I usually write about France, which is where I've spent half my life.  The professional half.  The half where I was an interpreter and translator (and tour guide).  That blog is called Sandy's France and you can Google it.
But now it's time for me to have fun.  To write books.  And have photo shows.
And start in on my Bucket List before my 
     a) knees, 
     b) hips, 
     c) heart, 
     d) lungs, 
     e) all of the above
     give out.
So here we go.  We're off to Peru, and then on to Rapa Nui.  Episode 1.  

Miami Beach at dawn, as we prepare to land

Day 1

So here I sit in Miami Airport, waiting for my daughter to arrive from Cincinnati.  Miami Airport’s code is MIA.  Being of the Vietnam era, to me that means “Missing in Action”... but for the moment, her plane is only 10 minutes late, not missing.  Still, perhaps they should rethink that code.
     So far, this trip has been fraught with obstacles.  Plane tickets were easy, especially as my travel guy Garry did that.  Of course, he got both of us on planes at the crack of dawn (or 0 Dark 30, as my friend Carol says).  The hotel reservations were easy too, with far too many choices when you have no idea of the town's layout.  And then it all started to go south... which is logical for a trip to South America.
     From France, I had had no way to secure entry passes to Machu Picchu on-line.  And in espaňol, if you please.  But with 2,500 entries allowed per day and a month left to go, it should be easy, I thought then.
     But it wasn’t.  After returning to the States, the website wasn’t working.  When it finally worked again, it wouldn’t take credit card information.  I found an e-mail address and wrote for “ayuda” - help!  Four days later - and 36 hours only before my departure - I tried the suggestions I'd finally received.  Only to find that it wouldn’t take my request at all because... there were no more entries to Machu Picchu left!

     And this with thousands of dollars already spent for one sole purpose:  being at Machu Picchu on my birthday.
     With great difficulty, I find a phone number.  “Your call cannot be completed at this time.”  I call the Peruvian Consulate in Chicago.  They can’t help - Machu Picchu is an entity unto itself and the federal government has no control over it.  Interesting.  But the Consul tells me I have the right number.  He has been very kind to la seňora llorando (the lady who is weeping) that his secretary announced.
     Another half hour - and countless cycles of “press 1" and other incorrect instructions in an attempt to get a real-live operator to try the call.  Finally I’m told to just hang up and press O for operator, as in the old days.  Duh.
     And it works!
     The operator dials the number.  But it rings busy.  On the second try, it goes through.
     And then my luck turns.  The man who picks up the phone is very helpful.  He tells la seňora still llorando that he will help and sets an appointment for my arrival in Cuzco on Day 2.  Then he gives me his name:  Flavio Aguilar (the Eagle)... which is the same name as on the e-mail I'd received.  This must be a good sign, right?  If he will do as he promises, I won’t even have to stand in line when we get to Machu Picchu.  I love him already.

But back to the present.  My daughter arrives and we set out to kill almost eight hours until our plane leaves.  Which we manage to do by eating and talking and drinking caffeinated beverages and buying last-minute items such as spare camera batteries.

     The flight is exciting for me because we fly over Cuba, which is a big deal for someone who sat, shivering in fear of Armageddon, through the Cuban Missile stand-off between Kennedy and Khrushchev.
     The rest of the flight was the usual boring stuff that international flights have become.  We arrive to the chaos of Lima Airport.  Lines are approximate, and there are many.  We’re used to pusher-take-all non-lines in France, but we’re tired.  We just want to find our hotel and sleep.
     In addition to customs, there’s an x-ray security pass required for leaving the airport.  It’s evidently designed to find goods being smuggled into the country for sale.   We ask an airport guard where the hotel is and he points... across the street, literally.  We run the gauntlet of cab drivers and hotel hawkers and are asked at least twice by employees outside the hotel doors if we have reservations.  Is this security - there are many fences - or are they sold out?
     At last, our passports photocopied (which will happen throughout Peru), we are given our room key and a coupon for a free pisco sour at the bar, to which we immediately avail ourselves.  And then BED!

The  Andes in winter, as seen from the sky

N.B.  In case you're new to my blogs, 
all the photos are mine, 
except where stipulated to the contrary.