A Quarter Century

Yesterday, in the midst of my Pisac Adventure, I turned 25 years old. I´m excited about what´s to come, to be sure. But 24 was pretty damn good. I learned to write legislation, worked to help nursing home workers protect their residents, visited three continents (and the American South, which is like a different country), watched my friend argue before the supreme court (and WIN!), and got to live in DC.

But most of all, I got to do it all with great family and friends (sappy, I know, but true). So thank you all for a fantastic year.

The Textures of the Andes

My mother, the artist, (right, with a local boy) looks everywhere and sees compositions, potential drawings, and textures just waiting to be juxtaposed in her latest designs. As my father and I galavanted over the ruins at Pisac, my mother sat perched with her pen and graph paper, just trying to take it all in (i.e. the landscape, the ruins, the light, the textures).

Our first trip up the mountain, we went up late and quickly lost the light (we had spent far too much time bargaining in the markets below), and had to cut the trek short or be caught on the mountain in the dark. But the views were so incredible (and my mother had so many images she wanted to draw), that we went back the next day. (That´s my dad, left.)

The ruins at Pisac are in three sections, perched, integrated seamlessly into mountain peaks that overlook the Sacred Valley below. Though physically, there are no similarities, the site reminded me of how I felt about Beng Melea in Cambodia. Beng Melea is a temple more than an hour outside the Angkor Wat complex, and even though its design is not as grand as those of the more famous temples, its setting, integration with nature, the fact that we (E&K and I) were among the only people there, made it the gem of my time in Angkor. I have a feeling I´ll feel the same way about Pisac . . . I´m sure Machu Picchu will be breathtaking, but getting to explore these ruins with my dad in the splendor and silence and sunshine of the Andes is simply one of the most amazing things I´ve ever done.

As my father and I let ourselves become absorbed in the jaggedness and height of the mountains, my mom made sure we didnt ignore the richness of the textures that surrounded us. She had me take more than 50 pictures of just textures - of trees, rocks, farmlands, terraces - so that she can plug them to her designs via photoshop when she gets home. In her honor, here are some of the most incredible textured images:

Taking Back the Festival: A Coup at Inti Raymi

Today was Inti Raymi, the Incan festival of the sun and Cuzco´s biggest festival of the year. My parents arrived early in the morning after an overnight flight from Chicago. So while my mother took a much needed nap, my dad and I headed down to the old Incan Temple of the Sun, where Peruvian soldiers in Incan costumes danced for the opening ceremony of the festival (right). The crowd was packed with tourists and tour groups. While I didn´t want to sour the experience for my Dad, who was just soaking up the glory of the Cusqueño streets, I couldn´t repress an internal groan at the commercialism. I had already been ambivalent about whether the festival was just a stunt for tourists or whether it was something that had real meaning for the Cusqueño people. This did not seem to bode well.

The festival starts at the Temple of the Sun and then the soldiers and dancers procession first to the plaza de Armas and then up a mountain to Saqsaywaman, the Incan parade grounds. Everything culminates with a huge preformance at Saqsaywaman. Seats for the show (in a temporary arena) are a whopping 90 bucks and are clearly for the wealthy tourist set. Those who can´t or won´t pay, including all the locals, can watch from the surrounding hilltops. (Given that I couldn´t even bring myself to spend 90 USD on a Paul Simon concert, sitting in the arena seemed out of the question.) When my mom woke up from her nap, we headed for the hilltops.

It turned out that this year, a good portion of the hills had been cordoned off with caution tape, and those who couldn´t pay for seats were confined to a spot more than 300 meters away where nothing of the ceremony could be heard. Cops were posted on the hill tops (see picture above) to keep the non-paying set in line and we saw the occasional rogue visitor chased with what looked like clubs. The huge crowd (which had about a 65/35 ratio of Cusqueños to Gringos) briddled under these restrictions. Then, all at once, people began to rush the caution tape and make a run for the vacant parts of the hill (right). The cops were quickly overwhelmed by their numbers and within minutes the landscape was transformed the from that in photograph above to that in the photo on the right. It was AMAZING to watch, and the people roared their triumph as the cops finally acquiesed. And I had thought that the local Cusqueños didn´t care about the festival.

On our way back down the mountain, we made a quick detour that would prove me wrong yet again. Yesterday I ran into Gaby, a friend I hadn´t seen since middle school, in the street (more to come on this in another post). He and his friends, mostly Cusqueños, had planned a Wata and he had invited my parents and me to join in. A Wata is a traditional potato roast - people build mini igloo-shaped huts out of chunks of earth and build a fire inside. Once the hut turns from brown to black to grey, the cook shovels pounds of potatoes inside and then collapses the hut onto itself. When the potatoes are dug out 40 minutes later, they are perfectly cooked.

When my folks (left) and I got to the field where Gaby´s friends had their Wata, it looked like groundhogs had run amok - there probably more than 200 Watas just in that one area, in different stages of completion. Tens of hundreds of families were outside grilling meat, eating potatoes, playing volley ball, riding mules and thoroughly enjoying their holiday from work (everything in Cuzco was closed for Inti Raymi). This was truly Inti Raymi as the Cusqueños celebrate it. Gaby´s friend´s welcomed us with open arms, pounds of potatoes and freely flowing Inca Kola and Crush.

Not a bad first day in Peru for my parents, eh?

El Cuy Rico [The Tasty Guinea Pig]

Erika, Jackie (from England) and I boarded yet another minibus (this one only distinguished itself because I managed to fall asleep standing up) in order to visit Tipon (yet another ruin). The bus dropped us off at the side of the road and a taxi carried us up the steep 4 km climb to the ruins. At several points on our way up, the engine shut off and and we began to slide backwards down the hill. We gripped the door handles and tried to breath deeply while the driver ran outside, popped the hood and fiddled around. Eventually we made to the top. Tipon has fantastic terraces and an amazingly advanced irrigation system (see Jackie and I, right.) We wandered up hills and down and Jackie (below) tried her hand at hand-standing in front of the gorgeous panaramic view.

But our true attraction to Tipon are the Cuyerias at the base of the mountain. Cuy, or guinea pig, is one of Peru´s national dishes. And like Inca Kola, they say you´ve got to try it before you leave the country. The trick is to make sure you are acutally eating a guinea pig. Cuy is actually fairly expensive these days and I was forewarned in Lima that if I see cheap cuy on the street for anything less than 12 soles ($4), it´s probably a rat.

Now, I never had a guinea pig as a pet, so in principle, I´ve got no problem with eating one. (Jackie felt VERY differently and could barely bring herself to go to the cuyeria, and Erika wouldn´t mind eating cat even though she has one.) My problem was rather with having the anguished face, complete with teeth staring at me throughout the meal. I also had difficulty ignoring the charred curled little feet which stuck out stiffly. Erika just kept repeating to herself, ¨Rats have pointier faces, rats have pointer faces.¨In the end, not only did we manage to taste it (its a bit gamey and wee bit tough, though the seasoning was quite impressive), but we managed to clean off a good portion of the meat (not that there is a ton . . . the cuy is mostly bones.) Proud of ourselves as we were, I don´t think any of us need to do that again any time soon.

The Tragedy of Travel: Losing Your Camera

So I lost my camera. With all my pictures. I stepped out of a car that was giving us a ride back from Tipon and saw a flash of silver in the back seat as it started to pull away. I reached into my bag to check for my camera and by the time I realized it was gone, the car was too far away to chase, or even to read the liscense plate. There went three weeks of pictures. Guess posting on this blog has had some uses after all. (And I should be able to steal some of the pictures from the other students here.)

Overcrowded in Maras? It´s No Sacrifice.

On a whim, Erika (the North Carolinian), Sonya (a french woman), and Julian (Soyna´s 9 year old son) decided to visit ruins around the town of Maras after classes got out at 1. So we crammed ourselves on another minibus. An hour and a half later we were dropped off in the middle of the Sacred Valley, at the turn off for the road to Maras. A single (tiny) cab was waiting to take tourists like us to nearby Moray (right). That would have be just fine, except that two other women had also disembarked in search of a ride. The women crammed into the front seat with the driver and Erika, Sonya and I squished in the back with Julian draped across our laps.

Then, suddenly, a cop in full uniform approached from behind the car - he too had just gotten off the bus. He rattled off something quick and incomprehensible in breathless Spanish and the driver (reluctantly) got out of the car. The policeman took his place behind the wheel. We had no idea what was happening. Crammed in as we were, it took some manuvering to turn around and see that the previous driver had popped the trunk and propped himself inside.


The car, with its precarious load wound its way slowly around curvess and through the dense flocks of sheep (left) which blocked our path. (Jericho, my parents´ bearded collie, has fantistic herding instincts and would have proven immensely useful.) When we arrived in Maras, the cop dropped himself and the two women off in the main town square. The driver resumed his rightful place inside the car and drove us to the rarely visited Incan ruins of Moray.

Moray takes Incan terracing to a whole new level. The site looks remarkably like an inverted version of the red hats that Devo was famous for in the 1980´s. The land has been carved into a circular bowl with graduated levels, and each apparently has its own micro climate. Archeologists hypothesize that the Incans used the site figure out which altitude was best for growing which crops. At the bottom of the basin, Erica and I (left) found a forest of multi-colored grains growing more than six feet tall.


But by far the most impressive feat of Incan engineering we saw that day were the salt mines at Salineras, a twenty minute cab ride from Moray. Now when you think "mine", you think "cave". Think again. About 500 years ago, the Incas discovered a small spring of heavily salted water and figured out that if they let it run through sand box sized depressions, they could filter out the salt and harvest it. Today, the mines are still in use and cover a full mountainside. Most of the salt in Peru, both for human and animal consumption, comes from this single site. Talk about sustainable agriculture. We made our way along along an INCREDIBLY narrow path of packed residual salt atop of terraces/mines. That´s a picture of my foot (below) balanced precariously on the path, as I tried desperately not to fall into the water below and ruin the annual salt crop (not to mention my snazzy outfit.)

The taxi returned us to the main road just as the sun was setting, and we axniously flagged down an already-packed minibus. We clamored up the stairs and held on for dear life as the bus zoomed off before the door was closed. After 45 minutes of standing chest to chest in the aisle (at least we didn´t have to worry about falling!), I finally made it to the back of the bus to snatch a newly-vacated seat next to two Peruvian guys.

Enrique and David were charming and chatted me up (in Spanish) about the United States and Peruvian and American music. David asked me if I knew his favorite song: Elton John´s "Sacrifice." I wasn´t sure which song he meant and so he stumbled through the melody until we got to the only words we actaully knew: "Its no sacrifice. No sacrifice at all." The lyric (minus the irony EJ intended) seemed to sum up the day pretty well, indeed. I promised to email him a spanish translation of the lyrics (he didn´t know what he was singing) as soon as I was able to.

Learning Spanish the Hard Way

On Monday, I finally started my formal Spanish classes at tiny school called, predictably, Macchu Picchu Spanish School. Yes, I´m actually voluntarily waking up at 7 am every morning, to get school on time and take 4 hours of classes a day. And even more, I´m voluntarily spending my afternoons making and running through flash cards of verbs and their conjegations. But, then again, I´m doing it in cafes that overlook colonial plazas, so I guess my life is not that rough.

Also not rough: my living situation. I signed up to live with a host family. And I got a set up with a great one, but a typical peruvian household it´s not. I´m living at the house of the director of the school with three other students . The house also has two employees, Peruvian students, who cook us all our meals and clean our rooms in exchange for room and board. I not only have my own double bed, I have my own bathroom. I feel incredibly pampered, and not just a little guilty.

But there are some upsides:

Rosa and Gladys are the two Peruvian students who live here and they are fantastic. Rosa, particularly suffers through my slowly improving Spanish, and takes the time to sit and chat about her boyfriend and the trials and tribulations of her program at the university (she´s studying tourism.)

I´ve moved out of Central Cuzco and am now living on Avenida de la Cultura, where there is bearly a tourist in sight and the city buzzes along in muchos colores (many colores). Its fantastic to spend time in a completely different part of the city.

Finally, the other students are fantastic. I live with Erika (from North Carolina), Julie (from France) and Jackie (from England). I suppose Julie has reasons to dislike me as I took over Octavio´s room (he´s a gorgeous Brazilian who she just started dating) and he moved out, but she´s fantastic. After our welcome dinner last night, students and professors alike made their way to a dingy basement Karaoke bar, where we belted out some fantastic 80´s classics (the words on the prompter were hysterically incorrect) and struggled through some of our favorite spanish pop. Plus, Octavio sang Julie a love song. (left)

Among the selections:

• Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)
• Living on a Prayer (Bon Jovi - Beth, I thought of you)
• A Whole New World (Disney´s Aladdin - Not my fault I swear. Chalita, who is Thai, was to blame for that.)
• A Dios Le Pido [I pray to God for this] (Juanes - Elisa, aren´t you proud of me??)
• Stairway to Heaven (Led Zepplin - Sonya, another French woman, hit this one to the rafters).

I´ve got singing til I´m hoarse down pat, and I can even translate the occasional sappy spanish love song (not so different from sappy American loves songs, it turns out.) Now, if I can just master future tense, I´ll be golden . . . .

Pisac: Toilet Empanadas and Other Delicacies

For our last hurrah before Darin made his his way back to the good 'ol USA (yes! he made it back safely!), the two of us decided to venture outside the charmed city of Cuzco in order to explore part of the near-by Sacred Valley, home to Incan ruins and quaint Andean towns galore. Our target? Pisac, which just happened to be hosting its famous market that day. (A Coincidence? Unlikely.)

We hopped on a minibus for the hour long ride into the valley - total cost: 2.2 soles (less than $1) . The bus was packed, every seat full with people sanding in the aisles, and vares to be sold pouring out of the tiny overhead spaces. And when we arrived, the town, and the market were worth every squished minute. Pottery? Peruvian Weavings? Vegetables? Llamas? Towering mountains? Hilarious signs? You name it, they had it. Mmm . . . Toilet Empanadas - better than Inca Kola!

The moral of the story - if you are in the District of Cuzco on a Tuesday, Wedensday or Sunday, hop on a minibus.

Darin Never Rings Twice - Unless His Flight is Cancelled

Darin was supposed to fly out of Cuzco this morning. We did our requisite tearful goodbyes at the ungodly hour of 6 AM, and then, lo and behold at 10 AM, as I´m moping in my room, I hear an unexpected knock. Is it the hostal staff come to tell me that I really should have checked out by now? No! It´s Darin!

Now I would love to tell you that for the second time in his life, the absurdly punctual Darin missed a plane. But honesty requires that I admit his flight was canceled due to some invisible fog. And the best part? They couldn´t get him re-booked on another flight for 3 days! Who cares that he´s supposed to start a new job on Monday? Surely they¨ll understand that he is stranded in Peru.

My only regret? Thinking he was leaving yesterday, I finally yielded to guilt and pressure and drank Inca Kola. Very sneaky, Darin. Next time I won´t fall for your slick "Please? But, we´ll never see each other again!" routine.

Separated at Birth

In our exploration of Cuzco´s many fantastic shops, we came across some masks (the yellow ones) that bore a striking resemblance to our dear Darin. Tsk. Tsk. And he said he´d never been to Peru before.

Another Look at Cuzco

Warning: cliched post about the impacts and implications of privledge and travel to follow.

After spending some quality time languishing in cafes, we decided to go off in search of the non-tourist hub of the city. It was actually incredibly refreshing to find a thriving city outside the usual gringo haunts. We found bustling food markets and outdoor malls withwell-priced kicks - shoes - that would have made E´s heart patter (Darin´s heart didn´t skip a beat. Who would have thought cousins could be so different?). Perhaps the gem was the hopping Jesus of Nazareth Commerical Center (left).


Labor nerds that we are (we have both spent the last few years working for the same labor union), we were also fascinated to come across Cuzco´s hiring hall. Then, last night we had drinks with the Vermonters who were on our Lake Titikaka trip. They filming a documentary on mining in Peru (copper, silver and gold are the country´s main exports and mining ranks with tourism as one of the largest industries in Cuzco.) Since we last saw the two of them, they´d interviewed 5 different Mayors in the Cuzco region about the environmental impacts of local development. The mayors relayed their frustation at how development has tainted their water supply, and the fact that little of the profit from the newly privatized, foreign-owned mines stayed in the country. The scenario sounded hauntingly familiar (SEIU´s workers in the US have very similar greivances).

Cusqueños (people from Cuzco), like Peruvians across the country, have justifiably mixed emotions towards both development and tourism. Development brings jobs, and even though Peruvians see only a fraction of the profits, it is more than they were making ten or fifteen years ago. And as for we tourists, we take over Peru´s cities, but we bring our foreign currency with us - which argueably goes more directly into the pockets of the citizens than does a loan from the world bank. (Paul? Judah? Joelle? You tell me.) The Peruvians also have a tremondously rich cultural heritage that they are eager to share, and its hard to tell how much of it is national pride and how much is for the benefit of us gringos. One cab driver told us, beaming, that he had practiacally pure Incan blood and could trace his ancestors to before the conquistadores arrived. And right now, all of Cuzco is buzzing in preparation for Inti Ramyi, the Incan festival of the sun which takes place on the 24th of June. (That´s the Peruvian Army, below, practicing for the upcoming day-long procession.)


So, is it national celebration or a tourist stunt? Does it matter? And are we tourists a plague or a blessing? I´m sure there are no clear cut answers. I have so many friends who could speak more eloquently with far more authority on this subject than I - I´ve spent years avoiding international issues and keeping my head burried in the (to me) less complicated sands of domestic policy. But if I´ve signed myself up to spend 2 months here, I guess its about time to start grappling with the questions. . . .

Accepting (and Loving) the Tourist Life

When we were told that Cuzco, gateway to the famed ruins at Macchu Picchu, was more touristy than Arequipa, we were aprehensive. What we weren´t told is that it is absolutely fantastic. Nothing can take away from the wonders and charms of the small towns we visited in Colca Canyon and the islands. But if I am going to spend 20 days in a town in Peru (including my time with Darin, my spanish classes and my parents´ impending visit), I am glad it´s this one. Can you say Plazas? Cathedrals? Mountains? Live music? Fresh Vegetables?

Darin and I had been packing tons of sights into each and every city/region we visited and, upon seeing Cuzco spread before us (our hostal is on a hill), we decided it was time to chill out and simply spend 3 days doing a thorough investigation of the innumerable cafes, bars, and restaurants. After all, this is vacation! We´ve read (fiction!) on balconies, drunk absurdly sweet coffee (left), watched Argetinian jam sessions and wandered through markets. I also may have dragged him into every courtyard fabric vendor, pottery store and artisan shop this side of San Blas Plaza.

If we are going to be tourists, we might as well embrace it (in as culturally sentsitive a way as possible, of course.)

La Guerra del Arco Iris

Peru is known for both its knitted Alpaca wool crafts and for freezing unsuspecting tourists in the mountains (since it´s in the southern hemisphere, it´s winter down here). Knowing that we were going to be spending a lot of time on a windy boat, Darin and I indulged in the necessary accessories: knitted hats with Llamas on them and knitted rainbow gloves. Our past and present SEIU employees (or other SEIU fans) will be happy to know that Darin´s gloves have a purple middle finger.

In addition to making us incredibly chic, these purchases have had another impact: they have launched the unending Rainbow Wars (la Guerra del Arco Iris). Will my verde (green) triumph this time or will it need some help from azul (blue) in order to overcome Darin´s dreaded rojo (red)? The result is different, every time. Now if my mother, the undisputed thumb war champion, were wearing my gloves, there is no doubt that rojo would be headed to the bottom of the rainbow for good.

Exploring Las Islas OR Titikaka is Not Just a Dirty Word

When we told another hiker from our Colca Canyon trip that we were going to the Islands on Lake Titikaka (the highest navigable lake in the world), she said she wasn´t going because she had run into a guy from near the Swiss Alps who was NOT impressed by this puny lake crammed between Peru and Bolivia. Darin and I looked at eachother and thought, "Um, that kind of misses the point." This isn´t about finding the most breathtaking vista in the world, its about meeting people and exploring a place that is so culturally important to them. Turns out the vistas are breathtaking too. (That´s us, on an Amantani hill, overlooking Titikaka).

We managed to find a Captain who actually lives on one of the islands (Amantani) and who would take us to 3 different islands and put us up overnight with an Amantani family. Not only was this MUCH cheaper (read: $10 bucks) than the main tourist agencies, but we got to feel good about giving our money directly to the indigenous people instead of to semi-explotative mainlanders. Also on the boat with us? Two hilarious Canadians, 3 German girls and 2 more Vermonters.

The first stop was at the floating islands (above, right). The islands are about 30 feet square and litterally float in the middle of the lake. The ground is woven of boyant reeds (so it´s springy under your feet!), as are their houses and the boats. They take years to build and they are anchored by ropes attached to rocks. We took a ride in one of the reed boats and were seranaded by some of the local girls (left), who sang us the English songs they´d learned in school.

But the best part was staying on Amantani. We finally found a place that wasn´t overrun by tourists! We hiked up the highest hill, past women herding innummerable sheep, to the pre-Incan ruins of Pachamama and oggled the lake from above. Then to celebrate, we wandered down into the main square and drank Cusqueña beer (soooo much better than Arequipeña beer) with the local 20 somethings, who, again, told us how much they loved Obama. (When we asked why, they told us that he was joven - young - and moreno - dark skinned. We smiled and nodded.) The family we stayed with (friends of the captian´s) was lovely and generous. They fed us and then gave us about 50 pounds of blankets to battle the cold night. . . . they were so heavy, we could barely even roll over beneath them. And when we woke up at the ungodly hour of 7 AM (after 10.5 hours of sleep) it was to a spectacular view of the saphire lake.

No, Titikaka wasn´t bad at all.

Tomorrow, we are off to Cuzco (its Darin´s last city before he heads back to DC to start his new job, so we´re gonna make it good).

Keeping Up With the Navy

Darin and I just got from a 3 day hike through Colca Canyon - the deepest canyon in the world. We were with a group of 6, and the others included two 6´+ guys who just got out of 6 years in the Navy and 2 native Vermonters who were used to climbing the Green Mountains in their own back yards. Darin and I were the two city slicker interlopers who suddenly felt way out of their league. (Well, I was intimidated anyway. Darin was eager to show of his newly rehabilitated ankle.)





The terrain was beautiful and rocky. The first day we hiked down one side of the mountain to a bridge over the river at the center of the canyon, realizing with sinking certainty that each step down meant a step back up the next day. On the far side of the river we stayed in a tiny village called Cosmirhua, 300 years old and accessible only by foot and by mule. The showers were hot (baruch ha´shem!) and the stars were unbelievable . . . we could even see the star dust. The Navy boys (who turned out to be fabulous) told us they had only seen their equal when on ships in the middle of the ocean.

The hike back up the mountain was one of the hardest things we´d ever done: 1,100 meters (that´s about 11 football fields) of sustained uphill climbing with no breaks. Here´s a photo of a portion of the zig zag we trekked up. It took the navy boys 2 hrs 5 mins, Darin 2 hrs 40 mins, me 3 hours, and one of the Vermonters 3 hrs 15 mins. I actually wasn´t last! Frankly I was proud just to make it up. Then, when we got back, our tiny 4´11" hostel owner, Carla, shamed us all by telling us she made it up in 1 hr 45 mins.




Other highlights:

• Vladimir, our guide (who is Peruvian, not Russian, despite his name) . Darin gifted him his SEIU for OBAMA shirt, so that when Obama is the next US president, Vladimir (who is a huge fan!) can show it off to his friends.


• In the town of Cabanaconde, where we stayed one night, the locals store their potatoes on their tin roofs to dry. Pretty awesome looking from above.


• The stars. Did I mention the stars?


• Condors . . . they cruise over the canyon. Who would have thought birds of prey could be so graceful?
  
• We kept up with the Navy! (Well, anyway, good enough for government work.)
  
  

El Mamut Chiquitita Queria Drogar

Coca tea, made from the leaves of the Coca plant, is the traditional cure for altitude sickness around here. Darin was the first to indulge. So I couldn´t help singing him one of my favorite songs about a certain curious Mammoth (thanks Elisita!):

Un mamut chiquitita se quería drogar

probaba y probaba y no se podía drogar

un gato, su amigo, lo quiso ayudar y

10 líneas de coca le hiso probar (y qué pasó?)

Sobredosis, el mamut con sobredosis (bis)

(voz: y ahora qué le pasó?) Se murió, el mamut se murió (bis)

Tomorrow we head out to trek in the Colca Canyon (the second deepest in the world!) for 3 days, so I won´t be posting until we get back. Love to all back home.

UPDATE: We found a sub shop called MAMUT in Arequipa and had to take a picture.

The Last Supper was Cuy and Chiles

Darin got in on Sunday night and Monday morning, we headed out to Arequipa, a town in the Mountains along the south coast. The town is beautiful, built mostly of Silar, or volcanic rock. And in fantastic contrast to the white stone, the interiors (especially the those of the convent Santa Cantalina, which is a whole city within a city) are painted with vivid colors. I spent a good portion of this afternoon grinning ridiculosly in appreciation.


The catherdals are also divine, but perhaps the most striking things about them are the paintings within. Everytime the last supper is featured (and it´s featured a lot), the meal consists, not of bread and wine, but of traditional Peruvian fare: Cuy (guinea pig) and chiles. Anyone hungry?

Among the other fine peruvian dining options is Inca Kola, which Darin insists I try at some point before I leave. It´s the color of Mountain Dew on a bad day and (reportedly) tastes like bubblegum. My intent is to avoid it as long as possible. We´ll see how long I can hold out (he´s very tenatious). For now, my lips are sealed.