Kolleggerium

Haven’t blogged in a while, barely taking time to rest, but in a few days I do believe it is time for me to ramble on.

A road trip across some of these United States, starting after liberty, traversing from sea to sea.

Only tonight did I notice that my place here is on a flightpath, the distant train whistle of a passing jet reminding me it is time to go home. Peru, will I see you again? Maybe, maybe not. Seeing isn’t everything. We’ll stay in touch either way.

I’m nice. When I arrived last week I dropped my bags on the sidewalk to help a taxi driver who was trying to self push-start his car. Cynicism is important. Be critical. Just don’t use it as an excuse for doing nothing. Question everything, including yourself. Make fun of the cabbie, wonder why his car is even allowed on the road, then give him a hand.
Cynicism can make being nice seem un-cool. Here in Peru, it does not have to compromise your machismo. Yesterday my Nacho Libre-esque cabbie drove like a madman, bullying his way through traffic, flicking on a faux police siren when anyone got in the way, but sat patiently holding up traffic to allow an elderly man cross the road. He’s nice.

The Incas chose well when establishing their territory. Beautiful, fertile, and defensible, unless maybe when facing a cannon, the Sacred Valley is a fine place to call home. Fellow tourist Sam from Australia was so struck that she also started wondering about a move. Again, wait for the photos.

Mountains, Incan ruins, llamas, Spanish colonial… Wait for the photos.

While I carve up this alpaca, my current rumination is this: could I live here?

Sell the house: - the Andean flute players are way better than at inner harbor - Andreas sounds great with a rolled r - man this alpaca is good. And the ceviche? Mas por favor - I could do something useful here

Spin the globe again: - Lima’s air should come with a surgeon general’s warning - I’d have to start curing my own bacon - cholera is both a disease and an emotion in Spanish
- staying global may be tough

The Universidad Cayatano is 30 minutes from my apartment, 28 of which minutes are a thrill ride in creative traffic flow, a higher speed version of the cooperative right of way I’ve seen in other countries where livestock tempers the pace. As a component of the self-queueing index from Zambian what’s-a-road to Germanic riding-on-rails, I’d give it a 4.

Tomorrow, er-lie in the morning I fly to Cusco chasing that tourist high, on an actual tour. Switching cameras.

is the one you have with you. The best subject is whatever is in front of you.

The train to Machu Pichu is washed out, which is such a relief. Free of the junky-like need for extraordinary sights, mine is the voyeurism of every crumbling wall, shuffling foot, honking horn, stumbling translation, smiling face, and pile of meat chewed down while enjoying a medley blending The Ramones, B-52s, a-ha, Cheap Trick and Bryan Adams, and oh wait, yes… Scorpions.

Mabel tells me that mostly Peruvians like to talk and eat. To that I’d add that they’re an affectionate bunch. It’s a highschool dance of making out. Winding taxi rides have exposed poverty that would motivate robbing a silly gringo, but the streets I’ve walked have been city streets like any other and I’ve yet to feel uneasy.