I woke up after a pretty uneventful night and came downstairs to have breakfast. I took one last walk around the block, taking in the differences over a simple month period; graffiti, barricades, and destruction. I knew it was time to leave.
I hailed an Uber and got to the airport with no problem. I checked in my luggage, got my tickets, then headed to the souvenir shop to try and purchase one of the little bottles of alcohol for my brother-in-law. The cashier saw the alcohol and asked me where I was headed. I said Peru. The cashier said he could not sell me this alcohol. I asked if he was joking. He said no and put his hand out to take it back. As I was giving it to him, I thought about how strange this was. I tried again at another store and the same thing happened, only this time the cashier asked for my ticket and said she could not sell me the alcohol. I tried one more place and the same thing happened. I resigned myself to buying him a bottle opener instead.
The spirit in question was Pisco. Pisco is alcohol crafted from distilling grapes to a very high proof, like a grappa. Over the course of centuries after their independence from Spain, many of the countries had wars amongst themselves where they attempted to take each other’s territory. In this case, Chile moved north into Peru’s territory and took over large swathes of land, including the very town where a lot of these grapes were grown; oddly enough called Pisco. When the Peruvians repulsed the Chileans back across their border, they took as many varieties of grapes as they could and began growing them and distilling them south of the Peruvian border. Flash forward a few hundred years to today; the swords have been sheathed, but the pens are out. These two countries had traded soldiers for lawyers and are battling for the denominación de origen, or designation of origin. Just like one can only legally call sparkling wine from a very particular part of France champagne or cheese from a very specific part of Italy parmesan, both Chile and Peru are fighting for the right of their Pisco to be called officially Pisco.
I got on the plane, napped a little, read, then we landed. It was a pretty nice airport, no doubt due to the millions of visitors from around the world that came to Peru annually. I found my bag, found the exit, and hopped an Uber with my Venezuelan driver to the suburb of Lima, Miraflores. Getting out of the car, smelling the sea air, and looking at the fabulous architecture, I could tell I was going to like it here. It reminded me a lot of when I used to live in Santa Monica; it was that same type of beachy atmosphere with excellent homes and apartment buildings.
I checked into my hostel which was part of a beautiful large duplex, practically a mansion. The guy checking me in was very nice and showed me to my room, a 6-topper, in the back of the unit on the far side of a little courtyard. Everything was a little damp with humidity, and it was a little cold given our proximity to the ocean, so I knew I was going to love it. I set down my things and went to eat.
I was only a few blocks from the main artery through Miraflores, Avenida José Larco, and so I walked to find myself some dinner. I found a nice little Chinese restaurant and sat down. They had the news on and apparently, there was a rash of robberies going on in the city where people would hold up stores with guns while leaving their motorcycle helmets on. The proprietor of the restaurant pointed at the television while looking at me and pointed down the street, telling me in heavily accented Spanish that this did not happen that far away. I paid my bill and he smiled at me and told me to be careful.
I walked down Larco, and absolutely fell in love with the area. Walking past the Mardi Gras Casino, I continued down to a park called Parque Kennedy, named for President John F Kennedy. The city was bustling but felt safe. There were many stores, restaurants, and bars. As I was walking back, obviously not looking like a local, someone stopped me on the street. This guy asked me if I wanted to rent his girlfriend for a bit. Like I had done in Cambodia, I clasped my hands, looked him in the eye and said no thank you while I kept moving.
I walked back to the hostel and met my hostel mates. There was Andres from Finland, Ingrid from Norway, Emma from Sweden, and another gentleman from Brazil. We all sat around trading war stories, and although it was not a competition, I won the night with my Italian orgy story. After a little bit, I said goodnight to my new friends and headed to bed.
The next day, I got up and headed down to the beach. This coastal neighborhood was perched high above the sea on bluffs. I found a path that lead down to the bottom and used overpasses to cross a major coastal road to the pebble beach on the other side. Surf schools were setting up their tents for the day. The beaches looked rocky and had a plethora of sea urchins waiting like in Croatia for the uncautious foot. But there was a walking path and I headed south.
I ended up in a little city called Barranco. If Miraflores was Santa Monica, Barranco was Venice. It was a funky little artist enclave where the hip and young of Lima lived. It was beautiful. I divined my way to the Plaza de Armas and low and behold, found a Starbucks. I sat and got some internet to check on a few things then walked back home. I then got the shopping bag that had been with me since New Zealand and went to the store. But first, I stopped at a small restaurant and had the best ceviche of my life up until that point.
I made my way to the supermarket which looked just like any other, except their produce section. I had never seen fruits and vegetables like this. I settled on what looked like some oblong apples, as well as other foodstuffs that I would take back to the hostel and cook.
I took the rest of the day to relax, catch up on some work stuff, and chit-chat with my hostel mates. Before I went to bed, I messaged a young lady that matched with me on a dating app that was a local and asked her where the best ceviche was. She said she would love to show me and asked if I were free the following day.
The next day, I got up, did some work, and then headed back out to Barranco. I stood out. I was wearing the bright blue shirt I had purchased in Fremantle standing back in the Plaza de Armas. I saw her from across the park and immediately knew who she was. A was tall, around 5’9” given her partially German heritage. Although her lineage included Spanish as well, she was Peruvian all the way. We embraced quickly and then we headed to a small collection of restaurants down one of the winding streets of Barranco.
It was an outdoor type of place with many little restaurants offering their lunches. She promised the best ceviche and she delivered. We shared a bottle of beer while we ate and talked. She had learned English while attending a British Catholic High School for girls in Lima. However, we went back and forth in Spanish and English throughout the whole conversation. She was very interested in my travels and I told her all about them.
I have a pretty black sense of humor, though. Based on where and how I was raised, that was pretty par for the course. I did not realize that I had joked a few too many times about my fake sexual tourism in Cambodia. Given my love for Cambodia and the people there as well as the silent promises I made to help the children there while I was standing in front of the Killing Tree, it was the only way I knew how to cope with seeing what I had seen. I could tell that A was getting a little uncomfortable with the jokes, so I changed topics and asked if she had been to the States. As a market research executive, she had and even had been to New Orleans. She also helped teach English to kids from all over the world when she worked for an education program that traveled the States.
The date was going well so after lunch I asked if she knew any bars nearby. We walked down a little floodway that bisected Barranco. She knew a restaurant with a deck so we sat out there and I was introduced to the delectable libation Pisco Sour. We talked some more and had another round. Since she was on her last day of vacation from work, she said there was another bar down the road on the beach. We got up and headed that way.
We crossed the street and stood in front of the bar for a second. She was on the curb looking in my direction at about my eye level. Although she was not my usual type, I was drawn to her. I leaned in, she leaned in, and we kissed right there in the parking lot. It was a nice feeling.
We headed into the bar, got a seat outside and I ordered us a round of beers as I could tell the Pisco Sours had softened our inhibitions. Looking out at the water, A pointed to an island in the distance. Through the now foggy haze of the late afternoon, she said this was a special island where a lot of the birds of Lima nest and have for thousands if not millions of years. She said that it has been an important source of guano for this region of Peru since colonial times. So, I chimed in calling it Bird Shit Island, which caused her to laugh uncontrollably. I put my arm around her and she nestled in. Besides the words written in script tattoed across her décolletage, her low-rise jeans partially exposed a giant cherry blossom tree on her left hip.
As we sat there, she apologized that she could not give me a sunset. This time of year, there was a perpetual haze in Lima as the warm air mixed with the cool water. I said I blamed her entirely, leaning in for another kiss.
As we headed back up to the main street of Barranco, it had gotten dark. A asked if I was hungry. I was so we walked into a little bar/sandwich shop and she ordered us sandwiches. And some more beer. We ate and talked some more. Then I told her about traveling to Cuba during college and she wanted to show me the best spot for mojitos. Afterward, we walked to another bar. After that round, she looked at her watch and said that it was late and that I could stay at her place if I was too far gone to make it home. Taking the subtle cue, I said sure.
When we got to her apartment, where she introduced me to her dog Dante. Dante was a special breed known as a Viringo, which is a Peruvian hairless dog. Due to millennia of inbreeding (as they are apparently racist to other dogs) they have notoriously weak teeth that fall out, causing their tongues to hang out of their mouths. After I met Dante, A and I both got very sleepy and went to bed.
The next morning, we cuddled for as long as we could before she needed to get up and go to work. Before she went, I gifted her my Defend New Orleans shirt that I was wearing underneath the blue one that I had intended to give to the Serbian rapper back in Belgrade. She absolutely loved it. I asked if I could see her again, and she wholeheartedly agreed. We exchanged contact info and I got dressed and walked her with her as she took Dante out before work. There was a convenience store and since I was pretty hung over, I was sure she was too. I bought a ginger ale and a sports drink and gave her what she wanted. I waited with her until her Uber arrived to take her to work. Before she got in, we kissed and made plans to see each other that coming Saturday.
Half hungover, half asleep, I walked back to Miraflores. I arrived at the hostel, took a shower, brushed my teeth, then went to bed. I woke up and did some work. I checked in with A that had an interesting proposal of having a weekend getaway to a small beach town outside of the city. It was intriguing and I told her so.
Now, this is where many people thought I was nuts; basically going to an undisclosed location far away with a stranger. But, we spent a lot of time together and I felt comfortable with her. No red flags had been flashing. And she only joked a few times about stealing my kidneys.
I took another nap, did some more work, then shared some Medellin rum with my Colombian roommate. It was pretty good so I had two more shots! I then watched a little TV, including my favorite that was winding down Mr. Robot, and was wondering what else I needed to see in Lima.
The next day, I got up, had the hostel-supplied breakfast, then headed out to mail my postcard to the boys. On the way home, some old man told me I was too white and needed more sun. I thought that was a pretty weird thing to say to a stranger. I went to a pharmacy and bought some sunscreen, kind of heeding that weirdo’s advice just in case I needed it as we would be going to the beach. I also got some snacks for the ride. A told me she would be late, but I headed over to her apartment after packing. I hung out on the curb until she arrived. I met her roommate that was also her best friend. She was a very pretty, very cool light-skinned Afro-Peruvian young lady; a former beauty queen. I did not know there was an African culture here, but apparently, many of these people were brought from Africa as slaves to harvest cotton. Unfortunately, due to the severity of the climate difference and disease, many perished.
We said our goodbyes and took an Uber to the bus stop. It would take a few hours to get to Pisco, then make a transfer to Paracas, so I used A as my pillow. I told my family where we were going and I had made the hotel reservations so they knew we would be coming. We arrived at the bus depot in the middle of the Peruvian desert (I had no idea Peru had a desert) outside of Pisco and got another Uber to Paracas. The proprietors of the hotel had to wait up for us, but they let us in and showed us our room. Suddenly, we both got very sleepy.
The next day, because it was very hot, we spent a lot of it napping. When we weren’t napping, we got breakfast at a lovely adjacent restaurant, walked around the very small town, got a delicious seafood lunch at the lovely restaurant Muerele Viejo, went to the beach, had some drinks, then dinner. It was an excellent day.
The next day, we had a lazy morning, punctuated with our hotel neighbors staring at us while we were at breakfast. Apparently, we were napping very loudly the previous day and night. But that was ok. We packed up our things and A scored us day passes to a local resort. Apparently, her friend’s family owned a chain of resorts all over Peru, as well as hospitals, so getting us access to the pool was no problem. We had a few drinks while we talked. This is where I would get my true education about Peru.
Being a native as well as doing market research all over the country, A knew the heart and soul of Peru intimately. She said that in Peru, roughly the top 5% of the population own 97% of the wealth. These were the families that owned the supermarkets, the farms, the banks, the mining, the media and the very resort which we were enjoying. She said that the next 10% owned 2%. These were the doctors, the lawyers, the executives, and the business owners. She then said that the bottom 85% owned 1% of the wealth. These were the farmers, the workers, and unskilled labor. And of this 85%, 45% were barely literate while 40% were completely illiterate. This was mind-boggling to me, not the fact that over a supermajority of people had so little, but that a fraction had so much. We were talking of the top having multiple billions of dollars.
Another interesting facet that I learned about Peru was regarding their higher education. To be educated in the upper echelon of Peruvian universities, one had to shell out $90,000 PER YEAR. She said that it was cheaper for a lot of the best and the brightest of Peru to go to universities outside of their homeland, especially in the United States where higher education was a bargain. A got her marketing degree in Argentina.
After pool time and our Pisco Sours, we packed up and headed to lunch. We went to Muerele Viejo again and had ceviche and filled avocado. It was delicious.
We then caught a cab back to Pisco, made out in the backseat a little as we drove, then caught the slow bus to Lima. As I was paranoid due to the packed bus, I made sure to keep my huge bag on my lap. A was not so lucky. She needed to work on the ride and when she reached up to put her computer back, someone had walked off the bus with it. I felt bad because we were speaking English the whole ride and that made us a target. The fucker also stole a keyring I had gotten for her to commemorate our time together as well as her Government Issued ID.
When we got to the bus station, A made a report, and we caught an Uber back to her place. As we were dozing off, with A in my arms, I asked if she wanted to be my Peruvian girlfriend. She then said she wanted to be just my girlfriend. I agreed and we kissed on it. Maybe it was just the weekend of fun in the sun, but we both ended up sleeping very well.