I guess the drugs are working?

This afternoon, I feel asleep on the couch watching TV coverage of the Calabasas fires. I awoke with a start, shitting and cursing and realizing that I was late for my tutoring session at six. Then I woke up from THAT, when Abbey and Miriam walked in the door jiggling their keys and laughing about how I fell asleep on the couch. I heard them through my slumber, woke up, and relayed to them how I thought I was late for tutoring but it turned out my waking up late was just a dream. Then I woke up from THAT, to an empty apartment, and an alarm clock set for tutoring that had not yet gone off.

google? classmates? I am four days late!

So far I have uncovered the following interesting tidbits:

• Margarita has several relatives in jail. They were in the Chinese Mafia.
• Sasha's brother got married last December. She was a bridesmaid. Her husband was an usher. Her husband is also the guitarist for the punk-rock band H20.
• Sophie "loves to help" and started many fundraisers in high school. Her roommate from college is engaged.
• Emily graduated Phi Beta Kappa. She may have done shot-put in high school.
• Jesenia's parents were both laid-off right before their ten-year pensions would kick in. She hates NAFTA. She sings ranchera music, publically, and has submitted poems and articles to many publications.
  
• Jalina did the Revlon Run/Walk.
• Nicholas donates to the uclafund, and used to have long hair. He was part of CircleK and Project Literacy at UCLA. He was an RA for two years, but I already knew that.
  

Inner City Arts

If you had asked me yesterday morning if I thought I would end up waddling around a dance studio pretending I was an alien suffering through an earthquake with twenty of my classmates and three teachers, I would have answered no, definitely not.

all the males are in poli sci

I don't know what I was thinking, when I thought I could waltz into the TEP orientation and meet my beautiful, six-foot, future Jewish husband. I forgot that all the males were in poli sci.

new friends!

I love my two new TEP friends, Sasha and Sophie. We spent all day together, driving around East LA and visiting the Inner City Arts Center, Gates School, and the carnitos taco place. We are hilarious. We are the three tiniest girls (and pretty, sorry I just have to say it) in our class. And we are the only Jews. I SWEAR I DIDN'T PLAN THIS. I was instantly drawn to both of these girls, maybe because their size, maybe because they have pretty faces, maybe because their names both start with S.

ANGRY

I am ANGRY. I am HURT. I am CONFUSED. I am FILLED WITH DOUBTS.

I was SO EXCITED to visit you, Wade, so excited. I couldn't wait to see our pictures, I couldn't wait to laugh about the stupid things that happneed, I couldn't wait to be greeted with a big hello and a bear hug like you always used to do. I thought and thought about the best time to come, for both of us, and for traffic. I rearranged my tutoring schedule. I got double ready in the morning, both for my first day of grad school and for my trek down to Irvine. When orientation was extremely boring, I thought, well at least I'm going to have a great evening with my good friend Wade.

When I spoke to you on the phone yesterday, we went over the schedule. When I left school today, I left you a message. When I got to Long Beach, we spoke. You were going on some errands with your dad, you said. You checked to see where I was and how the traffic was to gage your time. See you soon, you added cheerfully. But when I arrived at your house, no one was home. No one was home for another thirty minutes.

So it really sucked for me, that I had spent an hour and a half driving, that I'd rushed through LA to beat traffic, and then got to sit on your lawn for thirty minutes. No, I couldn't call you because I didn't get cell service at your house -- but it's not like you tried to call me. You said it was your dad's fault and he agreed -- he was with a client. I got a very lame apology and then not even a hello or hug until we were already settled in the kitchen with my bag down.

And then you ask your mom if we can help do anything for dinner. She is very hesitant to assign us anything. Maybe she's thinking that I just spent two hours in the car and want to catch us with my friend. I don't know, I'm just saying. You press on, asking several more times if there is anything to do. She finally relents. This is before you have asked me about my day, my school, my week, myself. We peel potatoes, and I relay my exciting orientation stories to you and your mother. SHE asks several questions. YOU peel potatoes.

Then we go upstairs to look at pictures. This was to be the only time all night that you showed me a glimmer of recognition that we had shared space in the past month.

After pictures was dinner. I think we made eye contact only once. OK, maybe twice. I'm pretty sure you didn't direct a single question my way. It felt like I was sharing a meal with the kind-hearted neighbors across the street, the ones who know my name, but little else.

I tried asking how you were, what you had been doing, but I got a terse response. It lacked adjectives and inflection. And then, you decide to give your parents a slide show of our trip. An activity that does not necessitate my presence. You tinker with the computer for a while, and I consider seriously returning to LA. Why was I there, Wade? Couldn't you see me standing next to you, in your house? Did you notice that I came to visit YOU?

The slide show eventually starts, and I get my awaited for acknowledgment in the form of, "Chime in anytime, Deeners." Oh, and then, "I'm going to the bathroom. Will you take over, Deens?" Words of friendship. They warm my heart.

As soon as the last picture is clicked, you announce you have to go to your next friend. She didn't want to drive all the way down, so you are meeting her halfway. I am thinking about how I drove on the 405 in rush-hour to get here, and how I have to get back in time to sleep for my seven am field trip tomorrow. Locking my keys in the car was not your fault. It just added insult to injury.

And then I finally asked you, what the fuck was up? I gave you all the excuses I could think of, a multiple choice of why you made ZERO effort to interact tonight:
a) You were worried about mom
b) You were stressed and didn't have time to see me
c) Overkill of me from trip
d) You wanted to spend all your time with family
For all these options, you could have let me know beforehand. "Sorry, Deens, I just can't do Monday night. I'm super busy just spending time with family and dealing with stuff -- I don't think it'll work this time. Can I mail you the pics?" Or how about, "I don't know, Deens, I already made plans with someone Monday night -- what about Tuesday?" Or even, "I'm feeling a little trip-ed out. I kinda just want to hang by myself. Is that cool?"

How come I can think of three responses, and you offered me NOTHING???? You give me an I-don't-know for the seven hours I wasted tonight. "I don't know, I'm sorry, you didn't do anything, I don't know. I don't really want to be home now. I'm sorry it went like this tonight, I'm sorry you feel that way."

I'm sorry I feel this way, too, Wade, that you made me not want to be your friend anymore.

parades

from the Lonely Planet postcard section:

We've just got back from Peru... one additional thing which you might like to include is the Sunday parade. When we were in Cusco, although it apparently happens in all major towns/cities every Sunday, there was a big parade organized by the Army. It includes a flag raising ceremony, a military band, the national anthem and lots of local groups marching past, although on this occasion there didn't appear to be any church involvement. The police and army head the whole thing, but when we saw it it also included local schools, communities and businesses. Particularly memorable was the El Zorro delivery firm whose march past included a masked man on a black horse and all the employees dressed in black. The whole thing started at 10am and finished around 11:30. Apparently it started a couple of years ago at the instigation of the government to try and increase nationalism among the populace!
Neil Watson, (May 02)

no response

"I think sweaty hands is one of your strengths. Self-lubricating hand-jobs."

transition

For some reason, the transition back to Real Life has been really hard. I know, for starters, that having a guaranteed person to hear my every thought any hour of the day, and then having that person taken away, that is the hardest thing. And on top of that, that I also got to sleep and cuddle with him, and now go to bed alone. And I guess the biggest thing is that my life is in transition right now. School doesn't begin until Monday, and just like all summer, I don't have much to do. While Abbey is at her ortho job, and Miriam is going nuts at school, and Tova is studying, and Sierra is in the valley with the bf, and The Jew Crew are all at work, I'm still at home watching DVDs and cooking and eating and a tiny bit tutoring and cleaning and otherwise trying to occupy my mind so I don't get sad about my adventure being over.

I look forward to Monday with anxiety and excitement. I'm really nervous about meeting new people, or not being able to meet new people, or meeting the wrong new people. Talking to Courtney aka Mrs Orientation helped, especially when she pointed out Oooh! Games! And Jayita and the rest of the girls assured me that I am friendly and likable and of course will have no trouble meeting new people. It's just hard, though.

The things that keep making me sad I can't figure out. I just emptied my pack, and was zipping it up and putting all the straps away, but tearing off the airline tag was like tugging at my heart. But I had this URGE to take the tags off. Like if I didn't, the next time I took out my pack and saw the tags, I would remember the loneliness once the trip ended. The same way I had to put my pack away, out of sight. That was really hard, because it was like I was putting my trip away, putting away the adventure and companion feeling. At the same time, I couldn't hide it fast enough, because each time I see it on my floor I get sad that I'm not traveling with Wade anymore. And then I was looking at my cell phone bill from August/September, how it ends at August thirty first, even though my billing period extends a week past that, and for some reason, seeing that abrupt end didn't feel good. I'm caught in between nostalgia and moving on. I'm frozen with anxiety.

I need to find myself a best friend. One who won't suddenly find a new girlfriend, or abruptly stop returning my phone calls forever, or one who won't move away. Someone who wants to hear my every thought -- because that's what I do, I'm incapable of keeping things to myself -- and who has stuff to say as well. Someone to make me laugh, and someone to go on spur-of-the-moment crusades with. Someone positive, someone with a free spirit. It would be a plus if I also got to cuddle and kiss this best friend, or if he looked like Orlando Bloom, but a best girlfriend would be wholly welcome, too. Even more welcome if she came with great clothes and TiVo.

traveling

Not everyone is a traveler. Travelers are a special breed. They look like normal people from the outside, but when you get real close, there is a gleam in the eye, a want. Travelers are always wanting. More.

When you go into a bookstore, or read in the newspaper, or see in a movie a place so spectacular and different and alive that you think, TAKE ME THERE, you know you have the bug. It is only a matter of time before you switch your schedule and your life to make time for a this new adventure. Secretly you do research on this new destination, buying guide books, watching PBS, brushing up on your high-school Spanish. You become your new country, memorizing facts and lists and customs and dangers. You make a decision, quite suddenly. Jobs may be quit, apartments may be rent out, relationships may be put on hold. Traveling items are bought, very small and not too heavy. Money is counted carefully.

The first day is always, See this! Taste this! Smell this!, as if your life thus far has been incomplete without such stimulation. Everything is new and exciting. Everything shines. Everything sings. Everything must be touched. You tire yourself out, that first day, trying to cram a whole country into your mouth in one go. Tomorrow you will do it again, only slower, and with bargaining.

Eventually you get into the routine. Wake, dress, eat, do, eat, write, sleep. There is always something different to discover. There is the museum that houses the only collection it its entirety of something, the next city over with older buildings, the mountain out there with higher peaks. You cross off the pages in the guide books as you go along, as if this country is your to-do list. You invent new pages for the book, forge on through unexplored territory. You record your thoughts and feelings and tastes and textures, try to capture the days on paper and in email. You make jokes about things you don't understand. Your body adjusts to the constant movement.

There are fabrics, there are spices, there are markets, there are alleys. There are hats, and scarves, and fruits, and bugs, and animals walking around, not penned up in zoos. There are the locals, and then there are the children, and they wave or they stare or they offer you things to buy. Sometimes they ignore you because they aren't travelers, they don't care for new sensations. You keep going, keep eating and looking and taking pictures and memorizing scenes.

And when you meet other trekkers, the only language you share is travel. "Where are you going? Where have you been? What have you seen?" The conversation turns to timelines and prices, chief concerns of the wandering. You exchange advice, trade anecdotes, and wish each other good luck. Sometimes, if you have more than just your pack in common, you will share parts of your life -- "I'm a teacher, too!" "I also live in Minnesota!" "We just came from there as well - what did you think?" It feels good to have something in common in a place so far from home.

But even these new people will go on their own ways, and eventually, become another story from your trip, a memory like the city plaza, or the way locals say hello. You can't really collect friends when you are moving. People carry too much weight. Travelers need to pack light.

You're always ready to go home by the end. It's inevitable -- you pace yourself as you go along so that nothing feels too quick or too drawn out. By the end, you long to have a bed to sleep in for more than one night, a car to steer around familiar roads, a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwhich you prepare by yourself and eat sloooooowly sitting on the couch, watching TV. You are tired of being excited, tired of using a foreign language, tired of planning.

At the end of the trip, you marvel at your plasticity, your ability to adapt and accept this new lifestyle. For weeks, you've survived on strange foods, you've slept on scratchy sheets, you've ridden in swervy racecar taxis. You've gotten places through sheer energy and will. While this pride makes its way through your veins, your whole body simply desires to breathe in familiar air. At the end of the trip, you want to don non-traveler clothes and sit like a lump. You are done as a boiled egg.

But despite this mental exhaustion, you are already thinking about your next destination. Where can you go that is farther, cheaper, bigger? What countries can offer brighter colors, faster music, softer beaches? The world is so large, and you already have a backpack. You think about how you would fill it differently next time. Which clothes you will leave behind, what knowledge you will fold up tight and squeeze into your money belt.

That's what travelers do, they dream. Life is a big map, and they hope the future brings them more adventures. They dream of this past trip, of the next trip, potential great things.

As the plane takes off, if they are lucky, they will wake long enough to wave goodbye.

Lucky

I still can't believe how lucky we have been on this trip, because the good fortune just keeps on coming. We got to the airport without a hitch. We checked in without problems -- we both had seats, our vegie meals were there, the works. Although I couldn't check in and go upstairs with Wade and wait, it worked out fine, us waiting together until he had to go, and really, I don't see that as a stroke of bad luck. I had to wait three more hours for my plane anyways.

I found a store that sold English books, and one jumped out at me with the cover and titles. That's how I am about books. If they don't grab me from the start, from first glance, I won't bit. And this one, a true tale of a Muslim woman from the West Bank set afire for "disgracing" the family -- this one did the trick. It was just the right amount of money, too, and after paying I had exactly twenty Soles left, two paper bills that could be changed over to dollars. Money changers don't like coins, so I didn't want to leave with a chunk of change jingling in my pockets. Now all I have left is twenty centimes, a sum I am prepared to swallow.

With my purchase, I earned fifteen free minutes of internet of a nifty laptop set up in the store. Anna had written me back with her new digits, so I was able to address my final postcard from Peru. Although there is no post from the departure lounge, the kind girl at the register offered to send it for me with their mail.

And now I have another two hours to eat the bread and apple juice and chocolate I brought along, I have time to capture these last thoughts, and I have time to start my new book. Or perhaps the Vanity Fair magazine I nabbed last night.

So God has been good to us in South America, real good. We've been healthy, we've stayed friends (no small feat when in such close quarters), we've always found food and shelter, nothing was stolen from us, transportation was always easily had. Perhaps it is me being so optomistic, rose-colored glasses, what have you, that I choose to see everything as positive while ignoring those details that could have cast a negative light on our days. But I really feel that we were watched over these past three weeks, taken care of, and for that, I feel incredibly thankful and Lucky. Baruch Hashem, as they say in the 'hood, Broochashem.

PERU LAST DAY

We have our last lunch at the vegie place again. OBVIOUSLY I get Arroz de la Cubana. Wade is already sick of this dish and so he has another sandwhich. Sick of fried egg and fried banana and rice? What??? We've only had it for the past five days. In order to get REALLY sick of a dish, I need to eat it for two weeks. After Thailand, where I ate Pad Thai for lunch every day for a month, I couldn't go near noodles for about ten weeks. And then I could only stomach it a few times a year. Now I am back to normal, though, eating Thai about twice a month.

BACK TO PERU. We spent the afternoon walking sloooowly around the city, trying to figure out if there was anywhere we needed/wanted to go. We got some beads in one store (though not Peruvian in the slightest, they were super cheap), I interneted while Wade journaled and post-carded, and we wandered some more. We stepped into Metro, the ginormous supermarket, and bought some bread and chocolate for the plane. Wade bought some ugly, small Peruvian things to stuff into his friends' packs back at Outback. It's a thing they do, I don't know.

With six hours to go, we considered all the various means of getting to the airport that would take more time than a taxi: catching a bus, getting a collectivo, taking a taxi there and then back and then there again, walking.... At this point we thought we saw the president of Peru in his motorcade about to enter the Palace, and so we sat down on the steps of the Cathedral and waited. Nothing happened. The motorcade was just a group of fancy cars passing by. But we kept sitting and talked about our trip. It was really peaceful, sitting there with the cars going by, watching the pigeons circling the plaza, not having to mind our time. It was like wasting time, but in a really pleasant way.

Until this guy walks up to us and says he is practicing his English and would we mind if he sat down and talked to us for a while. Wade said OK, we had a bit of time before our plane took off. The Peruvian did most of the talking, asking us about American customs and American lingo, accents and proper grammar. I felt a bit intruded upon. It is one thing to walk up to a stranger in line for, say, some attraction, and talk to them about the attraction or their travels thus far. It's another thing to walk up to two people sitting in a public plaza in the middle of a conversation.

In any case, we finally excused ourselves to catch our plane, retrieved our luggage from the hostel, and caught a cab to the aeroporte.

Wade's plane leaves at nine-thirty. Mine leaves at one. Sadly, I was not able to check in until nine.

After Wade checks in, we sat upstairs not eating Pizza Hut or McDonalds (the first we had seen in this country) but instead munching on our Metro breads and chocolates, reminiscing about our trip. It was bittersweet. I was so ready to go home, so ready to fall into my own bed with my own sheets and my own blankets, but also sad to be leaving someone I shared every second with for the last three weeks.

We did goodbye at the airport tax booth.

As I walked downstairs, a small cry welled up inside me. I was caught by Hawaiin beekeeper Matt, who was returning home after seven months in Equador, Bolivia, and Peru. We talked for a while about this crazy country, until it was time for me to check in.

Operation Conterfeit Money

Today we wake up late. We don't have much to do, so why hurry? Actually, we don't have anything to do. In bed I think about how there is nothing left here that I haven't done, nothing to do one last time. I'm seriously done.

We take steaming hot showers and pack up our room. We deposit our bags at the front desk and buy several churros apiece across the street for breakfast. MMMM. GREASE.

Here's the thing about the counterfeit money: Apparently, I have some. Two days ago, I reached into my money belt for my next hundred bill, and it ripped on its way out. It is important that I was taking the bill out of my money belt. I only keep a hundred Soles in my wallet at any given time, and when that is close to running out, I take out a big bill from the belt and use that. When I last went to the ATM, all the hundreds I got I put directly into my money belt. When I pulled out the ripped bill, whoever I was paying got a shocked look on their face and refused to take it, as if it were cursed. So it stayed in my wallet until now, when we had a chance to go to the bank and switch it. (Two days ago, when it ripped, it was Sunday and the banks were closed. Yesterday the banks weren't open before our flight to Lima, and we just didn't get around to going until today.)

So the first bank we try says that this bill is counterfeit. They show us the blue-light mark, the glittery dots, the invisible stripe -- all security measures that are LACKING in my bill. OK, but what do I do now? Well they say I have to go to the bank where I took out the money. Luckily, I have all my ATM receipts on me, so we push on to BCP. Where there is a huge line. Which we cut.

BCP tells me that there is no way that this bill came from a BCP ATM. They describe their security measures, that each ATM dribbles some invisible ink on their bills so that any bill in the country can be traced to a certain bank. We ask if it is POSSIBLE that whoever filled the ATMs was a "bad man" (we really use that term) and maybe put in counterfeit money. BCP says it is possible, but that no, it didn't happen. They think what happened is that I gave out my hundee to someone, asking for change, and the person took it, walked behind the counter, traded it with a fake hundred, and returned, saying they didn't have change. I argue that I got the money directly from the ATM and put it in my money belt, where it ripped.

Their final word is that if we want to make a claim, we have to talk face-to-face with the "boss" from the ATM BCP in Cuzco, where I got the money. But we are in Lima, we say, we are getting on a flight to USA tonight. We can't go back to Cuzco. This gets us nowhere. We plead with BCP to call the branch in Cuzco and report the counterfeit, maybe even ask if there have been any counterfeit complaints lately, JUST TO MAKE SURE. JUST TO CHECK. PLEASE.

Absolutely no can do. Apparently the two branches of the same bank cannot communicate with each other. There is no way the Lima BCP can make a phone call to the Cuzco BCP to see what's up. I cannot understand this logic, but I also cannot sit and argue all day long. I will have to make a complaint through WashMu (Best Bank Ever) when I get home.

futball

We have an early flight to Lima. During our security x-ray and entrance onto the plane, our passports are not checked to our tickets.

By walking far outside the airport, we can get a cheap, cheap taxi to the Plaza. It costs twelve Soles, as opposed to the ten Soles per person Urbanito bus, or the twenty+ Soles for an inside-airport taxi. We find a room with a bathroom (and hot water) a block from the Plaza for thirty Soles.

We have lunch at a very local place, a place where business men come in with tickets that look like expense receipts. We eat salad, an omelette, and rice pudding for dessert. YUM! We stop at a convenience store and buy lots of chocolate and treats.

AND THEN WE GO TO A FUTBALL GAME!!! Yeah, that´s right, I said futball. Soccer. It is the World Cup Game for the Under Seventeens. Mexico is playing Australia, and for some reason the game is in Peru. We scalp tickets from a man and woman right outside the entrace. And the ticket-takers don´t flinch, they just check to make sure the tix are legit. They are.

Inside the stadium, the Peruvians (most of whom are track-suited high-schoolers) root for Mexico. It is interesting, Wade and I feel much closer to Australians than we do to Mexicans, despite their living all the way around the globe, and Mexico is only a day trip away.

On our last full night we have dinner at some vegie place mentioned in the Bible. I get a noodle dish. I expect it to be rather pasta-prima-vera-ish, but instead it is very salty and sort of like Chow Mein. What can you do. This is not the type of place you can send back a dish.

Afterwards, we interneted in the basement of the weird mansion hostel with the busts and artwork and skulls in the lobby. There we met some girl who went to UC Davis and was veteranary interning in Argentina. She was bagging on Peru so I didn't like her very much. But I did nab an October Vanity Fair from the hostel bookcase while she was chatting with Wade.

Resting pulse in Lima, sea level:
Deens: 78
Wade: 48
Apparently we are of different species.

PERU DAY EIGHTEEN

I wake up at ten today. It is so nice to sleep in. Today is our lazy day -- breakfast at a bakery, shop around, lunch of Arroz de la Cubana at a local place, maybe some internet, more shopping for gifts, and maybe catch a movie in the evening.

I wake up to trumpets. They are having another parade. I go outside to investigate, and sure enough, I can spot hordes of people and uniforms in front of the cathedral in the Plaza. They sure celebrate a lot in this country.

We go to the market and buy a million alpaca hats and a million Inka Cola shirts. These are your gifts, so act surprised when you get them. We actually make a deal with one Tshirt stand woman, that we will wait twenty minutes while they dig into storage and find the vibrant colored shirts that we are after. We agree. I don´t think they actually have storage. I think the twenty minutes buys them enough time to shop around their friends´ shops and trade with them.

In the afternoon, we go to Plaza San Blas, which is the artisan quarter of this city. Wade buys some awesome plates that are covered with Peruvian/Incan doodles and drawings. We watch a dance troupe perform a song about the Diablo, though we guess acurately that their Devil is actually the Spaniards. The Diablo masks they wear have long mustaches, pale skin, and blue eyes.

What do we have for lunch? That´s right, Arroz de la Cubana. My favorite meal.

In the afternoon, we meet a Portuguese travellor at our hostel. We spread the word about the Don Isaac Trail. Later we see a movie, The Interpreter, which sucks. The experience was nifty, though. We got to eat dinner during the film. I have a banana and strawberry creme filled crepe. (There is another food delivery to the kitchen during the movie, no doubt the bananas for my dish.)

We internet, pack up, and sleep.

after the trail...

After Don Isaac, we are POOPED. We hostel shop for a bit, but return to the Procuradora, despite the chilly room and hard-as-a-board bed. Wade loves this place so, because of its awesome balcony, and when he suggests we just put the third mattress onto my bed, I can´t really argue.

I take a shower with hot water. Real hot water. Although I can´t turn it on any harder than a few drops, because then the heat will disperse and it will be a warm shower or a warmish shower.

We check out the Israeli place down the street, not the one we were supposed to do Shabbat at and bailed, but a different place. YUM ISRAELI FOOD. We get salat, chips, falafel, and malawach. It is so good, so Israeli, so not Peruvian. SADLY, the Israeli food throws our bottom systems for a loop, and we suffer for the rest of the day. Into the evening. Into our nap, during internet time, even while receiving offers of marijuana from strange sketchy cigarette sellers on the street.

Don Isaac pt III

1400 - Once you enter Maccu Picchu, you can procede to the terraces in the west. There is a good place to sit and take in the beautiful ruins, to revel in the amazing setting, and to wonder whether the structures are real, or rebuilt.




Here is one trekker's reaction to seeing Maccu Picchu up close:

Now that I have seen several Inca ruins, I am able to differentiate between their stonework and other culture´s stonework. The Inca´s were so precise. They used huge stones as the base for many walls and buildings, but carved them into corners or staircases. Then they carved smaller stones to make up walls and ceilings. But they didn´t just use squares or brick shapes. Often, the Inca walls contain pentagons, trapezoids, parallelograms. The Incas make these all fit together, with barely a seam showing. There is no grout visible, no spaces in between rocks. In fact, my friend remarked that maybe they just used huge rocks are carved in seams so it appeared they did stonework. Really, it is quite striking. The Inca walls are also quite bulbous. They don´t flatten their stones, they round them out.

In Maccu Picchu, it is clear where the original, advanced stonework of the Incas remains, and where modern efforts have been made to "restore" the site to its former glory.

1430 - Trekkers can split up at this point, to either sit in one place, or to wander all over the site. Make sure you catch the rounded Tomb of the Inca on the northern side of the site. The stonework is quite impressive.

1600 - Begin downhill trek.

1640 - Return to hostel in Aguas Calientes, change into bathing suits for Hot Springs.

1720 - You may notice that they have increased the price twofold since the last Lonely Planet book has been published. Tourism is a booming business in this country! The Don Isaac Company unfortunately has no power over these costs. Soak your worries away in the mineral-rich warm, cloudy water that gave Aguas Calientes its name! Meet some fellow Americans in the pools, and exchange travel stories!

1820 - When you are completely pruned out, return to your hostel. You may elect to shower with clean water here, but be warned -- it is freezing cold.

1900 - Late dinner. Tonight you can eat your favorite meal, Arroz de la Cubana, and drink Cuzqueסa beer. (You also may get to watch the proprieter of the restaurant walk around the block trying to find said beer.)

2000 - Return to hostel. Buy cookies for the train ride tomorrow. Try to sleep despite bug bites.

---

DAY FOUR

0515 - Early wake-up, pack for train.

0530 - You may be told by your hostel and by locals on the street that the train is leaving. Ignore them.

0536 - Arrive at train station out of breath. You will now see that your train is absolutely not leaving, and in fact will not leave for another fourteen minutes, at its prescribed time. On the train you will have some time to sleep (72 Soles)

0745 - Arrive in Quillabamba. Eat breakfast at any number of the cute hostels lining the river.

0810 - Explore the Quillabamba ruins. If you forgot to bring your Boleta Touristica, do not despair. The woman who mans the booth at this site is very understanding and forgiving, and will let you through if you promise to bring your Boleta to the next site.

0940 - Visit the Quillabamba market. This is a good opportunity to buy bread or other food for the rest of the trek.

1010 - Bus to Urubamba. This may be a squishy ride, as the route is quite popular. You may have to keep your packs on your laps. This is another chance to sleep. (1.20 Soles)

1040 - Arrive in Urubamba. You will be immediately shuttled onto a bus to Cuzco, though that bus may not leave for several minutes. However, your early arrival guarantees you front seats, where you will have room to store your packs and stretch out your legs. (3 Soles)

1105 - This bus often picks up flirty, teenaged Peruvian girls. They are very loud. Try to rest, despite the giggles.

1400 - Arrive in Cuzco!!!




AMOUR!!! You have completed Phase III of the Don Isaac Trail!

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Total travel time: 4 Days, 3 Nights
Total transportation and attraction cost: 140 Soles

Don Isaac pt II

DAY THREE

0500 - Alarm goes off. Turn it off. Go back to sleep. There is no need to wake up so early on The Don Isaac Trail.

0600 - Alarm goes off again. Ignore it. You are on vacation.

0800 - Alarm goes off again. Now is the correct wake-up time. Get ready to buy train tickets home for the following day.

0840 - You may have to argue with the cleaning lady of the hostel about the correct check-out time. Though it is listed clearly as ELEVEN AM on the office door, she will claim it is NINE and that you owe an extra night's pay. Do not listen to her. Instead, explain to the man-behind-the-desk your train ticket situation. From our experience, we know he is more understanding and will give you leeway time to see if there are available tickets.

0850 - Ticket Man will claim there are no available tickets on the cheap trains. Do not distress. Simply stand by the ticket window discussing amongst yourselves your options. Inevitably, Ticket Man will jump up with the recollection that he has two returned tickets for the exact train you wish to travel on. AMAZING COINCIDENCE, or not? Your luck is all part of the Don Isaac Experience.

0910 - Return to hostel to book an additional night. Get ready for Maccu Picchu trek.

1100 - Set off for Maccu Picchu. The climb up consists entirely of stairs. Hike slowly, and don't forget to take in the beautiful views!

1300 - Reach Maccu Picchu. Lunch time!! If you are lucky, you can find some empty seats with interesting trekkers. Two satisfied trekkers reported that they met a paraplegic charity group at the lunch spot. They were given ammonia for bug bites by the generous fellows.

1345 - Oftentimes, it is here by the lunch tables that our clients run into trekkers they met in previous parts of Peru, such as the peach/apricot Israelis. Two lucky clients were even able to scalp Maccu Picchu tickets from said Israelis, as the Maccu P Ticket Man does not actually collect the tickets. If you opt to scalp, make sure you memorize the names on the tickets, as Ticket Man DOES ask your nombre. (35 Soles, scalped)

Enter Maccu Picchu!!


DINERO!! Phase II of the Don Isaac Trail is complete! You have made it to the Inca palace!

Don Isaac pt I

THE DON ISAAC TRAIL: THE ALTERNATIVE, BETTER TASTING, CHEAPER WAY TO TRAVEL.

Here at Don Isaac International, we understand your need for exploration at a lower cost. As an alternative to the popular Inca Trail, we have created the four-day Don Isaac Trail, a cheaper and far more varied trek. To find out if the Don Isaac Trail is right for you, read our detailed itinerary below:

DAY ONE

• 0800 - Wake up in Cuzco, pack luggage
• 0900 - Pick up street churros on way to bus
  
• 1000 - Bus to Urubamba (2 Soles)
  
  
  
  
  Here is one satisfied trekker's account of the Sacred Valley:
  

  
  As we roll out of Cuzco, it is raining, hard. We wind up the streets into the hills, over the mountain, into the Andian flatlands. The road is windy, but the bus is slow. After a few minutes, we are in the Sacred Valley. The clouds have cleared and the sun is warming the earth.
  

  
  Outside my window is a patchwork quilt of browns and golds, fields already harvested, dead after the dry winter. The colors are homey and warm and remind me of autumn and Thanksgiving. The land is gently hilly. The feilds follow the undulations -- farm plots start in the valley and reach the tops of hills. It is quite striking.
  

  
  Years ago, when I flew over the Midwestern USA and plain country, I was in awe at the patterns of green below. There were fields after fields after fields -- squares and rectangles of every green shade in the crayon box. It went on for hours. See how many farms there are in the vast USA! See how lush the earth is, how many varieties of plants must exist to occupy the land over so many miles in so many colors!
  

  
  Though not as verdant as the central States, these fields seem no less fertile. This valley has already done its job for the year. In another month, the rain will begin, and the fields will be planted again.
  

  
  And oh! When we climb over the edge of the quilt, we reach the valley of Urubamba, green and lush, nestled in between towering peaks, like the kingdom far, far away in a fairy tale.
  

  
  
  
  
• 1200 - Arrive in Urubamba, the Sacred Valley hub of transportation. Seek out bus station to Quillabamba, in order to make next connection at local stop Santa Maria. You may be told that there may not be available busses to Quillabamba because they are not in Cuzco yet. You will sit and think about what this means, then five busses from Quillabamba en route to Cuzco will pull up at the same time. You will then realize that the mountain passes to Quillabamba are snowy and icy, and thus prone to delay. You may also realize at this point that you could have taken a bus directly to Quillabamba from Cuzco, but this extra step adds fun to the journey.
  
• 1230 - Stow bags at random hostel, set out for Salineras salt terraces
  
• 1530 - Return from Salineras with a long walk on the road
  
• 1800 - Eat a dinner of "corn" at hostel with your bags. This dinner won't fill you up, but it is a good introduction to the local cuisine.
  
• 1900 - Try to buy tickets to Quillabamba for 19:30 bus. This bus will be full. You can buy tickets for the later bus, at 22:30 bus, which will allow you to eat a second dinner and have some relaxation time, or perhaps card-playing time, before boarding. (17 Soles)
  
• 2300 - Board bus.
  

  ---

  
  
  

  
  Day Two
  

  
  
• 0100 - Bus will stop in snowy mountain pass. Don't worry, this is a normal occurance at this high elevation. What often causes these delays are large trucks heading in the opposite direction that can't make it up the hill. There may be several busses behind that truck waiting to pass, as well. Your bus-mates may chatter loudly about the situation. They are merely as excited as you will be, but are expressing it verbally.
  
• 1230 - Men will hop off your bus and the other waiting busses to push the truck up the hill, into a double-laned passing area. One of you may want to get out and help, perhaps by pushing a rock behind the truck's wheel so that it does not continu to slide backwards down the hill. If you elect to stay on the bus, you can take out your sleeping bag for extra warmth.
  
• 1300 - By this time, the truck will have been moved out of the way. The waiting busses will have stalled at this point and need to jump-start or switch batteries.
  
• 0315 - Bus continues on its way to Quillabamba!! Here you have time to rest up for the exciting day ahead!
  
• 0700 - Arrive in charming, one-block-long Santa Maria. Eat Huevos y pan for breakfast at the hostel you were dropped off at. Here you can inquire about the combi to Santa Teresa. You will probably be told that they don't arrive until noon, maybe. You may realize here that you could have taken the bus all the way to Quillabamba and gotten a combi to Santa Teresa there, where they originate, but remember, The Don Isaac Trail is all about adventure!
  
• 0800 - Walk over bridge to road to Santa Teresa. While you are waiting for the combi you can breath in the fresh jungle air and admire the local roosters and piglets. You can also read or nap on the rocks by the river.
  
• 1100 - As luck would have it, you can also hitch a ride to Santa Teresa on a soda truck! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, giving you insight into how business is done here in the mountains. When else will you be able to ride high atop a pick-up truck full of Oro Verdi? Is there a better way to admire the flora and fauna of the Eastern Andes? If you pay attention, you will be able to spot banana trees, papaya trees, and even coffee plants from the largest coffee supplier of Peru! You might also run into some local children, who will gaze and cheer at you as if you are a celebrity!
  
• 1330 - Arrive in Santa Teresa. Notice the massive construction efforts this town is making. Perhaps it is due to the increasing popularity of The Don Isaac Trail. We shall soon see. Ask any local person, for example a man handling a wheelbarrow, how to cross the mighty Urubamba River. Everyone is friendly in Santa Teresa!
  
• 1340 - Strap bags and selves into basket zip-line. Pull self across the raging river. Don't worry about falling out of the basket; This has only happened a few times before. THERE IS NO NEED TO PAY WAITING PERSONS ON THE OTHER SIDE. Many people mistakenly tip those "helpers" who pull their rope across. These other people are simply waiting their turn to cross the river. (1 Sol, if you tip by accident)
  
• 1350 - Begin hike to Idro, the hydro-electric power station behind Aguas Calientes.
  
• 1405 - You may have to stop to remove layers of clothing and eat lunch. You have been traveling for hours -- don't exhaust yourself!
  
• 1430 - Continue hiking. You will pass a tractor carrying local girls in its claws. Sadly, these tractors do not pick up backpackers. Neither does the municipal bus service, though its purpose is to drive people from Santa Teresa to Idro.
  
• 1530 - By this time, you have been hiking for an hour. If you are lucky, you will hear the sound of the sanitation truck behind you before it passes. If you stand in the middle of the road, it will have no choice but to stop and pick you up. This truck will be very different from the soda truck. You can stand or sit in the truck bed, but hold on tight! Sanitation workers drive fast! (4 Soles)
  
• 1540 - Arrive in Idro. Ask sanitation workers for directions to train station. They will probably tell you that the train has already left. This is to be expected, though the train may still be sitting at the station. Peruvians often lie for no reason.
  
• 1543 - Once you realize the train is still at the station, you can race up the stairs to try to make it aboard. Very few people are able to accomplish this feat. Even if you are acclimatized, you will have trouble running up the several flights of stairs.
  
• 1545 - Mild depression may occur, but will rarely last longer than several minutes. You are in the beautiful jungle! The walk on the railroad tracks to Aguas Calientes is quite pleasant, and only takes a few hours. This way, you will be able to reach the tourist city without seeing a single white person on the way!
  
• 1735 - The Maccu Picchu region is prone to frequent and sudden rain. Make sure your rain gear is accessable. Also watch out for bugs -- several clients have written in expressing regret for not wearing bug repellent on this portion of the trail.
  
• 1815 - Arrive in Aguas Calientes just after dark. The first hostel you see, a large, sprawling, neighborhood-in-a-building, will offer you the best deal, though the rooms are quite unattractive. Take it. You can change out of your wet clothes and take a nap.
  
• 1900 - Dinner! There are many appetizing options here in Aguas Calientes. If you are a good bargainer, you may be able to cut the price in half! Try the Arroz de la Cubana, a delicious dish of rice, fried egg, fried plantains, and potatoes. Here you can see how the eateries opperate -- if they are out of a certain ingredient, they just walk across the street to the market and buy it for their customer! You just don't see that kind of commitment on The Inca Trail.
  
• 1945 - Buy snacks for the following day's trek up to Maccu Picchu.
  
• 2000 - Fall asleep to the sound of metal bars being thrown onto the train tracks.
  
  
  
  
  SALUD!!! Phase I of The Don Isaac Trail is complete!!!! You have made it to Aguas Calientes!
  

mercado central

The Mercado Central is this crazy, huge, tented area where the Real Peruvians go to shop for food and stuff. We see shirts, hats, dresses, aprons, eggs, raw meat, tea, vegetables, buttons, and everything else available in this country. I buy some more alpaca hats, because, I don´t need any justification.

We then embark on a quest to find a track suit uniform. In Peru, the schools´uniforms are one of two things: a boy-scout / prep school uniform, or the athletic track suit uniform with school´s name and logo on the back. We would like the latter. To take home with us. And wear in the States. Sadly, the fellow who sews them tells us he cannot sell these glorious uniforms to random strangers.

While looking around the neighborhood for counterfeit track suits, we run into a small market party, Peruvians dancing around to the band, drinking chicha and beer. They invite us to take a sip. We decline. They invite us to dance, which we are more likely to do, but instead just watch. Someone tells us it is the anniversary of the market. They celebrating.

Pretty soon I get cranky, and we turn our backs on track suits and search for a restaurant. We find a greasy, sketchy place that has a drawing of an alien in the window and a framed poster of The Lady and the Tramp. I have rice with fried egg and fried plantains. Huevos de la Cubana.

As we are eating, a parade marches down the street. This parade only has ten people and no costumes. It does not do it for me.

On our way back to our hostel, we stop into AeroCondor to see about getting plane tickets to Lima after our trek. THIS TAKES ONE HOUR. Not one hour of looking into flights and finding available seats. No, that takes about three minutes before we get the flight we want at the time we want. The lady at the desk says that they switched over from manual tickets to E-tickets YESTERDAY, and they are still learning the system. It takes three women one hour to print our tickets with the correct names and passport numbers. However, the office did have good candies, so there is that.

We internet for a while, listen to rocket and firecrackers outside, read some Bill Bryson, and have a nice sleep.

PERU DAY THIRTEEN

This morning, as I put in my contact lenses, my eye is siezed with the most incredible burning sensation. Perhaps I didn´t let the solution sit long enough? No, it has been brewing for ten hours. I blame it on the hostel´s shitty towels. No contacts today. And because it is drizzling outside, no glasses either. I´ll just feel slightly "off."

Early, we stop at a grocery store for neccesary provisions. We buy bread, cheese, manzana, chocolate, manjar, fudge, V8, and Doritos. On our way to the Pisac bus, we buy manjar filled pastilles. It is raining on and off.

Today, we see four sites of ruins.

MACHAY TAMBO
This site used to hold ceremonial water baths. Or something like that. We sit on a dirt mound opposite the ruins, and watch while a team of Peruvian construction workers re-builds the crumbled structure. Behind us are a group of Frenchies, all using walking sticks, the kind that look like cross-country poles. We will see them several times today, and wonder each time, why the sticks? Walking out of the site, we buy mini Inka calendars made of stone.

PUCA PUCARA
These ruins are made out of pink stones that apparently are pretty at sunset. They are like Peruvian Jerusalem stone. We walk around on the site, which may have been a hunting lodge.

On our way to the next site, we meet up with a thirteen-year-old Peruvian girl who shows us a shortcut across a field. It´s a ten minute walk, and we have several sputtering exchanges. We learn that the schools here are on three rotations--there are three possible timeslots for school for each child. Presumably, this is to save space. Although, who knows. We also learn that the totally awesome track suits we keep seeing on kids around this country are, in fact, school uniforms. Kids have two uniforms, their "nice" uniform (skirts, boy scout looking duds) and an athletic uniform. WE NEED TO GET OURSELVES SOME PERUVIAN TRACK SUITS.

QENKO
While waiting at the entrance to this site for Wade to pee, I have a laugh with some natives. One man is showing me pictures of the site, and the various animals that can supposedly be seen in the rock. I say, Como Say de say WOW?" and they laugh that the translation is just WOW or OH or OOH or AH. I was understood!! I made a joke!! I was laughed WITH, not AT!! A SMALL VICTORY FOR ME, the clown.

These ruins are really cool. There is a huge cave carved into a huge rock, a cave with a huge alter on it, large enough for me to sit on. And pretend I am a sacrifice. We eat lunch in the cave, because it has begun raining again.

SACSAYHUAMAN
There are two awesome things about this site: The name, and the rocks. The name is pronounced SEXY WOMAN, though it actually means Satisfied Falcon. The rocks, they are cool. After seeing so many Inka ruins, I can begin to recognize which rocks are Inka, and which have been reconstructed for the tourists by Peruvians. The Inka rocks are huge, and very geometric, and fit together in the most magical way. For example, Sacsayhuaman was a fortress with four sets of parallel zig-zag walls. The walls are not made of rocks in a brick pattern, or a graph-paper pattern. They are composed of various shapes, squares and rectangles and trapezoids and more. Yet they are fitted together perfectly, with no space in between. One patch of wall was like Utah fitted to Montana. Another unique feature of Inka stonework is the rocks themselves. They are rather bulbous, rounded out a bit and not flat.

Apparently most of the original fort was destroyed by the Spaniards and used to build churches and other buildings in Cuzco proper. From the top of the remaining structure, we can see all of Cuzco.

Another part of these ruins are huge, polished stones with cutouts in them. These cutouts are called The Thrones. We sit here for a while. I decide I am a bit Sexy Womaned out, and we pick up a combi on our way back to town.

Fujimori 2006

Fujimori was Peru's president during the 1980s and early 1990s. He apparently did a great job stabilizing the economy, creating jobs and making sure the roads worked. Every book I read praises his political and economic policies. He was so popular that he changed the laws to run for three terms. Sadly, during his third term, his vice president was caught red handed in a fiscal crisis. Before he could be investigated further, Fujimori chose to resign. He fled to his ancestral home of Japan, where he has lived ever since.

Since then, Peru has had a series of money-grubbing presidents. Their economy sucks. The roads are in disrepair. A new presidential election is to take place soon, and Peru is filled with political propoganda. It is spray-painted on walls, homes, fences, even rocks. Candidate names and slogans can be seen in large cities and teeny towns.

Our favorite by far is the "Fujimori 2006" tags. Not only has Fujimori expressed ZERO interest in regaining the office, he is not even elligible to run, since he no longer holds citizenship.

PERU DAY TWELVE

What a view from our balcony!! We can see almost the whole city, nestles among mountains, houses all colored with homogeneous red Spanish tile roofs.

First things first, we buy the Tourista Boleta. The Bible has instructed us to do so. This allows us to visit several different museums in Cuzco proper, and several archeological sites in the surrounding area. SADLY, the Tourist Boleta is somewhat of a ripoff. The museums are sort of lame. We could have bought a partial Boleta to visit just the ruins. BUT OH WELL. Let me tell you what we ended up seeing in this majestic, ancient city.

• La Compania Church. This church has an extremely ornate golden facade. All the knaves are filled with baroque gold stuff.
• Inka walls
• Santa Catalina Monastary and religious art museum. Extremely boring. So boring that I was positively SHOCKED at the huge baroque alter, which was hidden behind several sets of bars off of a small room. SHOCKED was I, when I turned around after my hundredth ugly picture of some Saint or Archbishop or virginal woman, and there was a creepy locked-off room!! It was like it was a haunted chapel, or something.
• Coricancha ruins and museum. This was a large grass lawn with some square rocks strewn randomly about. Inside this museum were MUMMIES and DEFORMED AND TREPINATED SKULLS. This museum was truly awesome.
• Popular Art Musuem. This was the lamest museum of all. It was one room filled with paper and plastic dolls, mostly posed in nativity scenes. The dolls appeared to have been made by second graders for their final project in religion class. One set was made out of cloth folded up, cloth like a potato sack. Wade called it "napkin art."
• Museo de Historia Regional. This contained a MUMMY IN A GLASS CASE and a historical Peruvian coin collection.
• At a not-totally-touristy shop, we buy the following: Wade: soap, map of Cuzco Valley. Me: erotic pottery playing cards, bag of mint chewy candies. It is almost as if we are on different trips.
• Alpaca wool shop. Here we meet Phillip, the owner, who is from the The OC. I buy an AWESOME fluffy white earmuff hat. When you see it, you will laugh, and then you will say, Only you, Deens, only you would buy such a thing. And then you will remark that only I could pull off such a rediculously fuzzy hat. Just you wait.
• We walk around a souveneir market in a courtyard, me proudly wearing my fluffy (and super warm) hat. Two little girls giggle and point at me. They call me a payaso. We look it up in the dictionary. It means "clown."

We have lunch at an honest-to-goodness real Peruvian restaurant. We have a dinner of quinoa soup and zuchini mush at a vegetarian place. We cafe in the evening and have pisco-and-coffee, cheesecake, and the worst apple pie ever. After interneting, we go to our freezing cold hostel and get mad at each other.

Pulse at rest at dinner, twelve thousand feet:

Wade: 60

Me: 90

cafe I´m in love

Back in Puno, we take a bicycle taxi to the Plaza. Though honestly, we could have walked faster. We buy bread and fruit for our night bus ride, and I find sunglasses to replace the ones I sat on. Though not large and round, these are super dark.

We go to the now-open Bistro/Crepeteria eat crepes (piña y chocolate), drink tea (manzanilla), and write in journals. It is here that I fall in love. With the cafe.

They are playing Achinoam Nini!! Noa!! An Israeli singer, who I love, whose album I own, who is rather famous in Israel and somwhat well-known amongst American Jews. THE PERUVIAN CAFE IS PLAYING NOA!!!

I am flipping my shit over this. I ask the waitress how they got the music, and she says the cook, who is French, has a large collection of music, and this is his CD. Small, connected world!

Noa is singing Boe Kalah, our Zimriyah song from last summer. I can´t stop smiling from the familiar. When you are in a foreign country, you immerse yourself in the food, the clothing, the history, the colors, the smells of the place. You try hard to understand the new way of life. You try to almost think like the Natives, to become more used to the enviroment. Anything familiar brings a sort of comfort. All of a sudden, you are jostled by your own memory. You remember that you come from a culture of your own. You, too, have a history. You, too, have your own food, your own clothing, your own colors and smells and sounds. For a few minutes, I feel like I am at home again, where I live a life of comfort and can pick out my own music.

Later, we Internet in some sketchy place. We take a night bus to Cuzco. We have to argue with Mr. Ticket Man for twenty minutes about bringing our packs on the bus. We absolutely do not want to put our stuff underneath the bus. Too many horror stories about missing or stolen luggage. MTM eventually sighs in surrender when we point to the bus next to us, in which a man is sitting with his suitcase at his feet.

Our Royal Class seats in the front of the balcony were everything they promised to be, and more. Fully reclining, full view of the road, quite cushy. The only notable event in the bus ride was when the bus hit a rock, and we had to stop for several minutes while the driver did who-knows-what. Also, it was FREEZING. Think of the coldest plane you have ever been on. This was probably not that cold, but still, it was at least CHILLY.

We arrive in Cuzco at dawn. After hostel jumping a few times, we find an OK one with amazing views of the plaza and the city. We get a triple for thirty sols. A triple!! Why settle for two beds when you can have three! I sleep, burrowed under several alpaca quilts, until eleven.

Chimu

Chimu is less like a town, more like a stretch of land on the lake with random dwellings every so often. Yet, it is so peaceful and lovely.

We see reeds laying out to dry, women rolling up bunches of reeds into stack to be shipped, and also rolling them up into mattresses. We walk the fine line between lake marsh and hills, separated only by the highway.

On one stretch of Chimu, the hills resemble sand drip castles, only fatter, as if God threw down a fist-fill of clay and the sheer force of it caused all sorts of bulges and ripples. We decide to climb a particularly prominent outcropping, about seventy feet high.

From above, we can see Puno, roofs sparkling in the afternoon sun. We can see mountains on the opposite side of the lake, land we presume to be Bolivia. Although actually, the lake is so big that what we see was just a big island. Up on the rock feels free. The clouds roll over the water, the reed marshes reflect little sunlight like greasy mirrors, the air cold and windy. It was a place you just sat and stared around, taking in the view from your isolated and elevated perch.

Chucuito

We decide to forgo a boating trip to the floating islands on acount of the thunder and lightening, and instead visit the town where they actually MAKE the famous reed boats Puno is famous for. Oh, and also the city which houses the Templo de Fertilidad, a phallus-filled ancient structure the Good Book dubs, "bizarre." When Lonely Planet says something is "bizarre" or "weird," we come running.

Chucuito is a tiny town with cobblestone streets and adobe houses. I love it. Temple de Fertilidad is several blocks from the plaza. We are accosted by several kids en route volunteering to tell us the Temple´s history. We decline.

The Temple is quite bizarre, all right. A one-roomed affair, the entire floor is lined with two-foot stone penises. We take pictures. We try to think of crude poses, but everything is overkill. Instead, we shop at the stalls set up in the Temple´s courtyard. I consider buying a metal penis keychain to add to my collection of little metal artifacts (totem pole from Seattle, train from Sacramento, etc), but think better of it. In the end, Wade buys seven finger puppets of various animals, and I buy alpaca wool gloves and a hat with pictures of llamas.

On our way out of t town, we see a large vehicle parked on the side of the road. It looks rather out of place. It has tractor wheels and reinforced windows. Apparently, it is an RV-type 4x4 monster vehicle used for long travel, like down the entire Pan-American highway. While I am thinking, oh, a big car, Wade wets himself with excitement.

I manage to drag him away into a cemetary in the back of a cathedral. The crypts are all above ground, some stacked three by three like little grave apartment buildings.

We catch a combi to Chimu. Twenty four people are squished into this vehicle, clearly a record. Our personal best, at least.

PERU DAY ELEVEN

We wake up at eight, lay around etc until ten. I love vacation.

Try as we might to get banana pancakes for breakfast--according to the Bible, they are "the thing" here-- we failed miserably. The Bistro/Crepeteria we spotted yesterday was closed, bakeries were closed, and all other cafes were closed. It IS Sunday-- is everyone at church??

NO! They are in a PARADE!!!

Around and around the plaza march children and teenagers. They wear uniforms suggesting boy scouts or prep school. They march in straight lines, arms swinging, and legs kicked out to the beat of the marching band stationed before the cathedral. There are scores and scores of kids. The whole town has come out to watch the parade! The police presence is incredible. Every uniform has a large gun. I spot a soldier/policeman whose gun is equipped with a bayonet. !What?!

We gather that the parade is in honor of some academic anniversary. Groups of kids march and march and more kids continue to come around the corner. They seem to be divided by gender and age. After thirty minutes, we tear our eyes away in search of food.

We find the Cultural Center, a cute place just off the plaza. Off the plaza just enough that we can still hear the band as it plays for CLOSE TO AN HOUR MORE. While eating, we peruse picture books about Peru´s flora, fauna, and animals. I read up on Paracas National Park, since we didn´t see any animals there. (Even though we DID go there, we did!) Then we play checkers. I win.

It starts to rain. We move inside. Rain turns to pouring buckets. And then-- it hails! Tiny pieces of ice, falling from the sky. We could hear them tapping on the roof. But when I stood in the doorway looking out, you see, looking out into the patio and the orange building in from of me, from what I could see, the sky was blue!! Hail from nowhere.

fields of Bolivia

In the fields they seem to have planted chewing gum wrappers and they have now bloomed into plastic bags of all colors of the rainbow, neatly separated in their white, blue, red, green, pink splendor. The sun shines brilliantly off the lake and the sheet metal roofs reflect the light like a thousand mirrors.

again, from Nathan

Ayumara peeps

On our way back to Puno, we stop at a "typical" Ayumara homestead house. Typical in the sense that the house we stopped at is no longer self-sufficient, but relies on tips from tour groups such as ours. If you have been to the Negev and stopped in a Beduoin tent, you know what I mean.

We are shown the following:

• Quinoa plant and quinoa seeds being ground into flour
• Solid fat being used as fuel for fire
• guinea pigs in a cage in the yard. Living out their days before being roasted for dinner. Yum!
• Tools for hoeing and planting
• Winter wood storage filled to the roof with DUNG. LLAMA DUNG. Who needs wood when you have shit?

We are fed the following:

• Hot potatos
• Fresh, fresh cheese. Tastes somewhat like feta.
• Quinoa fried cookies
• Dirt

Mr. Guide explains that the Ayumara people eat this certain type of clay dirt found high in the mountains. It apparently is rich in minerals. They mix it with salt and pepper and water and use it as a sort of mayonnaise. It is muddy and greenish. Many people, Wade included, try it. He says it tastes "salty." I wonder aloud if maybe the natives don't actually eat this stuff, they just get a kick out of seeing what they can make tourists eat.

I find it extremely ironic that Wade won't brush his teeth with tap water, yet he will devour a cooked potato dripping with MUD.

Sillustani

We take our first guided tour of our trip to Sillustani, an area of ruins some forty-five minutes from Puno.

I love this. I love ruins. The landscape-- it is hilly. There are rolling hills all around save the lake on either side of the Sillustani penninsula. The sky is an overcast gray, and the colors of the earth appear more vibrant, stand out against the monochrome sky. The soil is red, the grasses are a bright green yellow, and the water is dark black blue. The air is crisp and empty, so that the sound of cows and sheep lapping at the lake below echo up.

These ruins are of chullpas, funeral pyres built to store not only bodies, but also assorted belongings for the next world, much like Egyptian tombs. They are tall, round, black, standing out against the serene setting. They are situated on the penninsula, on raised land. Thirty or so chullpas are scattered about, in varying degrees of disrepair. Some have the flat, outside stones still in place. Some have the inner, less precise stonework exposed. Still others are implied only by a circle of rocks sitting on the ground.

I love it. I love the remoteness of the location, the emptiness of the air, the colors of the earth. I love the drum beats and toots that travel upwards from the band-camp in the town below.

At first, our tour guide drones on and on. I love a good tour now and then, don't get me wrong, but a good guide knows to speak only in five minute increments. I wanted to just wander and soak up the the ruins. The most interesting thing Mr. Guide showed us was that the rocks in this area are heavily magnetized. He held a compass next to the stone and it went crazy.

All of a sudden, it began to thunder. Not directly where we were, but close enough to see lightening bolts strike down. Wade is counting the flashes and rumbles and makes the executive decision that where we are (HIGH UP, NEAR WATER, ON ROCK) is unsafe in a lightening sort of way. The two of us split and run down to the dirt below the ruins. We wait until the storm passes.

When we rejoin our group, Mr. Guide has given free time to wander. At the same moment, it begins to rain. Not a lot, but enough to break out the rain gear. We wander amidst the drizzle.



Pulse rates walking up a flight of stairs at eleven thousand feet:
Me: 148
Wade: 120

I love Puno

We find a hostel NOT listed in the Bible. Blasphemy! Wade takes a (much needed) shower with aguas calientes while I watch TV! In our hostel room! I love TV!! The program appears to be the Peruvian "Dance 360," although without the Head-to-Head segments. If you have never watched Dance 360, you need to go turn on your WB at five thirty every afternoon and basque in the splendor that is Dance.

Eventually, I do peek outside. I love Puno. We are on the eastern edge of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. Small brick buildings are perched on the hillsides containing the lake. Though this city seems poorer than Arequipa or Lima, the homogeneous architechture and water lend it a certain charm. The city is situated quite like downtown Providence, whose dwellings peek over the hills to the capital building (and mall) down below. Here, the buildings overlook the sparkling lake.

The sky is a delicious overcast gray hue. The clouds are light, and then they are rain-filled dark, and then there are intermittant patches of blue. Puno is the biggest city for miles, but in the distance, I can see small villages of houses propped on other lakeside hills. We are high up. The elevation is twelve thousand feet. The air is thin, but clean.

PERU DAY 10

Last night I slept in a delicious, delicious bed. The moment I burrowed under the thick alpaca-wool blankets, I was drowned in a slumber so heavy I did not stir all night -- even as one of our roommates talked in her sleep and the club-crowd partied under our window. I was eventually woken at five am by Wade and went to take a splendidly scalding hot shower.

We take a six-hour bus ride to Puno through rolling hills and flat pampas. Interestingly, we are in the middle of the Andes, yet the land is flat. We pass many an alpaca farm -- or are they llamas? I must learn to tell the difference. We also pass a farm with an ostrich. I remark aloud that I group ostriches and llamas in the same category, despite one being a bird and one a mammal. They both have long necks and legs and fat bodies. Wade quite astutely points out that ostriches only have two legs. I fall silent.

In Puno, we buy bus ticket out to Cuzco for the following evening. We treat ourselves to "Royal Class," which promises fully reclining seats and two bathrooms. We choose seats in the front row of the second story. The balcony, if you will.

peru mentionables

random, random thoughts that didn´t make it into my daily descriptions. Most of these are related to our Cañon trek.

• Have I mentioned that Cañon de Colca is almost the deepest canyon in the world??? The only canyon deeper is its neighbor to the north, Cañon Huayash, or something like that. In any case, what I climbed down and then up was DEEEEEEEEEP. My complaints were well founded.
• The buses in Peru all have curtains on the windows, and passengers can choose to keep them open or shut them. The driver has his own little compartment, separated from the passengers by a window and door, also curtained. This is terribly annoying to me, since I like to see where we are going. I understand the need for the driver to feel like he has his "space," his own room free of passenger smell, but why the curtains? Wade says it's so we can't see when the driver is getting head.
• We meet a group of Israelis on the trail, and we discuss how expensive the train to Machu Picchu is. We're discussing alternative routes when one of the 'Raelis says, "If there's any way to do it without paying, the Israelis will find it."
• I can't believe I forgot to mention that on our way back from CaboneConde, not one, not two, but THREE badly dubbed Sylvester Stalone movies were played on our bus. Awesome.
• Wade has not changed his socks yet.
• While packing for the Cañon, I sit on my beloved sunglasses. They sort of break, for the second time. First time they broke was in Seattle, in the RV, because I sat on them. I was able to fix them with superglue then. I think now to take them on our trek and find a new pair when we return to society. Sadly, en route to Oasis, the sunglasses truly die. Not only is the frame on the nose support cracked, but the left lense no longer stays in place and sort of pops out at random intervals. I trash them as soon as we reach the bus.
• When we bus to and from the Cañon, we stop at several itty bitty towns in the middle of nowhere. And we pass a lot of nowhere. And every so often, the bus suddenly stops at one of these nowhere locations, in the middle of a plain on the edge of a cliff, and a little old man will get off the bus. And you have to think to yourself, Where is he going?!
• When I am on the bottom of the Cañon floor, looking up in awe at the cliffs above me, thousands of feet higher than where I stand, I feel sunken into the Earch. It is hard to comprehend that I am still significantly higher than Mammoth.
• The local women here are wear terribly colorful embroidered dresses. Their skirts are velvet with embroidered trim, their vests are a rainbow of flowers and patterns, and their hats are decorated as well. They remind me of peacocks.
• My inability to drink from a Nalgiene is astounding. No matter how I tilt my head or hold the bottle, I spill. Half of my intended drink inevitably ends up on my pants, my chin, my shirt, the ground. I am convinced it is because of the wide mouth on the bottle, but as Wade pointed out, it is just like drinking out of a cup. And in case you were wondering, I CAN DO THAT.
• On the bus back from the Cañon, on the leg from Chivay to Arequipa, I SAW SOMEONE I KNOW!!! FROM HOME!!! FROM LA!! FROM HIGHSCHOOL!!! This girl Belle, she went to Milken. I wasn´t friends with her or anything, but I think we took choir together, and we said Hi and How Are You, and stuff like that. I knew her well enough that when she walked on the bus here, six years after high school, I immediately recognized her. KILLER!!! I totally get a hundred points for that.

way up

Today, my ass was kicked.

We woke at dawn, dressed in the dark filled our water bottles by the stream. (Don't worry, Wade purified it.)

TODAY, WE WALKED UP.

up up up up up up up up up up up, up thirty-five hundred feet. The view became increasingly more majestic as we climbed. We passed some 'Raelis on the way and had a short debate over which was which, peach and apricot, mishmish and apharsek. Turns out not everybody knew which was which, even in their native tongue. THE PEACH IS THE BIG ONE.

What did I think about while climbing the mountain, you ask? Well, the first hour or so I went through every Civil Rights song I knew in my head. I did some of them twice. This Little Light of Mine I did five times. See the African Americans, they had them some struggles, too. They had walks, although theirs weren't straight up a mountain. When I had exhausted those songs, I thought about Harriet and the Garden, a favorite children's book of mine. That got me thinking about Annie Lennox (?) and what a great musician she is. The rest of the time I repeated in my head, Slow and steady wins the race. You know, from The Tortoise and the Hare? This helped the most.

The last thirty minutes were spent praying to God that we would arrive in Cabon Conde before the eleven o'clock bus left. How we rushed! How I climbed! I have never walked so fast in my life! I have never stepped through donkey shit with such abandon! And God heard my prayers, for we reached the town square with three minutes to spare (it's that luck, again). ALAS!!!! There were no seats available on the eleven o'clock bus.

We booked tickets on the one o'clock bus, ate popsicles and manjar/cheese sandwiches in the square, and interneted. Oh, internet. How I love thee.

Canon de Colca? I am not sad to see you go.
Canon de Colca kicked my ass. KICKED. IT. HARD.


Pulse while climbing up Cañon at 8500 feet:
Me:180
Wade: 162

Pulse while at rest on the bus at 10,800 feet:
Me: 90
Wade: 72

oasis really is paradise

Swim
eat chocolate
write in journal
swim
nap
eat dried sweet potato chips
lay out
nap
swim
read
plan next move

I speak with some German girls who ask such questions as, "Are people in LA fit?," "Are people in LA good looking?," "Do you go to the gym?," "Does LA have gyms that are open all night?," and my personal favorite, "Which girl did The Bachelor pick?"

oasis is paradise

Eventually, in the early afternoon, we reach the oasis, a haven of green grass, thatched huts, a swimming pool with waterfall, and our gay American friends we met last night. Wade wants to sleep out under the stars, but I make it VERY CLEAR that I deserve to sleep in a bed tonight. I am sufficiently persuasive.

We speed change out of our dirty clothes and hiking boots into swimsuits. Even though the heat of the day is waning, I stay in the water. It is so cool, so smooth, so unchlorinated and natural, so soothing to glide through it with out using my hiking muscles. I swim back and forth and back and forth, under the waterfall, floating on my back, spinning in the water, executing the few synchronized swimming moves I remember from college. I feel so comfortable. (My family were all fish in previous lives.) It is exactly what I need.

Napping and Bill Bryson take us through to dinner-time.

We take dinner (soup and spaghetti) at the hostel and plan to wake up early and climb up the mountain at dawn, catch an afternoon bus to Arequipa, then an overnighter to Puno. We count out the days and allow almost a full week in Cuzco for ruins and a possible trek, and three days at the end to veg out in resort-y Trujillo.

In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize how truly sore my calf muscles are. They hurt so much lying down that I am sure I will not be able to walk tomorrow. We decide to spend the whole next day in Oasis Paradise before climbing Hell Mountain.

the other side of the mountain

I wake up incredibly sore, but excited at the prospect of walking straight today.

Oops, no such luck.

Today we hike up and down and then straight a little and then up a lot. I hate it. My legs hurt, my heels hurt, my shoulders and hips are sore from the pack. I feel absolutely spent. I feel as though I hiked really hard yesterday, all the way down the mountain, for nothing. There has been no rest time, no relaxation time, no time to regain energy for this next bit. It is very hard. I cry several times.

Canon de Colca, day one

We wake up super early to taxi super early to get the super early bus to Cabon Conde, a tiny village way out in the Andes, from which we will embark on our trek. We arrive at the terminal with one minute to spare. I tell ya, we are having us some luck.

The six-hour bus ride is twisty and bumpy, winding through the mountains on a dirt-and-rock road. The scenery, what I can see out of the tiny sliver in between the drivers' compartment curtains, is amazing. Mountains, plateaus, frozen streams, terraces, AND LLAMAS!!!!!! Sadly, most passengers prefer to keep their window shades closed, so my view was quite limited. Therefor, I spent most of the bus ride gazing at the tiny Peruvian baby sitting in her mother's lap in the seat next to me. She was in a papoose! She was tiny! She didn't make a sound the whole way! I want a Peruvian baby, too!

Finally we arrive in Cabon Conde, and I think -- WE ARE IN THE FUCKING ANDES.

We buy some extra bread and water at a market, eat lunch next to a locked park (what is it with this country), and begin to hike. Down. Down, down, down. DOWN SOME MORE.

ALL DAY DOWN THE ANDES.

According to Wade's GPS, we climb down three thousand feet in four hours. In case you aren't aware, THAT IS A LOT. My big toes all killing me, and Wade the medic wraps them in tape and duct tape. This makes them slippery in my shoes.

We finally arrive at the bottom of the canyon just as the light of day takes its final gasp. We sleep in somebody's front yard, out in the open. There are thousands and thousands and thousands of stars. We are asleep by eight.

PERU DAY FIVE

Another warm day in Arequipa! We sleep and laze about in bed and finally get up and ready because we are STARVING. We have a healthy and balanced breakfast of crepes at ZigZag. I have palta y tomate and they bring it with the green oregano spice that is sprinkled on every dish here. Wade gets mango y limon y azzucar. I don't really know the names of those fruits, yet, but I can tell you that his crepe was a lot tastier than mine. On account of the oregano spice. And the sugar.

This morning we split up. I go to the monastary, and he stays at ZigZag researching our upcoming trek and drinking beer.

The Monastaria de Santa Catalina used to be a huge, popular nunnery that rich families would send their precious daughters to. These rich daughters were accustomed to a life of friends and parties and servants, and inside the nunnery, none of this changed. Eventually some religious head person got wind of the non-Catholic activities, the parties and escorts and money, and she sent all the rich girls back to their parents. The servants and poor girls stayed on as nuns. Sadly, the nun population has dwindled to about thirty. The monastary, however, is enourmous, covering over one square city block. Recently, the Peruvian government has forced the Monastaria to open for tourists. The remaining nuns live and do their God business from one of the corner cloisters.

The place really is huge. I try to keep left, a trick I use at big art museums to ensure I visit every room, but even this trick fails me here. I must constantly tell myself, left, LEFT LEFT!!!. It's like a maze. The colors are brilliant. All the walls inside rooms are white, but in courtyards and streets they are painted vibrant adobe red and blue and yellow. The colors help me navigate. Slightly.

Among the things I notice:

• In one room, there are a series of nun portraits hung on the wall, in which every subject has her eyes closed.
• The infirmary has hundreds of different sized and shaped bottles filled with various colored liquids. They all wear mysterious handwritten labels. Perhaps not so mysterious to those who know Spanish.
• One room is devoted wholly to production of Eucharist wafers.
  
• In one cupboard I opened in a random kitchen area (if there is no sign or rope, I must touch), and there, laying on a shelf, was a graying animal skin.
  
• One small nook showcases an interesting seat contraption that resembles a toilet throne carved of wood, but instead of a bowl filled with water, there is a spinning plate. I don't understand, either.
• From the cafeteria patio, I can see our room in Casa Reyna! And my towel hanging in the window! Hi room!
• I check the visitors' book. A giant group of Polish people have just signed before me. There has been only one other USAer today. Surprisingly, we are few and far between here in Peru. That's why Americans are worth points, and the Dutch aren't. They are plentiful.

After the monastary, we have more crepes. Then we go to the grocery store for more carbs, these for our trek.

We try to hang out in one of the city parks, but turns out they are only opened on weekends and holidays. All other times they are locked. What the fuck? So we end up eating cookies and "Cola Re-al" (not as good as Inca Cola) on a strip of grass in the middle of the intersection and reading Bill Bryson aloud. This reminds me of the story of my parents going camping this one time. They arrive at their destination late in the night, so they find a patch of grass on which to set up their sleeping bags, and when they awake in the morning, they see they have camped out in the middle of a parking lot.

In the evening, we buy tickets to Canon de Colca for the next morning. We repack all our stuff to put some in storage. Sadly, I sit on my beloved huge bug-eye sunglasses. The break is minimal; they will have to do for now. For dinner we go to a touristy place on the Plaza, and I have "Avacado Stuffed for the Gardener." The alternative was "Avacado Stuffed for the Queen," but that contained chicken.

Arequipa

Arequipa is the most beautiful place on the planet. We have the most charming room on the third floor of a hostel overlooking the city and a famous (and beautiful) convent. The highest peak in Peru, El Misti, is also visible from our patio. We are two blocks from the central plaza. Popsicle stands are numerous. We may never leave.

We find a room in really, the cutest hostel I have ever seen. We are on the third floor, in a tiny room, and the ceiling slants down, giving us a little nook for the table and chair we have draped our belongings over. Our door opens onto a little patio with a porch swing and some benches, and a quite breathtaking view of this city. Arequipa is nestled among the hills of the Andes. Houses and buildings stretch into the corners and cracks in between hills. We can see straight down into the convent garden next door. We can see the church steeples of the Plaza cathedral. We can see the great snow-capped mountains in the distance. There are barely any clouds, and the sun is shining.

I nap while Wade showers, and then we switch. There is gloriously hot water here. Note I am now two for one, in terms of showers, which is quite impressive, given my history at home.

We walk around the city and do the following:

• Plaza de Armaz. Charming, colonial, green, full of people, everything lacking in Los Angeles
• Two young women approach us and give us a survey about nutritional granola bars. They are doing a marketing thesis and plan to produce and sell a line of bars.
• Visit several baby alpaca stores. These go on forever. I did not know baby alpaca was such a commodity.
• Electric appliance store. I am amazed and impressed by the super cheap prices, until Wade points out that the objects are on payment plans, and the prices I saw were just the monthly premium.
• An over-the-counter pharmacy
• At an arcade, we see a claw-stuffed-animal game sponsored by ADVIL and ROBOTUSSIN.
  
• Various churches

In the afternoon, we return to our Casa Reyna and read Bill Bryson. We are lazy and take some naps. After a few hours, I get up, motivated only by the prospect of going to a real cinema and seeing a real movie, in English. Sadly, all three cinemas we checked out were closed or had been converted to churches and were conducting wedding ceremonies. As far as we could tell. There was crepe paper and dancing. Instead, we went to mass at the Jesuit church and the main cathedral.

We have dinner at this Hare Krishna vegie place called Govinda. It is a bit creepy inside, what with the tall ceilings and religiousy music. We have quinoa something-or-other and squash something and some wierd purpley drink which I find out later is chicha morada, one of the most popular drinks here. On our way out, we are bugged by a little boy trying to sell us candles. He whines. I do not fall for whining children selling things.

We go internet, and I learn that Wade cannot spell. Afterwards, we find a fourth-floor restaurant overlooking the Plaza and drink. I get a Cuba Libre (rum and coke) and he gets the locally brewed Arequipena. We hear a Peruvian band playing in the street. Finishing our drinks, we step down onto the Plaza, watching a street performer. He has two dogs dressed as people. I hate dogs, and dogs dressed in clothing is always funny to me. He also has a "robotic" bride and groom who dance the tango. It was clear that there was a person in the groom's legs bent over into the bride's legs -- you could see his waist connecting them -- but the ringmaster was so funny that he drew a large crowd. Even Santa Clause, who had been selling candy in the street, came to watch. Street Man made fun of Wade and I, for being American, and warned us not to steal his Peruvian robot technology.

Question of the day: What is your favorite Peruvian food, other than manjar?
Deens: pineapple wafers
Wade: orange popsicle of indeterminate flavor. Perhaps caramel, perhaps coconut, maybe guava.

Pulse, resting, in Arequipa, elevation seventy six hundred feet:
Me: 96
Wade: 84

Pulse, after climbing four flights of stairs:
Me: 168
Wade: 108

Peruvian scavenger hunt

one point each:

• every time we see a Peruvian littering
• seeing kids fighting in the street
• for every llama, alpaca, and vicuna spotted
• every time someone guesses we are NOT from the USA
• every person who assumes we are dating or married
• for every container of manjar purchased
• every Fujimori 2006 sighting
• every obvious and unmistakable Israeli sighting
  

ten points each:

• every traveler we meet NOT from Israel, South America, or Holland
• every collectivo travelled in with more than twenty passengers
• for every Peruvian who admits to prefering Don Isaac over Inka Cola
• for every Peruvian peeing in public
  

fifty points:

• for seeing the rarest of the camelid family, the guanaco

one hundred points:

• seeing a framed poster of Christina Aguilera
• seeing someone we know
  

the awful bus ride

THE BUS RIDE IS AWFUL.

After the first hour, I need to go pee. I walk to the back of the bus, but cannot open the door. I return to my seat, thinking I can wait a bit until the person comes out. Half and hour later, after no one has emerged, I make Wade come with me to pry open the door. It is definitely locked. We go back to our seats. Another half hour passes, and the pee urge is so strong that I can't go to sleep. We walk to the front of the bus to ask the busdriver about the locked bathroom. He claims it is open. We argue. He says the bathroom stop is in five minutes. We return to our seats. I have to go so bad, but what can I do?

FIFTY MINUTES LATER, we finally pull over to the side of the road, in some shanty town in the middle of nowhere, next to a small shack. I RUN behind the shack and pee. It is delicious. When I get back onto the bus, the driver shows us that the bathroom door is open. I think he is a lier, I think he unlocked it just then. No matter, I was finally able to fall asleep.

We twist and turn and flop all over each other, trying to find a mutually comfortable positionfor the night. I drift in and out of sleep. Hours later, I awake and realize I am a bit nauseas. I take another Drammanine, but I cannot sit in our seat, in the middle of the bus, in the darkness, for very much longer. I walk up to the front of the bus, where fresh air is wafting in from the driver's compartment. I stand in the aisle, where I can look through his window at the road ahead. I don't normally get carsick, but we have been driving on a twisty highway at high speeds in the dark for hours. Up at the front, actually seeing the road ahead, my stomach is quieted. I watch our driver (the same driver for the whole twelve hour trip) swerve around steep ocean cliffs. I notice his speedometer, which indicates that he is driving TWICE THE SPEED LIMIT. Eventually the drugs kick in, and I fall asleep on the double seats in the second row.

In the morning, when the bus stops, I find Wade again, and we discuss how aweful this bus ride was. For me, it was more the length and the twistyness and the location of our seats. He cannot stop talking about how I had to wait to go to the bathroom for TWO HOURS. He says it like that, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WERE WAITING TO GO THE BATHROOM FOR TWO HOURS. Days later, when we are in Arequipa and even again in Puno, he mentions is again, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU HAD TO WAIT TWO HOURS. Like it was the craziest thing that ever happened. I suppose if a boy had to pee so bad, he would just stick it out the window and go.

We agree that on our next overnight bus, we will treat ourselves to Royal Class, where the seats recline fully and there are two bathrooms.

Nazca lines

We hitch to the mirador. We don't actually stand there on the side of the street holding out a thumb or a forefinger. We are walking on the street in Nazca, and a man next to a vehicle asks if we are going to the lines, and we say yes. We agree on a price of four Soles, and he shows us to his car, where five other gentleman are already sitting. We get it, squished in the back. I am obviously the on-the-lap-so-everyone-can-fit girl, and obviously I am not sitting on a strange Peruvian man's lap, I sit on Wade's lap. Only once we are out of the city and on the PanAmerican Highway in wilderness does it occur to the two of us that we have basically hitched a ride, and that we would NEVER do something like this back in the States. We would NEVER get in a car with strangers, we would NEVER not put on our seatbelts, we would NEVER enter a minivan with more than seventeen people on it, etc. But it just makes sense here. Perhaps because there was an exchange of money, perhaps because the car already had several passengers, perhaps because we are traveling and having ADVENTURES, who knows.

Once at the mirador, we marvel at our surroundings. We are in the middle of a desert, with reddish mountains to one side, flatland on the other, and a narrow strip of highway in the middle going on and on and on. This highway is the PanAmerican, a road that stretches from the very bottom of Chile all the way to the top of Columbia, into Central America, and perhaps even across the border into one of our interstates. It is a long, long stretch of highway, and a road trip destination for the incredibly dedicated. Here, it is only two lanes -- one in each direction -- paltry, compaired to the 405 or 101 that stretch across California. And after our car drives on, empty. We cross it slowly, then run the other way, then stand in the middle and laugh.

We climb the mirador, which is a small hilly mound maybe three stories high. From the top, we can sort of make out some lines that stretch into the distance, and we can tell that way in the distance the lines twist around and make a shape, but that's about it.

While one the mirador, we meet some Japanese boys. Turns out they are on our bus tonight! There is also a small TV crew at the base of the mirador, and the boys tell us that the girl they are filming is a famous TV star. We saw a celebrity! In Peru!

We get back to the city by riding with one of the Japanese guys. All the internet places report that the net is down in Nazca. We have an early pizza (con palta, how wierd) at Julio's resturaunt. When we are done, the internet is back, and we do that for a bit. We have our first taste of the excellent SUBLIME chocolate bar, and go wait at the bus station.


Question of the Day: Name one quality of Peruvians you like, and one quality you don't. (Not truly a question, but it begs an answer, so there.)
Wade: He likes that Peruvians have no shame, and he doesn't like that they all have gaps in their teeth.
Me: I like that they love talking to tourists, and I don't like all the litter.

(My first response was that I loved all the pineapple products in this country, but it was pointed out to me that that is not a quality of Peruvians.)