be verbally hurled if the occasion called for it, but this occasion didn't call for it. I had all my clothes on and everything. Perfectly innocent.

"Your cousin in Houston!" I blurted. "Does he work at NASA?"

A line appeared between his eyebrows. He looked thoroughly and utterly confused.

"NASA. Space shuttle, astronauts? Er, Aeroplano por la estrella?" I continued slightly hysterically, making a gesture with my hand shooting off into space and making a jet sound suitable for playing with a 4-year-old.

"No, sorry, I am not knowing this..." he said.

"Trabajo!" I went on. "Franco trabajo cafe," I tried to explain, pointing, "your cousin trabajo? NASA? N-A-S-A? Space program? Cousin trabaja?" I insisted, mangling the Spanish that much further.

Had I been able to come up with the word "aeronautics" we might have gotten there. Successful communication is opposite to what one might originally think; going simpler is the wrong direction. The more scientific the word, the more likely it is based in Latin, and therefore probably recognisable by Latin Americans. (the word in Spanish is aeronáutica). But I am new to all of this and hadn't figured out this trick yet.

Poor Franco looked chagrined and very young, shaking his head, in total befuddlement,  a feeling which which I could identify only too well.

Oh dear. This was going sideways. De nada, de nada, I said, waving the gap in our communication away with both hands to show its meaninglessness.

He seemed to take this as a dismissal and bowed slightly, backing away several steps as one would from an altar before turning away and going back behind his spotless counter.

Best to gracefully exit before I did any more damage. At the counter, the bill was 4 Nuevos Soles, $1.52. I offered him 6.

He looked confused again, "no, no," he said, "6 is too much. Only 4 soles."

"Si, si," I told him, "claro. Dos soles por tu."

Once more, absolutely dreadful Spanish, but his face brightened with surprise and understanding. A gratuity, which is largely unexpected. Not only that, but this was a huge gratuity by Peruvian standards.

The usual from a generous person would have been 15%. Which would have been all of $0.20 USD. But no, I had gone over the top and given him nearly 76 cents! After spending an hour at his cafe and "helping" him with his Spanish?

Obviously I am quite a woman, even if I don't dance.

"¡Adios, Franco!" I waved a goodbye, smiled at his "¡hasta luego!" and went back out into the sunshine.

Friday I'm in Love...

Waking up alone in a foreign city. Sleep in? Well, maybe a little. Just a little. Delicious.

That done, rubbing my eyes, sore-legged from holding the coach plane position for hours and hours the day before, I gimped over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look out where the Pacific, beyond the cliffs and far below, was obscured by a warm, playful mist. Only the distant rumble of surging waves promised that the mighty ocean was indeed there. The palms were vague forms in a sea of white fog; the only movement was that of joggers in bright outfits striding the pavement. Hello, Peru.

I made an executive decision: today, as a nod to jetlag, the fact that nobody but nobody was going to call me "Moooohm!!!" and no place I should be nor thing I should be doing, I was going to have a languid day of...absolutely nothing.

Sounds good, doesn't it?

Long shower, sunscreen, minimal makeup, and drifting out the front door to go find a coffee of some kind. I found one at a café where I could sit outside and watch pedestrians clopping past with the sunshine now breaking though the fog, revealing a beautiful day.

The coffee was beautiful too; a rich, perfectly bitter and foamy cappuccino, with nutmeg dusted over it. Later I discovered that nutmeg is a staple for cappuccinos, at least everywhere I went, and all the better thanks to it.

I also ordered a sandwich; egg, ham and cheese. Admittedly, I did so because I didn't have any food back at the apartment and knew how to ask for it in Spanish.


The sandwich came with a side order of....popcorn.

This had never happened to me before; I found it charming.

Popcorn. Hee.

Gazing out over the street, munching happily, writing in my journal and counting the tourists more rip-offable than myself. I found this last most reassuring; not a lot of street smarts out there. Flashy jewelry, strappy purses, fat wallets in back pockets.  Plus, I have Safety Purse, which you may remember from other adventures, with the wire cable through the shoulder strap, wire mesh throughout the body and lockable zipper on the main compartment. It was hard not to feel smug.

Police presence, however, probably reduced the vulnerability of the other, less paranoid tourists; Upscale Lima, at least, was obviously determined to keep their visitors safe and happy, reasonably hoping to ensure good reports on the internet travel review sites.

My smugness went out the proverbial window, however, when the only other diner, three tables over, with huge hair and colorful, exotic clothes, a deep tan and serious makeup asked me for directions. I least, that's what I thought she was doing; it was all in Spanish.

Fumbling, I tried to field her questions but tripped and stuttered over what I was trying to say, and as I hadn't a good grasp of exactly where I was, anyway, I admitted defeat quickly, confessing to what was already painfully obvious; no say, no hablo Espanol, disculpe.

Baby talk for "can't talk, sorry."

It got so much more fun when the woman switched to heavily accented but perfectly understandable English. Then I had to explain again, though comfortingly in my own language, that I didn't really know the name of the nearby cross street, nor how she could get where she was trying to go.

Then the kicker, "I'm from Sacramento," she confided with a deliberate toss of her head to make her earrings cavort and jingle.

Oh, for crying out loud. I could barely speak to an American?

Some Frenchmen sat down at another table for their breakfast, rendering me even less interesting; someone who was therefore left safely in peace.

Slightly ruffled peace.

My phone beeped from the depths of Safety Purse. Then it began to talk.

Actually it's my husband's Peru phone, which is mostly set up to be a jobsite walkie-talkie. As it isn't my phone I, well, kind of sort of didn't know how to use it.

Great. My communication skills were really up to par.

Using a combination of force of will, swearing under my breath in several languages and finally resorting to pushing a number of likely buttons, I finally got the thing to work. It was a call from my family, my expat family, folks I knew from Dubai, now on the Peru job.

In other words, real friends, for life. With one phone call my day of doing nothing beneath the now-streaming sunshine had become a day with a dynamic family of five.

A day with no obligations? Great! A day with no obligations and some friends to pal around with, who speak the language far better than I do and know where they're going?

Even better.

As I found my way through the colorful streets, beneath the festoons of bougainvillea, scarlet or bright pink, walking toward the Church of la Virgen Milagrosa, I realized that my heart was full, absolutely brimming, with simple joy. An uncomplicated moment of sheer happiness.

Her name translates to the Virgin of Miracles; a beautiful landmark that I was surprised to read is less than a hundred years old, but then, Miraflores was burned by the Chileans in 1881 during the Battle of the Pacific. The Peruvians and the Chileans still passionately hate each other, though perhaps not when face to face, sort of like how I feel about the New York Yankees.

Good Friday, and in a heavily, devotedly Catholic country like Peru. I was curious to see how it was celebrated, not to mention with the first Latin American Pope in history now leading the church, Peru has reason to rejoice.

As it was Good Friday it was also a holiday for most Peruvians and the church was brimming with parishioners, bringing by their children to be blessed by the smiling, welcoming Padre. In fact, it seemed everyone was smiling.

Which is a good thing as I was grinning like an idiot.

I had wondered if Good Friday would be a somber affair, chest beating and rending of garments, but it seemed more like a family day, festive and also respectful, and I had a family to spend it with.

closer view of the priest's vestments

 

 

We went out to lunch, the three little girls, their tiny Japanese mother, Shuko, a firecracker of a gal, and that hulk of a Texan, former US Marine and friend with a heart of gold, John. He dwarfs ordinary men, and in Peru where at 5'4" I am tall, he is, well, particularly easy to spot.

 

The friendly waiter who served us at quiet streetside café stated with obvious conviction that John and I must be brother and sister, much to my delight. We oversized gringos with big noses and curly hair; we all look alike. The waiter was so sure he repeated it to us several times in different ways to make sure we knew what we were saying "no" to.

 

Then he took one of the kids back to the kitchen to give her extra treats and I shared the oldest girl's Lomo Saltado; a particularly popular Peruvian dish of stir fried beef tenderloin and local yellow peppers, onion, tomato, soy sauce, cilantro, and vinegar. Fusion cuisine at its best. Being a Peruvian dish it is served with rice and french fries...how they eat so much starch is beyond me, but it is nice to have choices when it would be a sin not to mop up savory juices.

 

John and Shuko and the girls walked me back to the block where I was staying and we spent the rest of the day lolling in the park just like everyone else, watching the paragliders, the cyclists and skateboarders, the surfing students far below, and, in my case, getting slowly but inevitably sunburned, despite sunscreen and sitting in the shade.

I also learned a valuable survival tip from my friends; when in Lima, you snack on the street. There is food everywhere but in particular, all along the Malecon Cisneros that runs atop the cliffs are little yellow carts being pedaled or pushed by yellow attired sellers of helado; ice cream.

Note how John is twice as tall as the ice cream man

 

 

My friends, determined that I should feel loved and taken care of, picked me up for dinner in the evening a few hours later, and we went to a Mexican restaurant.

 

Yes, Mexican cuisine is very different from Peruvian. They're 3,000 miles apart, you know. And that's by plane.

 

But it was closed. So then we went looking for a beefsteak place. Which was also closed.

 

John pulled over the truck so we could watch a cross being erected in the darkness, and listen to church bells ringing. In Arequipa, to the south, the faithful reenact Via Crucis, the way of the cross, and perhaps this is a Lima version of the same, reading aloud of the stations of the cross to followers.

 

 

 

We did eventually find dinner, but it was only later, when a Peruvian friend inquired as to how the evening had gone, that our tourist-y faux pas was made clear.

 

"You went looking for beefsteak?" she asked, her voice going up an octave and managing, but only just, not to roll her eyes at our obtuseness, "it's Good Friday. Steak places are closed. You eat fish on Good Friday."

 

"Oh," I stuttered. "I ate chicken...Aji de Gallina....?"

"That's probably fine," she reassured me.

I didn't mention the Lomo Saltado.

She probably prayed for me.

*****

Here's a link to a recipe for Lomo Saltado http://www.theyucadiaries.com/2010/12/12/lomo-saltado/
in case it's not Good Friday and you're trying to think of something easy and delicious to make for dinner. Take note: it's a kid pleaser!

'cause I'm still in love with you, come back.

...and then I went back to Peru.

My husband has been bouncing like a pinball, pulled back and shot to ricochet between the North and South American continents for two years now, on and off. Our youngest assumed that whenever anyone left for vacation it was to go to "Peh-woo."

3 days before Easter, I met his expectations, using the few zillion air miles my spouse had accrued to do just that. Free tickets. Off to Lima.

2:20 am. The alarm begins to wind up but I'm already out of bed, silencing its call before it's above a whisper.

The house is dark and still, children and dog indistinct warm lumps on their beds, husband murmuring "have a good flight, see you in a few days..." before drifting back off to well-deserved sleep.

No sleep for me. The airport shuttle was coming.

It was perfectly on time, but it was no shared shuttle; instead, a purring black Town Car with buttery leather interior was sweeping up our driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. A nattily suited driver leapt jauntily out into the darkness, taking possession of my backpack and suitcase, opening the car door for me with easy courtesy and a cheerful hello.

Well, now, this was a good start.

The driver was a chatty sort, which kept me awake to enjoy the view as we swept past the lights of Seattle. He'd dropped off a VIP near our house, he explained, and it had made sense to pick me up on the way back to the airport. No extra charge.

Yes, a very good start.

At Sea-Tac my luxurious steed dropped me off to make my own way to the airline counter. Which was....closed. Actually, everything was closed. There were a few people queued up with their luggage, all wearing the blank stare of the early morning airline passenger. No one knew what time the counter opened, but all trusted that it would.

Suppressing the urge to moo like a cow, I joined the herd and stood, patient and stupid, in the hopes that someone with take my suitcase and send it on its way.

40 minutes later, the counter did open, no worries. I'd like  to say, as the airline requests their international passengers to present themselves 3 hours before departure it seems rather unsportsmanlike of them not to be there to welcome said travelers at that time.

But no matter. The  second TSA gate was just opening as well. A cursory glance at my passport, my face, and an "it's still you," comment from the officer. Reassuring.

A theme was becoming apparent; Seattle's Best Coffee wasn't open either. Fellow caffeine junkies and I stood there for several minutes before being shooed away ("we open in half an hour").

No coffee? In Seattle?

How uncivilized. I could have hit up the Starbucks before security, but then I would have had to gulp my coffee before going through, and that's not the right way at all.

Just before 6 am the plane was ready to go. I had found my seat between the aisle and an empty seat with a military guy on the other side of that. Good deal.

Were the seats getting smaller or had my legs grown six inches since the last time I flew? It was like origami to find a semi-comfortable position, and I'm average height for an American woman. With a long torso and short legs, no less.

There was a lot of military on this flight, a point made when the flight attendant asked my fellow passenger if he would switch with someone else. Yes'm, he said, jumping up, to be replaced by an air force soldier...and an Armed Forces dog. A large, slender German Shepherd. Both of them appeared combat ready.

Thank you ma'am, said the soldier to the flight attendant, I sure do appreciate the help, one seat just ain't gonna fit the two of us.

No kidding.

He was stocky young man with big arms and a syrup sweet Georgia accent. Now with more room, the dog wanted to sit on the seats but would have taken up all three.  His partner spoke few words in a tired but calm voice while the dog gazed up with obvious adoration. Without so much as a sigh the canine obeyed his orders, getting down onto the floor where he tucked himself in with obvious practice, head resting on paws, and sank out of view; no one would even have known he was there.

What a good dog. The nearby passengers, who had craned their necks to watch, grinned and turned back around.

I felt kind of special.

Five hours later, after giving up on my "entertainment" system that had sound that either worked sporadically or not at all, and wanted me to feed it credit card to watch anything good anyway, the soldier introduced himself and his dog. Billy and Arco. Yes, like the gas station. Neither of them had stirred in the 5 hours, except once when I dug a biscotti out of my backpack on the floor to go with my little cup of airline coffee. Arco lifted his head three millimeters and moved forward an infinitesimal amount, toward the backpack. Billy redirected his dog with his boot, gently. He'd appeared fast asleep but perhaps he was a light sleeper. A useful trait for parents with dependents of all kids.

 

Once Billy started talking and found me a sympathetic and interested ear, I got to ask all sorts of questions about Arco. They had come from Afghanistan through Germany, then Seattle and now finally Atlanta.

 

How was Afghanistan? I asked.

"Cold. Windy. Really windy."

"Wow." I said. There was a pause. "What was Arco's job in Afghanistan?" I asked. 

Billy hesitated, so I quickly suggested "A little of everything?"

"Yeah," he agreed, "that's it. A little of everything."

 

Time to change the subject. "How can he ride on the plane so long without water, or going to the bathroom, or anything like that?"

"This is nothing," Billy said, "he's been on 10 hour flights; longer, even. He don't mind planes at all. Hates helicopters, though."

 

I could imagine; I don't think they make ear protectors for dogs, and helicopters are loud.

 

Billy told me about his personal dogs "back home," and the time he left Arco alone with a plate of gumbo on the coffee table. When Billy got back not only was the gumbo gone, but the paper plate and the plastic spoon had disappeared into Arco as well.

 

Arco heard his name one too many times and decided that it was time to sit up and take a visual survey of his surroundings. Billy let him, but kept a hand on Arco's harness at all times. I asked if I could take a photograph, afterwards Billy thanked me for not trying to pet Arco.

 

"Well, he's not my dog," I explained, "and, he's working."

 

"Y'all would not believe what some people do," he replied. He told me some hair-raising stories of parents encouraging their small kids to run up, uninvited, to touch Arco.

 

Sounded a bit like Darwinism to me, but I kept that comment to myself. Billy did not invite me to pet Arco, and I didn't ask, though I would have loved to stroke that beautiful, long-nosed dog; I'm a sucker for a canine in uniform.

 

Billy also mentioned how TSA had given him a hard time before letting him though with Arco. "Aggravatin', those guys.  Pissed me off. They never know what to do with us."

 

"Honestly?" I asked him. It seems to me that no one would voluntarily fly with a dog, especially a big dog like Arco, unless they had to. They're like kids; no matter how much you love them, it's just easier in so many ways to leave them at home. And who would give a hard time to a soldier, in uniform, with the proper identification? They deserve first class treatment stateside, if you ask me.

 

I suppose Arco sets off the metal detectors, what with his harness and all. It'd take a braver, or stupider, person than myself to ask Billy to take them off his dog, though.

 

I apologised for my city; I've found SeaTac's TSA employees to be friendly and competent, not something to complain about in the least, but then, I'm a regular sort of passenger, no one to get excited about.

 

The plane began its descent through the warm Georgia air, a rough, jouncy one. I started sweating and felt a bit nauseated from all the movement. Arco began to pant and made an urping sound. Billy entreated him, "don't puke on me, bud," stroking the silky ears. I followed Arco's lead and breathed in and out deeply. We all made it to the ground without anything unsanitary happening, and said out good-byes and good lucks.

 

Atlanta's airport is a pleasant one for a layover. A little light on healthy food selections, perhaps, but otherwise nice. Very cool displays, from copies of Gone With the Wind in several languages:

 

 

 

to an exhibit of MLK Jr's personal effects. I walked and walked and walked the different concourses, to kill time and be kind to my body, listening to the accents and enjoying the creative braids and colorful shades of the hair swirling over the heads of the women working there. Eventually I ended up at a massage place.

 

I know. Whoops, how did that happen?

 

Actually, I know how it happened; the crick in my neck led me there. And into the capable hands of a slender, hunched, soft-spoken and very pale fellow of Puerto Rican and Italian descent named Eccardo.

 

First I was invited to sit a aggressive massage chair which then pummelled the heck out of me, fixing any big problems I might have had and probably creating plenty of smaller ones.

 

The neck crick fled for the hills.

 

Eccardo wisped over to me and turned off the pummeller and began to work his magic, pressing my temples, stroking my hair and eyebrows, complimenting my "beautiful skin" and telling me how to cook Pollo Guisado "with arroz or pasta, depending on which of my genes are talking to me while I create," admonishing "you must always use Goya products when you cook this, without fail you understand?"

 

In a dreamlike state I assured him I would. I'd purchased 15 minutes of relaxation but he gave me 28, not including the thumping by the chair. I also got the impression that he prayed over me for a safe journey as he cradled my cranium in his hands.

 

morning mist, Lima, Peru  

 

Back on another plane, the entertainment system, though included with an international ticket, went the way of the first and didn't want to work terribly well. I gave up watching Les Miserables; feeling it was too good of a story to ruin with lousy reception. My book had no such issues, and I read or silently practiced Spanish to myself. My seat partner, Kim, currently from Tennessee, was a yoga instructor on her way to Cusco and Machu Picchu with a group of yoga devotees. I found myself babbling to her about what to expect in Peru, as though I were some sort of expert, and we talked family and kids and spiritualism until touchdown in Lima.

 

Through customs and baggage, carefully keeping my immigration slip that you must give back at the end of your trip, and the gauntlet of the red or green light. This is a funny thing: in the airport, just before the exit, when you can see freedom from the machinery that is international plane travel, you must press a button. If the light turns green you sweep out through the gates and out. But if the light turns red, your baggage in searched with accompanying questions. 

 

This system is supposedly random. I wouldn't know. Regardless, I've gotten green light every time, so I can't complain.

 

Out the doors to the throng of people waiting to welcome tired travelers, I see the sign with my name on it.

 

There are few things I like better than that. The holder of the sign is, surprisingly and gratifyingly, a woman. An attractive woman, the tallest person in the crowd, wearing slacks and a white sweater of some soft material, she smiles and begins to speak in rapid fire Spanish. I feel like I'm drowning in words, and hold up a hand to stop the flow and shake hers in greeting. "Despacio..." I murmur, slowly.

 

She flashes a smile of understanding and speaks, slowly, and clearly, and I don't catch a single word.

 

I think she's asked me to wait for a minute, but that's based solely on body language. Now we're outside, and she disappears into the darkness. I remain behind, nicely and repeatedly telling the taxi drivers who continue to ask, no gracias, I don't need a ride, no necessito.

 

It's well past midnight and the night is fragrant and dark, smelling of fuel and exhaust, and further on, impressions of cooking and something unknown and pungently sweet. Kipling once famously wrote "The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it," and it is always these, the odors and temperature, that make a lasting impression once the recycled, lifeless air of the plane is left behind. I would know, blindfolded and deaf, that I am in another country.

 

She returns, parking ticket validation in hand, and I follow her out to the parking lot, the suitcase obediently bumping along behind me. She has forgotten exactly where the car is parked, but de nada, I tell her, shrugging to convey my lack of displeasure and quickly running out of Spanish.

 

We find the car after she beeps her remote several times until we find it, and I hump my suitcase over the intervening concrete curb, causing her more embarrassment, which I try to turn into a "hey, sister, we're all just trying to get along" moment. It seems to work.

 

Out on the road, and my driver is surprisingly conservative for a Limeño, driving only 60 in a 40 kilometer zone. She has me put my backpack on the floor, rather than my lap, and now it is my turn to be embarrassed; what a rookie mistake, making us a target for smash and grab thieves. I cover by asking for the word for backpack, mochilla, which I forget along with her name.

 

She asks some questions and we get along; I learn that she has an 18 year old son, and I manage to share my parental shame that the next day is my son's 7th birthday and that I shall miss it; that he is with his abuella back in the States, in Seattle. She tells me she has a sister in Seattle, who is married and doesn't work. She can't visit her sister because she does work. Si, si, I nod vigorously, is claro.

 

The radio croons, mostly Latin American songs with the occasional Flashdance or Talking Heads track. The 80s still rule.

 

Mike, the thoughtful husband, has equipped me, not only with the address of the company apartment and instructions on how to get in, but also a full page color photo of the apartment building. We miss it the first time out and many of the streets are one way only, so we end up in each other's company longer than perhaps was planned, but my driver is extraordinarily patient, both with the streets and her tired passenger of nearly unintelligible Spanish. We make it, and I give her 10 soles for a tip. Her dark eyes open wide and she blossoms into the biggest smile I have seen yet; most in Lima don't expect a tip. She certainly didn't. This, all of $3.86 after an hour ride and perhaps 2 hours of waiting for me at the airport, is considered generous.

 

We are buzzed in and I get my key from the guard after confirming my name, stumble into an elevator that I learn later is in the running for the slowest in the Western Hemisphere, which takes me to the 13th floor. There I unlock the front door, flush with the elevator shaft, and my suitcase and I find our room. I want nothing more than to collapse into bed, but first I fight with my laptop to try and send a "made it" message back home.

 

The internet simply won't cooperate, so I collapse onto the bed. Then I recoil. The stench of the linens is, shall we say, off putting, in marked contrast to the crispness of what appears to be a freshly made bed. Redolent of cat urine and something else. Had I not been so tired I would have declined to sleep in such a stink, but I'm so worn out I decide I can deal with it in the morning and sink into grateful unconsciousness.

 

 

 

I made it. I would get to spend 11 days in warm, welcoming Peru. Without children, without responsibilities. A malodorous bed for one night? Small price to pay for such fantastic novelty, such opportunity to nourish my traveler's soul.

A good start.

 

She dreamed of paradise...

Mike and I circled the airline gate like hungry sharks, checked and checked, yes, that was the one printed on our Peruvian Air tickets.  Yet it was distinctly marked as LAN Airline. With LAN uniformed staff and a sign that read Arequipa.  Not Lima. Okaaaaay, where was Peruvian Air? We widened our circle. No Peruvian Air representatives at any of the gates. Back to the gate. Asked the LAN staff about our flight. "That is a Peruvian Air flight," they intoned, "nothing to do with us. This is LAN. We do not know about Peruvian Air flights." 

There went the hope that perhaps the two airlines worked together, had merged or some such thing.

El crappo.

another stop sign for my photo collection

Feeling like an idiot, I asked if the clearly marked gate number was indeed the correct gate number. Si.

Well, it was worth a try.

Our flight was at 11:10 am, and it was already 10:45. Other travelers were doing the same uncertainty dance that we were. This is similar to the potty dance, but with a different sort of urgency and accompanying embarrassment factor. So we asked them, "are you supposed to take flight 217 to Lima?" Yes, yes they were. Yes, they'd been told this gate as well. No, they couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

We heard one or two uncomplimentary opinions about how things are, or more aptly are not, organized in South America.

 

bananas.

As we have a history of screwing up flights, and our flight home to the USA was out of Lima at 9:40 in the evening, we were getting squirrelly.  At a loss, I tried to read a book,  then started compulsively photographing things in the overpriced gift shop. Silver free-form alpaca sculptures. Shot glasses. Stupid T-shirts.

Everyone who was sitting calmly looked like a Peruvian. Everyone who was squirming or gesturing madly or stalking around with the whites of their eyes showing, was generally shouldering a backpack and somewhat paler than the local population.

The LAN plane left. The staff packed up their things and left.

We looked at each other, slightly numb. Now what?

Then, miracle of miracles, Peruvian Air staff materialised out of, well, thin Peruvian air and put up a large sort of sandwich board for Vuelo (flight)  0217 LIMA.

Baby, baby, that's our plane! They covered the LAN logo with a Peruvian Air one just as said plane rolled up, large as life, just outside.

Small airport, shared gates. Now it made sense. Why hadn't the LAN people hadn't said so? It was plain we weren't the only neurotic tourists. They must get the same questions over and over again from the same confused gringos. Was this some sort of previously unnoticed Peruvian talent for sadistic, systematic torturing of tourists? If it was, well, it was probably earned by those who came before us, fair enough.

But no matter. We all piled on, gringos and Peruvians alike, de nada, de nada, soared back over the stunningly white Andes and an hour later were back on the ground in Lima.

Back to the Barranco District of Lima, the rush and noise of the city, back to the rest of our luggage, safely stowed with our friends. We had time to repack, position our suitcases by the front door, and go out into the warm Pacific air with April and Royce to catch one of the local buses to dinner. There we'd meet more friends, who all wanted to say "good-bye for now."

The local bus, with its hawker calling out the rates, swayed and jolted along through Lima's endlessly honking, pollution-spewing traffic, while we hung on and grinned at each other and tried to shout over the roar about which cross street the restaurant might be on, and felt perfectly happy.

There isn't much else to tell. The sun went down, and we flew back home to the USA. It felt like taking a decontamination shower. Everything was a little more sterile, a little more predictable, less colorful.

We had one more travel moment, at US customs. We had wondered, was it truly OK to bring back the ground chocolate bean paste, still snugly wrapped in plastic and tucked into a boot? (Not one of the ones that suffered through the hideous bathroom in Cusco, by the way.)

While Mike was retrieving the last of our luggage from the usual rotating belt, the drug sniffing dog came over to where I was waiting, canine-snuffling over the rest of our gear... and sat happily down next to it. I gave it the eye. Go away, I thought at it fiercely. Go away.

It did no such thing. The handler at the other end of the leash smiled nicely and asked a couple of friendly questions. Where were we coming in from? (oh great, I thought.) Peru.

And did we have any food in our luggage, a sandwich, perhaps? Or some fruit?

No, no sandwiches. Chocolate and coffee, though, oh, and prepackaged pepper paste, I answered honestly.

"Ah," he said, "well, great, have a nice day," and he and the dog walked happily away, the dog looking in no way concerned about anything.

Long, deep breath.

Two little kids waiting at SeaTac, threw themselves at us, wrapped limpet arms tightly around and asked if we'd had a good time. Yes, we told them, yes we did.

We'd gotten lost, found ourselves again, eaten guinea pig and alpaca and roasted our own chocolate beans, discovered altitude sickness and coca teas, gazed at a 122 foot Jesus, arms stretched out over the slums of Chorrillos, danced in Cusco, the Incas' "navel of the world," seen spiders as big as your hand, glittering like jewels in the thick air of the Amazon jungle, climbed ancient stones in the highlands lack of oxygen of Machu Picchu,

drunk wine and laughed with old friends and new friends and complete strangers we'd never see again.

So we went back to our little house in the Pacific Northwest, waiting placidly in the woods for us, and tried not to dream of Sopa de criolla, or of rioting color and sound, to dream only in English, without Spanish, not to dream of the powerful Pacific in her other guise, warm waters instead of breathtakingly cold.