Who Doesn't Like Extended Travel Days?

This was written on May 24, but internet issues prevented me from posting until now. More blogs will be following soon (or at least as web connectivity allows). 

There is a point in traveling where you realize you have absolutely hit your limit.

For me, that was the 23-hour mark at the Lima Airport. Fran and I had made the conscious decision to book flights to Cusco at 6 a.m. after landing in Lima around midnight. We figured it was better to get the biggest travel day out of the way initially.

And the plan worked fine, as we sat in a food court outside of security and played cards in the glow of Peru’s finest cuisine (which consisted of McDonalds, Papa John’s and Dunkin’ Donuts – I wish I was kidding). Because we booked flights separately from our entry to Peru, we had to check in with Peruvian Airlines, and they would not open until 4 a.m. No problem. There were several other weary travelers doing the same thing – even if all of them appeared to be 21 years old and somewhat used to pulling all-nighters. Fran would probably add that there was a woman of retirement age, sitting a few tables away and speaking to a young Peruvian gentleman, except the “conversation” involved her talking for three-straight hours without a pause, while he made a face that was clearly meant to beg anyone around to help save him

We checked our bags at 4 a.m., reentered the terminal and proceeded to our gate in an area downstairs. For those people who are familiar with Denver International Airport, this was very similar to Gates B80 and higher, which we commonly refer to as Kansas (yes, that’s a compliment but also fairly far removed from the rest of the airport). The area in the Lima Airport consists of six gates and a waiting area that was big enough for one gate.

It was complete chaos, but it was going to be less than two hours. I was longing for the moment I could get on the plane and sleep. That’s what kept me going. At least it kept me going until 5:50 a.m., when the airline announced that our flight would be delayed due to weather in Cusco. As it turned out, that was exactly 23 hours after we got to DIA.

In the States, we have gotten used to airlines providing an estimate on when the delay will end, and we can all continue on our way. We don’t like it – and most of the time they end up changing it several times anyway – but it is a system we are used to, and it prepares us for how long the misery of waiting might last.

In Peru, they don’t do that. They just say it’s delayed, and they promise to give updates in a few minutes.

Three hours later, Fran and I were taking turns napping, knowing that if we slept through the boarding of our flight, we were in trouble. We watched four other flights leave for our same destination (apparently, LAN charges more for its flights because it uses bigger planes and therefore can land in worse weather).

Finally, I got up and approached the counter in my best English asked, “Habla ingles?” It was worth a shot and seemed better than “Una mas cerveza,” which pretty much exhausts the rest of my Spanish vocabulary.

The woman at the counter said she didn’t know much, but I asked for an update while acting out every word (go ahead and try to act out “update”). She said she wasn’t sure when we would take off, but maybe not until that night.

Dejectedly, I went back to report my findings to Fran. Fifteen minutes later, Fran made the same walk to the desk and two minutes later returned to tell me we were about to take off. Obviously, Fran has powers of persuasion that I do not possess. This fact should not surprise anyone.

It was four hours later than expected, but we finally made it to Cusco and checked into our hostel. The plan was to take a shower to wash away 30 hours of airports and airplanes, grab a bite to eat in town and wander. And that was the order of importance.

Cusco is a town full of apologies, and we discovered that fact quickly. When we arrived at the hostel and went to our private room, we discovered the water was not working in our bathroom. I returned to the front desk to find out what was going on, and she told me in the most apologetic way possible, “I am sorry, but the water is out all around this area. It is not just us. I am so very sorry.” I believed her, just as I believed her husband when he explained the same thing to us. Clearly they were not happy with the lack of water because it reflected poorly on them and their establishment.

Let me be clear, though, the Kurumi Hostel is great, and so are the proprietors. We did not blame them for the lack of water, regardless of how much we wanted to shower.

Instead, we headed out to find food. The hostel is an easy walk to Plaza de Armas in the center of town, so there are plenty of restaurants nearby.

Fran has a rule while traveling – one that I quickly adopted as well. She refuses to eat at any restaurant with a person out front pushing menus at everyone who passes.

About a block away from the plaza, we saw a sign for El Jardin Secreto. The door led to a short hallway that opened into a courtyard. We had found our place.

Under the clear awning of the courtyard were a few groups that all looked American, and on the other side under a wooden roof were several locals. We found a table with the locals and asked for the set menu. It’s common for Peruvian restaurants to offer a set menu at a reasonable price (often ridiculously reasonable or flat out cheap), which obviously means you get whatever they might want to serve you.

We got soup, followed by a rice and chicken dish, and we decided to wash it down with a bottle of Pilsen beer, which comes in liter bottles.

After we finished eating, I noticed a man at the next table looking my way with his glass in the air. “Salud, amigo,” I called to him. He smiled, stood up and approached our table.

I moved my backpack from the chair next to us, and motioned for him to sit. That’s when the fun began. His name was Cyrus (although when I asked him again later, he gave me something completely different, and neither of those names matched the ones I happened to see on his license). That’s OK. We’ll stick with Cyrus.

Cyrus: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus to Fran: “Where are you from?”

Fran: “I’m from Colorado, too.”

Cyrus back to me: “Where are you from?”

It seems that Cyrus may have had a beer or two before joining us, but I answered again.

Cyrus to me: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “Why are you sorry?”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

Me: Puzzled look, shaking my head slightly.

Cyrus to Fran: “My English is not so good. But you have beautiful, how you say?, eyes.”

Fran, blushing slightly: “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Cyrus to me: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “You don’t need to be sorry. I agree that her eyes are beautiful.”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

To make it up to us, or perhaps just because he was thirsty, Cyrus called the waitress over and ordered another bottle of beer for our table. He filled each of the three, and we all raised our glasses. Cyrus looked at me and clinked his glass on mine, then turned and did the same with Fran. He then turned back to me and clinked my glass, and turned back to Fran and did the same. Finally, after the fourth time, Fran and I took a drink, while Cyrus drained his glass.

Cyrus: “I’m sorry."

Cyrus looks at Fran: “I’m sorry.”

Cyrus looks back at me: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus to Fran: “Where are you from?”

Fran: “Colorado.”

Cyrus looks back at me: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus: “Are you two a couple?”

Me: “Yes.”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “Don’t be sorry.”

I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure Cyrus followed that apology by asking if he could take Fran home with him, so that he could “manage her.”

The conversation continued for at least 30 minutes, but I won’t bore you with the details because it would simply be repeating the exact passage from above 2-3 more times (although at one point, Cyrus clinked glasses with Fran 12 times in a row – I counted – before finally realizing he was supposed to take a drink, which in his case was draining his glass).

One of Cyrus’ friends fell while leaving his table. I’m talking full on cartoon character slips on a banana peel moment, splayed out on his back. Another friend attempts to help him up using sort of a bear hug from behind, and both of them fell together like pair of intertwined trees falling in the forest.

That was the moment when Fran and I decided to make our exit. It was about 3 p.m., and we needed a nap. We paid, exited and swiftly made a few quick turns on the street because Cyrus seemed to be tailing us in that ultra-slow, drunk out of his mind sort of way (in other words, it did not take much to lose him).

We considered that a successful first meal in Peru, and headed back to clean up and nap.

Note: When we returned to the hostel after lunch, the water was still not on. However, the fine owner offered to turn on a reserve he kept for emergencies. It seems that the smell permeating from my body was deemed an emergency (Fran clearly does not ever smell bad). The city finally had the water working again around 10 p.m.