There is always something. Today a full Coke can is tossed to the floor, it's 12 ounces of sticky liquid sliding back and forth on the floor, determined to make my life hell, to get on my shoes and bag.
This return to South America is a reversal of my last trip, when I was leaving in mid-December's bone-chilling cold and arriving in the middle of summer in Buenos Aires, shedding all the clothes I could once on the ground. This time I was leaving the warmth of the northern hemisphere summer with the entire US Ski Team (apparently all booked on my flight) on route to Santiago de Chile. It's black outside for the entire eight hours from Atlanta south. It's not a real feeling of arrival. When the sun comes up we are over the Pacific Ocean just off the coast of Chile.
Touchdown. Modern efficiency. I'm not against the moral of visa reciprocity fees that have to be paid by United States citizens traveling, but financially I could do without the $131 that Chile demands from us upon entry. It's cold and rainy. I'm not prepared for this weather, and start shivering as I wait for Pablo. It has only been nine months since I saw him last, but it is wonderful to see him again. We spend a lot of time this first day doing his pre-wedding errands: tailoring, dry cleaning, banking, notarizing. It all gets done before we are off to his parents for lunch. It's very nice to be back in this same house that I was in for Christmas last year. I am greeted warmly again, immediately offered anything I need, and very happy to be in the company of this family. Our lunch brings back the “Loco” that we ate during Christmas, which is a nickname in Chile and Perú for the abalone. This time it is a prepared in a delicious cheese soup. My Spanish is decidedly better than last winter, plus I am able to practice more and insist we converse only in Spanish since I do not have to translate for Kanako the whole time. I already miss her though, it was very nice to share Chile together last time.
After lunch I am falling asleep on the sofa, the sleepless travel night catching up with me. After some time Pablo and I leave, pick up the cleaned and pressed wedding shirt and head home. I try to stay awake as long as possible, but at 9pm I am sleeping, and continue to do so for a good 12 hours more.
Wedding day. Pablo wakes at 11am and neither of us commits to much on this lazy day. Some U.S. Open on TV, some fútbol. We walk for an empanada to cure our lunch hunger. He is still in his pajamas two hours before we are supposed to be at the church for the start of the wedding. Hurricane Hannah has my mind preoccupied with faraway basement floods in Brooklyn, but thankfully Melissa is a lifesaver by easing my mind that all is well.
Pablo is definitely a no-frills kind of guy, and I love that about him. He is simple, easily happy, and always kind and thinking of others first. I am grateful that I get to be the person spending the day of his wedding with him.
And of course, as if on cue, after a day of laying around doing absolutely nothing, we are now rushed to get ready and get to the church. Pablo attempts to get his tie right five times and is now worried about timing the whole ride to his parents, who are equally a mixture of excitement and anxiety when we arrive. A quick car change, and off to the church.
I am quickly thrust into the world of more solitude for the first time since arriving. Pablo obviously has things to do, his parents are busy greeting all the people arriving, and all the brothers and sisters are preparing the music. The church, like everywhere else, is freezing. I am chilled to the bone, my hands are ice. I'm disappointed in myself that the priest is mostly incomprehensible, but I have heard it all before. The best part of the ceremony is by far the music. The Schuster clan is a very talented bunch. I'm looking forward to buying his sister Maria Paz's album when she gets famous, her voice fills the church like a star.
I help the group transport all the instruments back home after the wedding, and then we race through the Santiago evening to the party, which seems to be in full swing when I arrive, appetizers already on tables and live music playing. I feel a bit awkward at my table, I know only Tomas, and am probably too shy not to introduce myself to the rest. For a while I eat appetizers as they come and try to follow conversations. After a bit I am at least talking to the couple next to me, who are very nice and patient to continue in Spanish since the girl doesn't speak any English.
After dinner, the tables are cleared and the dreaded dancing begins. I do quite a bit of sitting alone for a while. At the wedding there are so many people though, so it avoids any feeling of awkwardness. At some point, Francisca's brother pulls me over and invites me to his table with some others. Not very long after, his cousin is introduced and we are matched up since she is also there alone. The first foray onto the dance floor is not a disaster. Chilean men do not seem so talented at dancing, so I just try to blend in. She is beautiful, in a sexy dress, and seems to be enjoying herself enough to smile and give me looks that suggest I should be getting closer. It all makes me feel very awkward though, and I try to talk as we dance. She gives shorter answers than my questions, and we last only three songs.
After some more sitting and watching, the best part of the evening starts around 2am with my introduction to Francisca's friend, María. I had been watching her and her amazing smile earlier in the night, but suddenly she was a real person, having things to say, and seemingly very happy to be next to me. And so it was, the next four hours together, talking, dancing, laughing. The dancing got closer, and sometimes slower. Yeah, there was the ex-boyfriend, but in the end it only become something she needed me as a friend even more for, as I was prepared with my Delta Airlines napkin to be used as a tissue.
So here I was with a woman whom I had absolutely no chance of being with after tonight, and possibly would never see again in my life. Is that why it seemed so good? There was the obvious attraction and connection, but sometimes I cannot quite understand myself always going for the impossible.
After a lot of wine during dinner and a few piscolas while dancing, the addition of this amazing girl that did not seem bothered by my two left feet was enough to have me dancing more than anytime in the past. Most everything else faded to background, I focused on her hands in mine, found it incredible how confidently I could give her a hug after just meeting her hours ago. At the end of the night, as only 10 or 15 people remained, and the lights were finally turned out as the sun was coming up, I could sense neither of us wanted this time to come. The next day I would be traveling to the north of Chile and she would be leaving again for Spain. It made no sense to me, but saying goodbye was very difficult. I will not soon forget her hand holding mine until the last possible second.
The unfortunate part of this night is that if we were to ever meet again somewhere, I feel almost certain that it could never live up to our expectations.
On the ride home, five other people were crammed into our car, talking about the night, the coming day, the future. I was lost in my own world.
Eventually I woke up the next day and went with Pablo and Francisca to his parent's house for lunch. More good times, friendliness. Everyone was in a very good mood reflecting on the previous day. Later in the day it was shopping malls and commerce, in preparation for their big honeymoon trip to the Dominican Republic. However, I was looking forward the whole day to the big game, a World Cup qualifying match between Chile and Brazil taking place in the Estadio Nacional.
When we arrived 30 minutes before the game, the stadium was already full and we were forced to sit in the aisles, like many others. The crowd was full of energy and hoping for a miracle. Flags were flying and chants were coming from all corners of the stadium. Fireworks shot out from each end. In the end though the enthusiasm was not enough to take down the dominant Brazilians, and despite a few very good scoring chances, the Chileans were defeated soundly 3-0.
Early the next morning I pack my rucksack and head to the bus terminal. It's going to be 22 hours in a bus headed north, and the ride gets off to a less than stellar start. The bus is old, and not very comfortable. My seat sucks and my legs will be cramped for almost a day. I decide not to care though.
My neighbor offers me one of his earphones when he puts his music on, which I find to be an amazing gesture of kindness. I realize I would never be so generous as to do such a thing. I cannot figure if it is an offer he knows I will refuse or really wanted to share. Either way, it is fascinating. Later I have deja vu while passing a gas station to drop a passenger off. For eight hours the journey is the same as the one Kanako and I took in December to enjoy the night skies of Vicuña through the famous telescopes at the Mamalluca Observatory. After only four hours I am ready to be done with this ride, and I am not sure if I will sleep tonight.
Once we set off north from La Sereña, I am in uncharted territory and have my first feeling of travel adventure on this trip. It feels good, and my spirit lifts. After almost 500 kilometers from Santiago, the expressway abruptly ended, and would remain this two-lane highway for the rest of journey, and on another 1700 kilometers to the frontier with Peru. The surrounding landscapes, with the Pacific coast always somewhere close, was littered with enormous boulders and dry scrub brushes, the grass blooming with a brilliant white flower. The foothills of the Andes are always present opposite the ocean. At one point the road climbs sharply and immediately we are plunged into fog that limits visibility intermediately between 50 and 100 meters. I cannot see the bottom of the cliff that falls off one side of the road. It is starting to remind me of San Francisco fog when in true Bay Area style the sun suddenly starts to burn through it and we quickly emerge back into blue skies. As the landscapes become a redundant rugged desert, the sun sets and I see nothing except what the headlights illuminate.
Between rounds of fitful sleeping, I am able to enjoy the famous northern Chilean night skies even through the tinted windows of the bus. I am half wishing for a breakdown so that we can all empty out into this black void in the middle of nowhere.
As the sun comes up, we roll into the medium-size city of Calama, in the middle of the Atacama desert, where I will meet my next host, also named Pablo. The bus is early and I wait in the early morning chill with stray dogs as my company. The sun peaks above the houses and provides some relief. Pablo finally comes and we walk to his home together where I am warmly greeted by his mother, thawed by a nice warm shower, and sat down at the table for breakfast. I can sense that time will pass slowly here because I am now the center of their attention. And there is a lot of time to kill.
Pablo and I go to the center where I exchange some money and buy bus tickets for San Pedro de Atacama and Arica, a day trip and my next destination in Chile, respectively. He shows me around the town and I am fascinated by how small everything is for a city so bold on the map. We get to talking about life and dreams and I am amazed constantly how different the world can be and think. He wants to travel but never has in his 32 years left Chile. No opportunity? No money? No motivation? I cannot imagine ever not having the desire to be in different places. It is what he knows though, and no more.
Back for lunch, a walk to a park that is closed for no apparent reason, and more aimless wandering with nothing to see. The park is described as the “Central Park” of Calama. I grin. We take a taxi to the mall, which could be mistaken as any suburban mall in the United States. Jeans shopping, home for a light dinner, and I am ready to be alone. Thankfully it is late enough to excuse myself to my room for reading and writing.
The sidewalks of Calama are disintegrating. Fabricated decades ago, it has been up to nature, humans, and the extraordinary number of roaming dogs to decide their fate. In places they have completely crumbled and been reclaimed by the desert. As I board the bus to San Pedro, I feel like I am escaping. I do not like this feeling, considering how kind they are to me, but I cannot change it. Alone for 12 hours to refuel.
There is nothing living between Calama and San Pedro de Atacama. The only signs of life in this desert are where humans have made tracks, pushed around dirt, or littered. A broken down bus can be spotted here or there, sitting solitary for who knows how long.
Upon arrival, I pass the late morning in the main square after buying tickets for the Valle de la Luna tour and my bus back to Calama. I am not bothered here like in other towns based on tourism. No one has tried to sell me anything, or even asked me to look closer at their merchandise. No grubby kids have pulled on my shirt begging for coins. I sense it is the off-season, but wonder where this side of tourism is here in San Pedro. The sun and air are so crisp that it is easy to forget everything. I enjoy reading in the square, as people pass by unhurried, equal parts local and tourist. Traditional music blares over the square from the municipal building, all part of the image. It fights for superiority with the cement mixer on the opposite side. A relaxed life without urgency seems romantic in theory, but I think would soon drive me crazy. With an hour more to kill, I walk and happen upon a cemetery with simple wooden crosses and mounds of dirt over the shallow buried bodies. The smaller mounds bring upon intense sadness as their size is an obvious indicator of the age of the dead. I find a great canopy to eat a couple oranges and enjoy the peaceful environment of the cemetery, which is completely deserted at this the hottest point of the day.
On the tour, nothing is out of the ordinary. We see wonderful, beautiful things. As always, I feel stupid as part of a group. No one is very talkative. It's good physical exercise though, and I usually find my own space to enjoy the scenery and nature, all the fresh air and clear skies. The sunset, as the brochures probably say, is pretty amazing, and goes through the entire spectrum of color reflecting off the Andes mountains to the East.
In the darkness, my bus takes me back to Calama, where everyone is waiting for me. After a meal prepared especially for me (steak and fries?), my head hits the pillow and I am gone.
I try to stay in bed the next morning as long as possible. I know they are downstairs waiting for my arrival.
Today we go to the copper mines of Chiquicamata, which until recently was the largest production copper mine in the world. I am glad that I suggest Pablo's sister Carolina comes with us, because it makes things easier. Her and Pablo do most of the talking and I can relax into my own world for most of the day. The mine is interesting enough, for a free tour. Lots of ridiculously large trucks to take pictures next to. I'm getting tired of the desert dust.
A whole town exists inside the barbwire fences. Houses, parks, a school and church. It's not used any longer as a town, as all the miners are bused in from Calama, but it retains the look of its well-used past. The mine is set for expansion and soon it will be bulldozed and/or covered with the rubble. Life as a miner is not easy no matter where it is or what is being mined, whether the government gives you a home to live in or not.
Eventually, my goodbyes in Calama are rough because they are so generous and all that I can offer is a thank you. Truly amazing people, who three days prior did not know me, but now would do anything for me.
Back in transit. I am fading in and out all night because time seems to go by fairly quickly. I had not realized this trip would be so full of desert. When I wake periodically the reflection of the headlights makes the roadside dirt banks look like drifts of snow. There is even what appears to be a sandstorm, through which I have no idea how the driver can continue so rapidly with any confidence. The sun rises but a desert haze lies over Arica, so I decide to move on to Perú. Two cafés con leche and into a colectivo, which is just someone's car that six people are crammed into. On the way out of the city we pass numerous billboards and stone fences painted with the exact logo of Barack Obama, but with an unfamiliar candidate next to it, a Chilean running for local office, but I guess they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. An hour and two hassle-free customs rooms later we arrive in Tacna, the first city in Perú.
The kid gets me for 15 soles at the bus terminal. 25 paid for a 10 sol ticket. In return I get to use the bathroom and he takes me to the bus. I figure I am paying a price, but am not annoyed until I see the ticket and what it is. It only amounts to $5, but I'm angry at Perú now. It's really my fault though, he was very kind. We are still in the desert for the entire two hour ride to Moquegua. Customs officials stop the bus a couple times, and I am stunned by how much more of a police state I am now in. The drivers even take photos of everyone before the bus leaves. I later learn this is not so much for security, but to identify the passengers in case anything happens.
When I get off the bus, I am slightly overwhelmed, but soon I start to take in Perú and immediately begin to enjoy myself more. It's hot and I am searching for the cheapest hotel, doing some circles, but ultimately happy. The final price of the hotel makes me even more so, and I am calm. Music draws me to the town square, where I find some traditional dancing. I am alive again as a traveler as I watch the teenagers having fun reenacting traditions and the crowd cheering them on. Exhausted later back at the hotel, the Friday night around me is anything but slowing down. I hear the band, many conversations, and a general cacophony that might make sleeping difficult.
In the morning, the cacophony is now animals. I hear roosters and dogs mostly, but also people and cars. A truck passes blaring music at 5:30am. There seems to be other music coming from somewhere in the distance. I am ready to leave the hotel by 6:30am, but the owner has not opened the gate yet and I do not feel like making a ruckus to wake him. All rooms here open to a central courtyard, which seemingly opens to the rest of the city. Footsteps, water falling from a shower, the traffic in front all seems to be within the confines of the courtyard when heard from my room.
The “Moqueguano” breakfast at a nearby restaurant consists of a thin steak fried and accompanied with a half avocado, a small hunk of goat cheese, a piece of bread shaped like a starfish, and cups of coffee and juice.
High above Moquegua is a similar Christ statue as the one in Santiago, looking over the valley. If a few of the people had not used yellow or white or blue paint on their homes, you might miss the town altogether which for the most part has the color of the surrounding desert mountains. Nobody really visits this intricately landscaped and maintained park above the city though apparently, only a single schoolgirl is at the statue when I arrive, but even she is gone after five minutes.
At night is when the street vendors take over the street, as in any credible place. I have tonight learned that what looks like chicken is not always chicken, and more importantly does not always taste like chicken. I could have sworn she said “mole,” which did not make sense either, but at least sounded safe. Muscles maybe?
The kids here love cotton candy, and 7 year old strangers are even feeding each other as I sit here in the Plaza de Armas. Eating my mystery meat and watching the kids, a tall foreigner and her Peruvian friend come to me and suddenly I have friends. After talking and walking a bit, the three of us agree to meet back up later to go out dancing. Not my first choice of course, but it comes with the territory and after all my “success” in Chile, I am more prepared than ever to embarrass myself. I am racing to get ready, am entirely too early. The hotel owner is drunk, and wishes me well.
While waiting back in the plaza, a newly married couple comes from the wedding to take photos. The man in military uniform, the woman in standard white pureness. They do not look at all happy as the circle the plaza and pose for the cameraman, who is using a point and shoot digital and cheap hand held video. Not one smile though? Maria, the Peruvian, comes first, only 15 minutes late. Then I see Cécile 15 minutes later from afar, gracefully striding into the plaza. From here, it is off to the disco. Free entrance, and beer is cheap. Dancing, sitting, embarrassment, but everyone treats me very warmly. Cécile and I leave together after a few hours and return so that I can pointlessly knock on the hotel doors while the drunk owner is fast asleep from his intoxication without a chance of waking.
After burning most of the next day sleeping and reading in my hotel, I am picked up in the evening for dinner. First to the market, which is thoroughly uninspiring but suits its purpose I suppose. Now all of the ingredients are ready for Cécile to prepare a German feast for her Peruvian friends. Maria (a second one) and her parents are full of joy and jokes, which makes it easier to relax as we all find out that cooking an authentic German dinner is a little tougher than you would think in a relatively small Peruvian town. After two hours, we feast.
The next afternoon I am sitting in the plaza again with nothing to do except sit next to an old man dripping ice cream on his pants. He drifts off into sleep with ice cream still melting down his wrinkled, sun-darkened skin. A short trip later to Torata passes the time and affords a few good photos. This small pueblo is 10 times sleepier than Moquegua, and in a state of disrepair. The people are very friendly though, and seem delighted to have a foreign presence in town. Just the short trips back and forth make the journey worth it, as it is always fun to be on the go. The wait for my bus to Lima is not fun, as each minute cannot seem to tick by fast enough. I am relieved when the bus finally pulls away, which happens to be the most spacious ride I have had. I sleep fairly well on this night journey.
Suddenly Lima comes. With it arrives a different climate as a haze hangs over the city, and for the first time since Santiago I do not see the sun. It makes the poverty that lines the highway even more depressing, as everything outside the bus looks cold and damp. It is early morning and everyone is out and on their way to work. As they make their way to the bus stops, they are smartly dressed, but stepping over piles of garbage and stray dogs, while preparing to cram themselves into the microbuses stuffed to double capacity. Gawkers line both sides of the highway to watch the aftermath of a wreck. We are fighting the morning rush hour for at least an hour. Then I am in the hands of a taxi driver to battle even more traffic and deliver me to Mayte. He is a nice guy though and enjoys talking to me about New York and Perú during our journey together.
At Mayte's, I am suddenly in the land of Couchsurfing, as her guests include a South African, a Taiwanese, a Brazilian, and another American. Two of them are immediately leaving for a bus trip to Cusco, and another takes off to buy some things for his trip. I go with Mayte and César, the Brazilian, around the corner for lunch. I like the idea of the “menu” plan here, a fixed cost for three courses consisting of a drink, appetizer, and main. Unfortunately the two I have had until now have had less than fabulous results.
The night brings the commercial, upscale side of Lima, as I accompany Mayte shopping with her friends Luz and Fabiola. We eat in the food court, where I dine on the “typical” Peruvian fast food sandwich at Pasquale Hermanos. The chicharon sandwich and all kinds of basically tasteless sauces are decent enough, and the girls go for seconds.
Traffic and driving in Lima is a dance that has many partners. The streets are filled with cars, trucks, microbuses, motorcycles, bicycles, taxis, people, food carts, dogs, rubbish, gaping holes, and anything else one could imagine. For every lane painted on the ground, there are two lanes in the reality that is Lima. Every space is fought for, and if a small place exists you can almost guarantee the vehicle behind will find its way into it. No one is driving leisurely. This is a competition, but interestingly no one seems to be winning as almost every vehicle is battle scarred and bruised. The taxis especially show the record of many lost battles, and getting into one is always a test of confidence. The streets are choked with fumes and the windows are always down. On your mark, get set, GO!
The bus system in Lima is extensive, crowded, totally private, and completely hectic. In the span of a few days there is no way to grasp more than what a few of the routes accomplish, but I start to feel that even residents have a tough time, and are still figuring out its intricacies. Time after time people are asking the money collector about destinations, and even having to get off the wrong bus on more than a few occasions. “Arequipa! Arequipa! Todo Arequipa, Tacna!” Today on the bus I head to the old center of Lima with Mayte and César, and we meet another friend Andres for lunch. Afterwards I have some time for myself, and I spend a lot of time watching the people of the city. I wonder what a Peruvian sees when they look at me. I am obviously not quite Latin looking, but not pale enough for northern European status. Not fat like an American. I get quite a few double takes, but in the end people can always tell. In Lima, a cosmopolitan city, I can blend in better than in smaller towns, which always makes traveling a little simpler. Luz joins the three of us again for an amazingly scary taxi ride home. Mayte is leaving for the weekend and I am off with Luz to her house to stay. Miraflores is a fairly affluent suburb where she lives, and looks like a great place to walk around. I look forward to roaming tomorrow.
In all of Lima there is no sign of the tumultuous civil wars that took place in the 80's and 90's. People go about their business now without these thoughts, although quick conversations with people older than myself reveal that the scars are still fresh. My generation and those younger are occupied by different realities though, eager to earn their degrees, shop, and enjoy life, eating at McDonalds and wearing European designer clothing.
The next morning I am treated to Limeño hospitality in all its grace. As soon as Luz's mother hears me stirring, she comes to bring me fresh jugo de piña and take my order for coffee or tea. A couple minutes later bread, marmalade, and a selection of fruits arrive, and soon after, my coffee. At one point, after more coffee was brought without request, a curious battle commenced where she would almost not let me continue to drink without adding sugar, putting the dish in front of me twice, exclaiming how much better it was with sugar. I could only smile and shuffle the spoon so that it later looked like I had succumbed to her wishes. When I suggested that I could wash everything, the dishes were wrestled from me immediately.
I spend part of my day at Huaca Pucllana, a pre-Inca ruin that still stands partially in the center of Miraflores district. The city is busy working on its restoration, but still tour groups stream through the complex for a 45-minute explanation. The main pyramid is 23 meters high, not steep, and is constructed in a formation resembling terraces. The surrounding ceremonial rooms and plazas are more interesting if only for their stories of virgin sacrifice and daily ritual. A casual stroll through the rest of Miraflores rewards me most at the Parque del Amor, where nice views of the Pacific cliffs and para sailing overhead help offset the chilly sea breezes and fog that grip the afternoon. Afterwards I meet Luz for my first Peruvian ceviche which does not disappoint.
After breakfast the next morning, Luz, her mother, and I make way for the neighborhood of La Victoria, and specifically the street markets that are apparently here daily. Luz needs underwear and I enjoy watching the hustle and bustle, especially the people preparing and selling foods. Normal noodle and rice dishes are prepared next to more extravagant and less ordinary foods, such as the women hard-boiling and steaming some type of small bird eggs. Her customers always take one tiny bite before deciding what salts and spices they want to add to their oder of six or eight of the eggs. A lot of money is changing hands on these streets, each bill checked and double-checked by its recipient for authenticity. Seeing this over and over again in Perú makes me think counterfeiting must be big business. Kids scramble to help their parents, disappearing to unknown locations to fetch things or change large bills.
After briefly visiting Luz's hospital, we eat a gigantic portion of arroz con pollo served with an excellent aji, or spicy sauce. This location is by far the best “menu” meal I have had so far.
I am feeling very close to Luz now, but wishing that I could speak more intelligently than my Spanish allows. We get along quite well despite this barrier and I sort of feel like she could be the younger sister I always wanted.
My first taste of anticuchos and picarones comes before our visit to the fountain and light show. Before we can sit down though, there is a fight to get us to eat in each particular section. Different proprietors physically block our way, shouting and pointing at the menus, which each exclaims the most delicious food. For eight soles (less than $3), an order including both is prepared nearby. Anticuchos (the Quechua word for “cut stew meat”), are three pieces of beef heart per stick, a hunk of corn on the cob, and a couple pieces of fried potato. It is enough to fill a reasonable person on its own, but tonight I am not meant to be reasonable, as Luz and her mom only eat their own portions of picarones and make me feel like a pig. Two beautiful aji salsas are wonderfully spicy. The meat is tender, very soft, and almost feels raw. It drips its marinade, in which it has obviously been sitting in for quite some time. The sweet plate is next, picarones are like donuts almost, but made of squash and sweet potato, and covered in a type of syrup. These are eaten with the hands, and the chewy dough is a perfect texture and hits the spot.
Later, it is another night of dancing. We leave after 11 with two of Luz's close friends, Marilyn and Joe, walk in and out of three places before deciding on the right one. Her friends are obviously prodding us to hook up despite repeated claims to be joking. I am getting less self-conscious on the dance floor, probably no better technically, but without the shyness making my lack of skills thoroughly obvious. Luz is the best partner I have ever had. She obviously loves dancing and wants to have a skilled partner, but is patient with me and leads the two of us. Every once in a while I fall into the right rhythm and have 30 seconds or a minute of briefly being in sync. It really makes me want to learn and have a better time. The sister feeling seems to be wearing off as the night goes on and more alcohol is consumed. We dance close, our legs intertwine at the table, and it all seems unnaturally easy. With her it is possible to feel good in any situation I find. Once again we are around until the lights are turned out and the music stops, and we make our way home full of smiles.
The next day I try to stay out of the hair of Luz and her mom, so that they do not feel like they have to take care of me, and go on a massive walk through Lima. My first destination is the Museo de la Nacion, and I hang out longer in the friendly plaza outside than in the galleries inside. It is Sunday, and I find that most bakeries and simple eateries are closed, so I walk into a supermarket to gather items for a lunch, but find the aisles packed with free samples and decide to morsel my way through hunger.
After 15 kilometers of walking and wandering, I head back home for dinner, which includes the delicious appetizer causa, which is a potato-based casserole dish, which can be made with different types of meats, mixed with lemon, chile, oil, and onions. It is served cold, and this version was made with chicken. Luz later takes me to the neighborhood of Barranco to have a look around, go to the Mirador, and drink pisco sours. After strolling the streets and enjoying the darkness of the Pacific Ocean, we pass two hours on the terrace of an expensive tourist restaurant drinking a couple different pisco sours, enjoying the evening, and hopefully each other. Tonight I feel good about where my Spanish has progressed to and we talk about the world, where I have been and where she is anxious to explore. With the sounds of the sea waves and a couple stars peeking through the Lima fog, it is the perfect ending to a perfect five days here. I look forward to welcoming Luz to New York someday so that I can return this amazing favor to her.
On my way to the airport I need to shield myself from the sounds of Lima with headphones and music, and fight the emotions that tell me to ask the taxi driver to turn around and take me back. Standing with my bags in line at the airport there is no stronger feeling of deflation. 10 hours later as my second plane taxis to the runway in Atlanta for takeoff to find New York and real life, the only thing I can write in my notepad is that I miss Luz.
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