Chapter 3: La Ciudad

No fun. That’s what I wanted to say to the “mama” of Las Sonrisas San Francisco, the group I was assigned to at the orphanage called La Ciudad de Los Niños. Eight-year-old Carlos and I were having a wonderful talk over our chicken noodle soup about what he had learned that day in math class when Mama came and slammed her tiny hand down on the table. “Come, come, come” she demanded rapidly – Eat, eat, eat! No fun. When we were not-quite finished eating, the cleaning up began. The eight year olds divided up the tasks, some collecting bowls, others cups, others began to sweep and mop the floor. Like clockwork, the dining hall was tidied and cleaned, all by this little army of boys. Mama watched and delegated. Then we drifted to their home, a large room with bunk beds with a center reading area and an adjoining room for homework. Most began their math homework, meaning I began the most rigorous practice in Spanish numbers I had ever experienced. Despite what they tell you, math is neither a universal nor an independent language. Again, Mama banged on the table “Suma, suma” she practically screamed – Addition, addition! The boys clung to me like I was going to float off the ground, two on my lap and one tugging at my sleeve at all times. They were spectacularly intelligent, if you could get them to concentrate for five seconds on their number pyramids. It was all like summer camp plus a little homework, minus the parents you ever went home to. And they were all so happy. How? Did they not know what they were missing? I left that little compound sheltering them from the peril ridden neighborhood surrounding it exhausted but with the firm knowledge that I would be back.

Ringo

Perro peruano sin pelo
Translation: Peruvian hairless dog
Definition: The Uglist Dog I Have Ever Seen. See also, completely bald except for a thin mohawk.
Context: Ringo, my homestay family's adored pet. This thing has won beauty contests. I'm not kidding. He has several of these sweaters to keep him warm in the 65 degree weather which they change daily. It also gets sunburned, so they put sunscreen on him when its sunny. It makes me pet its skin all through dinner or it starts to whine.

Chapter 2: The Frog

The man looked uncannily like the frog statue I had seen earlier that afternoon at the chifa restaurant. His body rested solidly on the stool, unmoving except for his mouth, which was open wide belting the best of Peru's patriotic ballads, and the occasional arm flourish. He and his guitar-strumming partner sat as part of our circle, surrounding a table filled with bottles of pisco, ginger ale, cups of bitters and sugar, and bowls of sliced limes. Everyone joined the frog in yelling at the top of their lungs lyrics along the lines of "Hate me, hate me, because even that is better than forgetting me" and "Peru, until death, with you always, Peru." The paint-chipped walls were filled with faded black and white photographs of Lima in the 40s and 50s, evidence of the nostalgia that pervades the city, brought on by a couple decades of terrorism and state-sponsored violence. I was the only gringa in the entire bar, my identity revealed by the fact that I was the only one who did not know the words. But the pisco was flowing, so not many noticed. It helped that all the tourists are told that El Centro, the historic neighborhood home to the majestic and dilapidated government buildings, is dangerous at night and they dutifully steer clear. But when the sun goes down, Limenos fill the quaint bars around La Plaza de San Martin to drink bottles of pisco, cheap beer, and munch on simple ham sandwiches.

In my experience traveling, I had come to believe that the "authentic" was a fantasy, something tourists told themselves they all had witnessed. Reality, or the reality we read in the magazine articles later, tells us that it was really all a performance. It is the Catch-22 of tourism: it slowly destroys its own life-source by its very nature. But sitting there looking at the frog, I could not help but entertain the idea that maybe I had caught a small glipse of the authentic after all.

Mi barrio

A few pictures of mi barrio (my 'hood):



View of Lima from the little rooftop terrace directly above my room. Note the cloudy skies. Lima saw the sun for the first time since May on the day I arrived! It is their springtime right now, so the weather will see marked improvement in a month or so, with highs around 85 and 100% humidity. Current temp: 64 degrees and humid (making it feel more like 50). Brrrr!



This is my homestay house! Located in affluent area called Miraflores, roughly translated "Flowerwview," or "Look at the flowers," my family has been very welcoming and extremely patient and helpful with my Spanish. I live on the top floor with two other students, Nicolas from Norway and Peter from Denmark.


My room. Measurements: 6ft by 8ft approx. Enough said.
The bedspread is one of my first purchases, an alpaca blanket from los Mercados de Inka, about a half mile from our language school in downtown Miraflores.



Little park outside my homestay house. It has a security guard with a tiny security dog 24/7.



Starbucks, my guilty American pleasure, one block from my house. Hayley and I have made this our afternoon base for research and emailing. Note the decor. It is EXACTLY the same as in the US. If it wasn't for the Spanish being spoken by all the patrons, I would forget I was in the middle of South America. I order "un alto latte vanilla con leche desnatado."

Chapter 1: Stutter

Once upon a time in a faraway land...

Myself and my friend Hayley disembarked from a plane in Lima, Peru, a country neither of us would have imagined were included in our futures. After near-perfect travels of a near-24 hour duration, Hayley and I had finally arrived to the country who, at 4:15am, was still awake from the night's revelry. Our very jovial and smiley driver, Fernando Garcia Lorneo, carried us safely to our homestay families. Hayley’s nearly slept through her arrival. My "padre," on the other hand, welcomed me to his family’s very nice house and showed me to my own little room on the top floor. Despite its diminutive size (6 by 8 ft approximately) and the slightly dingy smell that appears in the mornings, it is cozy and it is mine. I was comforted even in my overwhelmed and disoriented state by the sight of a glowstick bracelet hanging from the headboard of my bed: a token left by the previous student occupant, and to me, an omen of fun times ahead.

Highlights of the first 48 busy hours include: first taste of ceviche, Peru's best kept secret; the first afternoon's jaunt to the seaside and our first Peruvian dinner at sunset; first day of language classes today; the two male Scandinavian students also living with my host family (one a fellow Dane!); the ugliest dog I have EVER seen, named Ringo, owned and loved to death by my host family (picture to come); an afternoon spent among alpaca sweaters, silver earrings, and thousands of pastries in El Centro of Lima, both historic government center and city market.

Despite these many diversions, my time here must be characterized not by what was done, but what has been said...badly...by me...in Spanish. After eight plus years of education in Spanish, one would think that I could put together a four-word sentence without falling apart, but I defy the odds. Each sentence is fraught with stutters, stops, and errors in form and pronunciation. Whether these are symptoms of nervousness and exhaustion, or a more deep-seated lack of knowledge of the Spanish language, only time will tell. I sincerely hope it is the former.

Part I: The Tourist

Our first sunset in Lima

Forward

With two days until my departure, I sit in my kitchen with a feeling unlike any anticipation I have ever felt before. Clothes are piled ten-high on my bed, a pile of toiletries that would last me until next summer on my desk. Next to these is a mountain of every medication one can think of that will cure me of any South American germs, from swine flu to malaria to migraines. This, in addition to the four vaccines I received a few weeks ago. My head teems with thoughts of Peruvian ceviche and of the guinea pig that I will ingest in just a few short days (gasp!). I have been applying additional moisturizer to prepare my skin for the second summer that I will arrive to and I have already found and bought the face lotion with SPF 50. I silently translate everything I say into Spanish, and my anxious dreams last night included a taxi ride in which I could not communicate my destination to the frantic Limeno driver. I had a minor panic attack last night alone in the car when I couldn't remember the Spanish word for "hole." Tonight, my plans include a goodbye dinner with Hayley's and my family and a viewing of Motorcycle Diaries... without subtitles. Plans are set for our arrival, despite the determined nature of Peruvians to not return emails or send confirmation letters to the nervous tourists. Arriving in Lima at 4:35am on Sunday, Hayley and I will be picked up by a driver and taken to our host family's home. I have already designed two backup plans should our driver never materialize. I have scoured the internet unsuccessfully for a central website like craigslist that Limenos use to find apartments. Hayley and I each bring with us different travel books on Peru, highlighted and bookmarked. My daydreams and nightmares imagine each extreme: thrilling success and utter failure; I get a paid job at the top human rights organization in Lima, I run out of money and have to return to Duluth.

I feel like I have been preparing for this for months. Oh wait, I have. Now, more than the fear, more than the excitement, my whole body calls for action. Sitting here is torture. Good or bad, I just want to be there.