Day 2 - Lima - Cuzco

Coastal clouds over Lima

A Ramada hotel is not really Peru, so all this isn’t quite sinking in yet.
     A quick breakfast and then back across the street to the airport.  Complete chaos but of a somewhat organized sort.  A Seňora Adelante (which means “forward” in Spanish) at the front of the line helps the flow.  There will be more Ms. Adelantes in our future.
     We check in and head to the pre-boarding area... where we almost end up in Arequipa.  Wrong line.  Then wait on the tarmac while the crew tries desperately to figure out how to secure a quadriplegic passenger in an upright position for take-off.  (It was the same Japanese person who was in our hotel breakfast room.  I salute the family’s determination not to leave this relative behind, even on such an oxygen-unrich voyage to a mountainous region.)

The Andes

Cuzco valley

We take off over a sea of clouds that break like surf against the surrounding hills. Up and up to clear the snow-capped Andes - August is February down here.  Then the pale green deserted mountains and high plains.  And after an hour we circle a valley without descending much... the mountains have risen to reach the plane.  A sharp bank reveals Cuzco, and we’re here.
     At the taxi stand, a uniformed lady asks us where we’re going, calls it out to the drivers, who quote a price of 30 soles ($10.50) and we all agree - no taxi meters here, so the help is appreciated.  She is another Ms Adelante.
     The transit convinces me that I will under no circumstances be driving here.   It’s one gigantic game of chicken ... and through narrow streets.

     The hotel is wonderful.  An old Inca house of huge basalt foundations, with a stone door that I later find out gives the hotel its name:  Rumi Punku - Stone Door.  In spite of its age, it’s well-equipped, and friendly.  We no sooner present ourselves at the front desk than the clerk calls out for two coca teas.  I decline, so he says the second one’s for him.  A diplomat.  He warns us not to do much the first day and to do it slowly.  No alcohol.  Eat light.
     After we stow our bags, he orders us a taxi and we head off to clear up the Machu Picchu mess.  When the driver stops, he announces this is it:  a grubby building in the ‘hood.  We get out, hoping he’s right, and he drives off.  It sure isn’t what I expected a Regional Office of Culture to look like.
     We are the only non-natives in the line.  A guard comes out and we ask for Mr. Aguilar.  He appears and escorts us down a hall, past stacks of cardboard boxes and into a back room that could hardly be called an office.  But in spite of the setting, Mr. Aguilar works his magic.  We get in line, buy entry tickets for the first two available days - which turn out to be August 11th and 12th - and then bring them back to his window where his assistant changes the dates for the 5th and 6th, stamps them... and we’re good.  That’s all it took.  I call to him - I seem to be only a vague memory - and he shakes my hand, tells me to enjoy and we’re off.  Knowing how much this means to me, my daughter has been a rock through this crisis and her Spanish is so much better than mine!
     The Avenida de Cultura (sic) is lined with construction materials stores.  But as it enters what I take to be the city proper, it changes.  I see a sweater shop and buy one made of newborn baby alpaca wool, “from the chest only, and we don’t kill them to get it” the clerk reassures.

     Nearby is the Church of Santo Domingo.  Although the guidebook says it’s open “on an erratic basis”, today babies and children are being christened by one of the kindest, most gentle priests I’ve ever seen.  And my daughter seems to connect with the church’s aura so we spend quite a while.  The sitting is good because I’m starting to feel the altitude.

     After the church, we head up Calle Pampa del Castillo, a narrow street between walls completely made of those amazing Peruvian stones you can’t slip a sheet of paper between.  (The next day I find out it’s the street with the 12-cornered stone that’s in all the guidebooks.)  Through a doorway, we spot a market.  We look in and there’s a baby goat with a silly knit cap on.  I go in to take a photo.  Although I’m pretty fast with a camera, the little girl with the goat is wise to this and scoops up the goat with one hand while fanning out her colorful skirt with the other hand. Just as quickly her friend pops up next to her and fans out her skirt.  Then yet another shoves a second goat in my daughter’s arms.  And finally they ask for money in return, which we expected, even though we didn’t ask them to pose.  But we don’t have soles yet so we offer them dollars, which they don’t want, even though they can be easily exchanged.  They follow us to the gate of the market, pleading for “real money”, but it’s the best we can do.

Plaza de Armas

    Up at the corner is the Plaza de Armas and I really need something to drink.  We see a balcony that says “cappuccino” so up we go.  It’s lovely and the service is kind - which seems to be the way here.  And the chocolate cake luxurious.  We both enjoy watching the show down on the plaza.  The shoeshine boy and all the Andean-dressed women carrying their wares home in a blanket on their back.
     The hotel is uphill and I’m having a bit of distress now in spite of the meds.  It’s a slow progression and my daughter is patient.  I haven’t eaten since the sandwich on the plane but I’m not hungry.  A restaurant - Piedras y Carbon (stones and charcoal) - is just down the street from the hotel and my daughter decides to try cuy (guinea pig, pronounced coo-ee), expecting it to be like rabbit.  Turns out it’s more like chicken.  The two ladies who own and run the restaurant explain they raise the animals themselves and feed them only organic things.  (Organic and recycling seem to be big here.)  The cuy turns out to be moist and not greasy in spite of being fried.  The restaurant will deliver, but we get it “to go”, which seems to surprise them a bit.  Maybe it’s because it’s early still, and we’re so European-looking.
     While we’re waiting, my fingers begin to tingle, and then my toes.  My daughter, who is a doctor, informs me that’s the altitude and it’s getting serious so the minute we get back to our room, before eating her cuy, she makes me a cup of coca tea and I snuggle under the warm covers and go to sleep.  It’s only about 7 or 8 o’clock.