Spiraling Around

In the olden days when I was an undergraduate, we took class notes by writing them out in longhand. Of course, back then, we all knew how to write in cursive, a skill not all my computer-generation classmates have mastered. At the beginning of every semester, I would go to Target and buy three-ring spiral notebooks, with a different color cover for each class.

There were no laptop computers. There were no desktop computers either. Assuming you could get some big institution to lend you one, taking a computer to class would have required renting a truck.

Today, every class I attend is accompanied by the soft click, click, click of my classmates tapping their keyboards. Looking around, I can see that while some of them seem to be taking diligent class notes, practically transcribing, some of them are reading their email or checking out Facebook. To accomodate this laptop explosion, the classrooms have lots of electrical outlets built-in under the desks.

Modern graduate student that I am, I was clicking right along with the best of them. But in reviewing my class notes, I noticed something strange. I had attended my first Legal Methods class without my laptop and took notes the old fashioned way. And I remembered what I learned in that class much better than subsequent classes when I used my computer. Part of it was, I wasn’t distracted by incoming email (Ooh, Talbots is having a sale!) so I paid better attention. But part of it was the physical act of handwriting, outlining, and drawing notations on the page made it clearer in my mind.

Still, having all my notes on computer would make my subsequent course outlining much faster. I needed a second opinion. Taylor was the perfect choice. First of all, he is a whiz on all the high tech products. He literally text messages fast than most people my age type. He also did very well in college last year.

“So, Tay, do you take class notes on your computer?”

“Nope, I do it by hand. What you need to do is buy one spiral notebook for each class with a different color cover…”

“I’ll pick some up for both of us at Target,” I offered.

Understanding the Amoeba

Guess what they don’t set out to teach you in law school? The law!

I'll learn some law on an incidental basis, but it's not the big concern. I always thought the law was a stated set of facts, probably written down in one big book somewhere. Isn’t that why they call it “laying down the law”? I was wrong.

In my first week of law school, I learned the law is a living, breathing, moving thing—sort of like an amoeba. So focusing on the law would be like learning the dimensions of an amoeba. No matter what you remember about that amoeba’s last known whereabouts, you always have to look up where it is right now. And you have to try to figure out in what direction it is likely to head.

Yes, there’s plenty of middle ground in that amoeba that stays the same. But folks generally don’t consult a lawyer about cut and dried issues. Instead, lawyers rack up billable hours by handling with all those floppy amoeba-bordering issues. Could your client’s particular situation be considered inside that amoeba or outside it? That’s what law school want to teach you to do.

They teach you, not by lecturing, but by telling you stories. The class is then expected to dissect these stories from a multitude of points of view. Professors want you to look at “On the other hand…” Once you think you’ve thoroughly exhausted every hand that scenario offers, the professors throw new wrinkles in the story and you start over.

And these don’t even have to be stories dealing with the law. My class yesterday had a one hour discussion about grocery store employees having to decide what produce goes in the window.

While you are eventually expected to draw a conclusion but there are no right answers. What’s important is how you got there. It’s the journey, not the destination that counts. And with the fluidity of that amoeba, for me it’s going to be a long and interesting trip.

What I've Learned in Law School So Far

As part of my pre-law school homework, I had to take two online learning style assessments.

The first one told me that I liked to learn by reading. Gee, what a revelation. ALL of close friends and family could have told you that about me. And they wouldn’t even need to see the 44 item-multiple choice questionnaire I had to complete on the subject.

The second test revealed that concepts were more interesting to me than facts. Yes, I think applying ideas is a lot more fun than rote memorization. Who doesn’t?

Luckily, my other homework turned out to be a lot of reading about concepts. I hope I will be doing a lot of this in law school as it’s obviously something I enjoy, and I have the learning style assessments to prove it!

Mock On!

Even though law school hasn’t started, I still have assigned homework. I have a few issues with this. First of all, I have shelled out almost $600 for books for my first semester, but almost all of my assignments are from readings off the Internet.

How did I find out about these future assignments? They were posted online. You HAVE to have online access as that is the ONLY way the college of law communicates. The school rightly assumes that this is how people in the 21st Century get information.

So why do they require me to purchase these obscenely heavy hardback textbooks at $150 a pop? Why can’t I just pay a fee to the author and just download this stuff as an e-book? My wallet and my back would be grateful.

Much of my homework has to be completed prior to orientation. First year law school students have three full days of orientation before they let us start classes. I’ve had plenty of professional jobs that didn’t require that much training.

You would think that having graduated from college with a good enough g.p.a. to get into law school, incoming students would be smart enough to figure out law school on our own. But apparently, we need more training before they can turn us loose.

Part of orientation is a mock class. I don’t really mind that. I mean, it has been a while since I was chiseling my college class notes on my limestone pallet. But what gets me is that we have HOMEWORK for our mock class.

I think if we have a mock class, we ought to only have mock homework. You know, like pretending to read some weighty required law school book, but really perusing the People Magazine cleverly concealed inside.

See, I haven’t even been through orientation yet, and I am already raising objections. It could be a long three years.

The Happy Hour

I mentioned to Taylor that I was going to Happy Hour to meet some fellow incoming ASU law school students.

“You’re going to a bar?” asked Taylor. “Have you ever been to a bar before?”

Alec was equally appalled when I called him to asked directions to Dos Gringos in Tempe. “You’re going there?” he said. “Mom, it’s a dive!”

I have news for them. My social experience goes beyond embassy balls and elegant dinner parties. I have been to bars, EVEN to dives. Did they forget that once upon a time I was a college coed?

And, surprise, surprise, I am a college coed again. But after attending happy hour, I was struck by the similarities, rather than the differences, between the polished newcomer events I’ve attended as an expat wife and happy hour with the graduate students.

Both functioned as networking opportunities. Both gave me a chance to meet the people who like me, were trying to figure out how to get stuff done. Even the conversational topics were along the same lines. Where are you originally from? Did you find a place to live? How are you settling in? What was your major? Okay, maybe not the major question, but everything else I was asked last night was eerily familiar to those standard queries batted around at your average American Women’s newcomer coffee.

There were, of course, a few differences. The students wore jeans and flips flops and sipped Coronas out of bottles in a dive. The expat wives wore tailored outfits and pearls while sipping coffee out of china cups in an elegant hotel.

But just like those coffees, we chatted and moved from group to group, getting acquainted and sharing advice about getting established in this new life. Conversation topics included how to get around, where to buy things you needed, and the best way of dealing with the school. The same kind of things we’d talk about at coffees in Abu Dhabi or Moscow or Beijing.

Yeah, everybody at the bar was a lot younger. But we’re all in a new place just the same, trying to figure out how to function in this foreign world called law school.

Photo: Nancy and a classmate at Happy Hour.

Polishing Off Peru

Photos by Nancy Case and Alec Perkins: More pictures from our 11 days in Peru.

Day 11
Lima to Phoenix

On our last day in Peru, Taylor and I got to sleep in, at least comparatively. He and I didn’t have to leave for the airport until 4:30 a.m. Alec and Saori had to leave at 3:00.

Our taxi driver was late and I was starting to get a bit concerned. I didn’t really want to be flagging down a random cab in the wee hours of the morning. On the other hand, I couldn’t miss our flight. Luckily, the driver arrived and got us to the airport in plenty of time.

There were about 200 passengers lined up but we went directly to the front for first class check in. I may be an adult, but sometimes I just can’t stop my inner second grader from thinking, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!”

As a further bonus, the gate attendant gave us an “invitation” to the VIP lounge. We cleared security (no first class line there) and ran into Alec and Saori outside her gate. Saori’s plane was delayed.

Tay and I headed off to the lounge, but I stopped to look at a display featuring a vicuna coat. I’d been listening to the musical version of “Sunset Boulevard” for years. It featured a line about “a simply marvelous coat made of vicuna…” and now I actually could see one! (I know, sometimes I’m easily amused.)

With tunes from Sunset Boulevard lodged in my head, we waltzed into the VIP lounge where they were serving a continental breakfast. I fixed myself a cappuccino while Taylor checked out the self-serve fresh squeezed orange juice machine.

You toss a couple of oranges in the top and watch as the machine peels and then squeezes the oranges, streaming the juice into your waiting glass. “Hey, this is pretty cool,” remarked Taylor. “I could use one of these for my room.”

After we got bored with the beverage machines, we headed over to the lounge’s computer room which offered free Internet service. And if we didn’t get enough shopping in, Alec and I did one more round of the stores in the international departure round.

I found some beautiful woven pillow covers. But at $50 each I wasn’t tempted to buy. If I’d found them in the local markets for $10 each, that would have been a different story. I did buy some throat lozenges as the Lima pollution was irritating all of us.

Our flight was running late, so Alec and Taylor and I played cards in the comfy lounge until they finally called us to board.

The first class section was only half full and service was very good. (Were we STILL on Delta?) An hour after takeoff, they served a hot breakfast. The flight attendant offered me a choice of egg crepes or pancakes. “Which is better?” I asked.

She just shook her head. Both choices were bad. I guess we really were on Delta, after all. The movies shown were “Leatherheads” and “Maid of Honor,” both notable for their terrible reviews. Forewarned is forearmed so I didn’t watch either.

Instead, I spent hours putting together my new schedule. I made a diagram penciling in my class time, study time, commuting time and three hours a week for working out. With only these activities, my schedule stretched from 7:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. Monday through Saturday, with Sunday afternoon and evening off for laundry and grocery shopping. What have I signed up for?

As I flew off into the sunset, I realized was ending one big adventure and beginning another.

Photo by Alec Perkins: Nancy and Taylor take a break from the llamas and the hiking at Machu Picchu.

For more of Alec's fabulous photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/desertcrow/sets/72157605422700320/

Eighteen Hours in Lima

Photo by Alec Perkins: Plaza de Armas in Cuzco

Day 10
Cuzco to Lima

This morning, Saori was the one hit by the altitude. It was her turn to rest at the hostel while the other three of us went out in search of a hearty “American” breakfast.

What we found was our worst meal ever. Not just the worst meal in Peru, but our worst meal ever. Even now, I cannot write about it without gagging. But let me just say it involved more than one black hair.

Back at the hostel, we settled our bill and the owner presented Saori and I each with a long-stemmed red rose. (Just what you need for air travel. It was a sweet gesture though.) We dragged our flowers and our luggage out to the street. As if they were waiting just for that moment, two station wagon taxis immediately pulled up. We engaged both of them for the 15 minute trip to the airport.

At the airport, we found the Lan counters were swamped. Hundreds of people were lined up to check-in. But thanks to yesterday’s Internet download of our boarding passes, we were able to get into the considerably shorter “Baggage Drop-off” line.

On the short flight to Lima, Lan showed a comedy show filmed in Canada. It was perfect for international audiences because it was all visual practical jokes. No translation needed. You dress up an unsuspecting guy in a gorilla suit to film him with a camera off the back of the truck. Then the truck drives away, leaving the guy in the gorilla suit forlornly waiving his bananas. (I guess you had to see it.)

There was no sign of the driver promised by the hostel at the Lima airport. But we were approached by one of the official taxi drivers who quoted us a better fare. Alec pointed to our five suitcase and the driver insisted he had a van. Eventually, he did. But first he had to strike some kind of quick deal with another taxi driver to use it.

As we stretched out in the van, I noticed a big smile on Alec’s face. Back at sea level, he finally felt better. We took off for Mira Flores, a more prosperous area of Lima and the one area of town touted for its safety.

Larry once said that all third-world cities look alike in certain ways. With its pollution, dingy buildings and poverty, Lima was no different. It reminded me all at once of Beijing and Moscow and Mexico City.

As promised, Mira Flores looked better. We drove past the beaches where despite the cold, we saw surfers. When we arrived at the hostel I warned everyone, “Remember, this place is $32 a night.”

We were met by the charming owner who insisted on giving us a 40-minute introductory talk on Mira Flores, circling the highlights on a map he provided us.

We had read a lot about crime in Lima so I asked him about safety. He told us not to worry. But don’t walk around at night. And don’t take a taxi unless someone you trusted ordered it. I also noticed that his front door had three locks and a thick board you pulled down to barricade the door.

As a bonus, the owner also gave us his standard earthquake safety preparation speech. His very practical advice was to get to the street because your biggest danger comes from things falling on top of you. It was good advice but I wasn’t sure how I was going to get there past those three locks and the heavy barricade of the front door.

The hostal was completely full that day. While there was a spacious, airy room on the second floor for one pair of us, the only remaining room was essentially an oversized closet stuffed with two twin beds on the ground floor.

Not wanting to drag my luggage up and down stairs, I opted for the closet. Like all our accommodations, it did have an adjoining bathroom. What it lacked was any kind of a window. It was so bad, the gracious owner actually offered to take us to a hotel. But I decided it was fine for the one night we’d be staying.

Finally settled, we set off to explore Mira Flores. We’d need a good three days to cover the owner’s suggested itinerary, but we couldn’t resist trying his recommended restaurant for the best cerviche in town.

I navigated using the map the owner had given us. (He had also thoughtfully written menu suggestions in the margins.) My constant referral to the map as we walked the zig-zag course made Alec a little uncomfortable. He pointed out, correctly, that it really marked us as tourists.

Taylor jumped in, “Oh, like without a map, Mom really looks like a local.”

The restaurant was only open for lunch and even at 2 p.m. when we arrived, there was line. But the hostal owner had said we could go to the handicrafts store across the street while we waited. And that’s exactly what we did.

The store had a huge variety of lovely Peruvian handicrafts at about four times the prices we’d found in Cuzco. After an enjoyable look around, we went back to the restaurant where we were immediately seated on the second floor of the Colonial-era building.

The menu was extensive. Alec and Saori wisely ordered the cerviche which was wonderful. Cerviche is made with fresh seafood, which is pickled in a citrus marinade. Alec’s order had some kind of a red sauce and it was amazing. It was hands-down the best cerviche I’d ever had. I was sorry I didn’t have an extra day in Lima just so I could come back to this place and order that cerviche for myself.

Our drink orders were served with a bucket of ice cubes. “Don’t use the ice,” I warned Taylor. He decided against my sage advice and suffered the consequences later. So his memories of that restaurant were not as fond as mine.

We tried to order dessert, highly recommended in our map margin notes, but the waitress never brought it. That’s when we noticed the place was deserted. Obviously, lunch service was over and we should take the hint and leave!

Outside the restaurant, we hailed a taxi to the town center. It was about a 20 minute drive through a dismal cityscape. Finally, we were rewarded by driving into a lovely Spanish colonial section. It was such a contrast it felt like the whole area had just been suddenly air-dropped in.

We were too late to tour the catacombs but we were able to walk around the Inglesia de San Francisco, admiring the church’s elaborately carved wooden altars.

We were on our way to yet another Plaza de Armas, when we noticed a crowd of locals beside a churro shop. Churros were sold everyone on the streets but only this place had a line. How could we resist?

They tasted much less sweet than the ones I’d had before. But they had a secret ingredient: a cream cheesy-filling. They were suitably yummy.

Lima’s Plaza de Armas has been the center of the city since 1535. The surrounding buildings are painted a goldish-yellow with white trim. Just outside the square, we stopped for a glass of Chilean Malbec at a nice sidewalk bar. I ordered “papa frites” to go with my wine and they served it with two interesting local sauces. It was beginning to get dark and they brought out a space heater for Saori and me.

It was time to head back. While gas is very expensive here, taxis are relatively cheap because there is so much competition. So I was a little concerned when two taxi drivers refuse to take us back to Mira Flores. Finally, the third driver agreed.

Safely back at the hostel, we ordered hot water for our showers. (Like a pizza in the U.S., it would be delivered within 30 minutes.) In our closet room, hot water came out as promised in time. But Alec had some problems with his in the nicer room upstairs. Regardless of the water situation, we all went to bed early as we had very early flights out the next day.

Photos by Alec Perkins: The Plaza de Armas in Lima.

From Tourist to Backpacker

Photo by Alec Perkins: Cuzco

Day 9
Agua Caliente to Cuzco

At 5 a.m., I woke to the sound of rain on the roof and backpackers heavily tromping outside my door. It felt decadent to be able to rollover and go back to sleep.

Our train didn’t leave until after 9 a.m., so we went out for a leisurely breakfast. A restaurant across the square was open and I had “pancakes,” which turned out to be crepes. Taylor’s order of the “local” breakfast turned out to be the best. It was a tasty combination of meat and potatoes. Everything was accompanied by the round, flat Peruvian bread that we were served every day without fail for breakfast.

We strolled through the market on our way to the train station and Saori bought a llama Christmas ornament. (It will look good hanging on the tree next to Alec’s miniature Prius ornament.) It was a good thing we arrived at the station early because we found out our train didn’t happen to be leaving from there.

Instead, we had to walk across town to catch our train in front of the police station. When we arrived, the tracks there were sWarming with locals loaded with bundles and tourtists with backpacks.

It took awhile, but eventually I tracked down someone from PeruRail. I learned that the train for locals would be departing first. We pesky tourists needed to get off the tracks and go wait on the sidewalk.

Eventually, the Backpacker train arrived, and we boarded. Once again, our numerically ordered seats had us in three different rows, but we were able to switch and sit together.

Ninety minutes of beautiful scenery later, we were back in Ollyanta. We hadn’t noticed it on the way in, but down the street from the train station was a huge parking lot loaded with taxis, buses and combies. They all seemed to be heading for Cuzco. Alec and Saori were keen to hop on the next combie but 90 minutes in a combie didn’t sound like a good plan to me. Before I could object, Taylor insisted on finding a bathroom.

This parking lot didn’t offer a trough so we took off down the street toward the main square. A taxi driver on his way to the parking lot, stopped to see if I wanted to hire him to take us back to Cuzco. “How much?” I asked.

He quoted me 40 soles (about $12). “Forty soles total for four people, right?” I confirmed. “Okay, meet us outside the toilet.”

While the driver was turning around, I explained his offer to our group. It sounded very cheap but the guy had obvious come from Cuzco, dropping off passengers for the train here and needed a paying fare back.

After paying one sole to use the bathroom, the standard cost here, Tay and I climbed in the backseat of the taxi. As Saori and Alec were loading their backpacks in the back of the station wagon, the driver decided to raise his prices to 50 soles to deliver us back to our hostel. As the hostel was actually closer than the center of town, this was clearly a ploy to extract more money. Alec and Saori were ready to call off the whole thing and take local transportation back.

But Taylor wasn’t budging out of that back seat. Eventually, they settled on 45 soles for our delivery to the Plaza de Armas. The driver wasn’t going to waste any more time so we set off at record speed. Taylor, Saori and I were like metronomes in the backseat, being thrown one way and then another as we went around the hairpin turns.

But that drive was quick. Within an hour we were back in Cuzco. I replenished my cash supply at an ATM and offered to buy everyone lunch at Inka Grill.

Inka Grill is a lovely restaurant on the square. I was a little put off to see so many tables of 20 set up. (That meant tour group lunches–generally not a sign of culinary delight.) Fortunately, the food was wonderful, ending with a delicious chocolate dessert.

We checked back into the hostel and reclaimed our luggage. Afterwards, we walked to an Internet place. Only two computers were open so Alec and I shared one. It took us a full 15 minutes, but he and I were able to download and print all our boarding passes for our Lan flight the next day.

Then, Alec helped me log on to the ASU website and get a new password. From there, we navigated two different ASU websites simultaneously so I could actually retrieve my class assignments and register for law school. Yea!

Saori and Alec then left to find a bar that was selling C.D.s by a local artist Saori had heard. Tay and I headed out for some last minute shopping.

After nine days in Peru, taxi drivers were now giving me really low quotes on fares. This was about 3/4th of the fares they quoted us originally. Somehow, I was looking a lot more like a backpacker and a lot less like an upscale tourist.

Now, when I admired the handmade tapestries, the vendors would steer me to the cheaper machine-made ones. Tay and I went to a boutique to buy Saori’s birthday present, only to be ignored. I had to use my, “And how much if I pay you in cash right now?” to get their attention.

On the way back to the hostel, I got a phone call from Alec and we planned to meet for dinner. Thirty minutes later, Alec called again. Dinner was off. He had another bout of altitude sickness, and he and Saori were on their way back.

Saori, Taylor and I left Alec sleeping at the hostel and went to a Japanese restaurant Saori had found. The restaurant had good soba noodles but bad service. It took 15 minutes to get a bottle of water. Fortunately, I can forgive a restaurant almost anything if the food is good.

After dinner, I repacked. I carefully surrounded the six pottery items in dirty clothes and placed them with our artwork and Taylor’s wooden frame in our one hard-sided suitcase. (Why, oh, why, had I not brought my usual supply of bubblewrap with me?) Tay and I loaded my rolling duffle with everything we’d need in Lima. So far our hostel rooms were up flights of stairs and I was hoping to park the rest of the luggage somewhere secure on a lower floor.

Little did I know that I’d end up sleeping in the first floor baggage storage room, but that’s a story for tomorrow.

Photo by Alec Perkins: Taylor and Nancy now get ignored at nicer stores in Cuzco.

We Really Do Machu Picchu

Photo: Our overview of Machu Picchu from the Huayna Picchu trail.

Day 8
Agua Caliente

We decided to meet for our complementary hostel breakfast at 5:15. Unfortunately, the breakfast at Gringo Bill’s was not as charming as the rest of the place. They had just left juice, bread, coffee and tea on a table. But there was a sign advertising, at extra cost, a “Hungry Man Breakfast.”

I ventured into the kitchen to order it for Taylor, who was awfully tired of the wimpy continental breakfasts we had been served at our hostels. The staff informed me this meal cost extra. I told them I would pay. They then told me I couldn’t order it anyway. I’m not sure why (my Spanish isn’t that good) but the answer was definitely no.

We picked up the sack lunches we’d ordered at the front desk and set off in the dark to catch the 6 a.m. bus. We were astounded to find a line of hundreds of people waiting. With this huge line, there was no way we could be at Machu Picchu before dawn. Alec was greatly disappointed as he had always wanted to watch the sunrise over Machu Picchu.

Finally, the empty buses started arriving. They loaded two buses at a time but it still took us about 30 minutes to make our way to the front of the line. After another scenic drive, we’d arrived at Machu Picchu.

Even if we’d missed sunrise, it was wonderful being there so early. Machu Picchu is so big that we felt like we had the place to ourselves, especially as we walked along the empty “out” trail in. In addition, we had a crisp, clear morning to enjoy it all in.

But before we could linger, we needed to get to the other side of the site to get our ticket to climb Huayan Picchu. Huayan Picchu is the steep mountain beside Machu Picchu. It takes only an hour to get up but most of that is straight verticle, using Incan-constructed tiny steps on a trail carved out of the mountain jungle.

Only 400 people get a pass to climb it each day, weather permitting. Half go up at 7 a.m. and the other half go up at 10 a.m. By 7:30, all the permits were gone.

There is no direct route through Machu Picchu, practically no signage and we didn’t have a map so getting across to the other side was more complicated than it sounds. Finally, we arrived at the ranger station and found ourselves at the end of another line.

Taylor volunteered to scout ahead and reported back that there were hundreds of people lined up ahead of us. But in about 10 minutes park personnel came by and stamped our Machu Picchu tickets with a hiking permit.

Our permit was for 10 a.m. The long line ahead of us were the people going at 7. This left us a couple of hours to explore before we’d need to be back here to stand in line again.

Taylor and I transversed Machu Picchu once more (getting lost at least once) to get back to the entrance where there were bathrooms and food outside. There’s no bathrooms inside Machu Picchu ,and food and drink are not allowed. But everyone pretty much ignores the no drink rule and brings in their own water bottles.

Just outside Machu Picchu is the five-star Sanctuary Hotel. If you really want to be the first one at Machu Picchu you have to stay here. But you have to REALLY want to be close as rooms are more than $700 a night. I thought it might be a nice place for a relaxing breakfast.

Unfortunately, we were not granted Sanctuary. The hotel would not even let us step into the lobby. As we stood on the steps outside, we were informed that only guests staying at the hotel are granted access. The door guard instead directed me to the Sanctuary snack bar. The snack bar is located well off the grounds of the hotel, but they retained their Sanctuary prices. A six ounce bottle of water here was 10 soles ($3.30). The going rate for the same brand every place else in Peru was 1 soles for an 8 oz. bottle.

At the snack bar Taylor got an overpriced cheeseburger and I ate part of our sack lunch. (I’m hungry in the mornings!) After that, it was time to go back inside to meet Alec and Saori for our hike. So Taylor and I walked the entire length of Machu Picchu for the third time that morning.

We made it back by 9:30 and found Alec and Saori already in line. As we waited I had a long time to stare at that steep mountain I had gone to so much trouble to be able to climb. Did I really think I could do this? But if I didn’t try it now, when would I?

At 10 a.m., they opened the trail again and hikers started trickling slowly through. There wasn’t a crowd on the trail, because first one ranger had to examine your passport, entrance ticket and hiking stamp.

One problem: We’d left Taylor’s passport back at the hostel. I’d brought mine only because I wanted a Machu Picchu stamp. Alec and Saori also had theirs. Who knew you’d need a passport to hike?

Luckily, Alec talked Taylor’s way in (in Spanish). I think because they were obviously brothers and Alec had I.D., the official decided Tay was okay. We signed in at the big book provided, noted the time and were ready to start.

It was a beautiful hike, well worth the effort and one of the many highlights of this trip. The views of Machu Picchu were just a bonus. I took my time but tried to keep moving so I wouldn’t fall too far behind the rest of the group. It was difficult, but not really much harder than Camelback Mountain in Phoenix.

The absolute worst part to me was the cave. (Nobody told me I had to go through a dark, narrow cave.) The exit for the cave is a hole, about 2’ x 3’ you have to squeeze through. Taylor had to take off his backpack to make it.

I am slightly claustrophobic and was not happy to be stuck inside the cave behind a couple who were taking their time removing their backpacks and snapping photos. I needed out of that cave now!

I managed to wait while they maneuvered out and finally it was my turn to crawl through.

A short while later, I made it to the top. The top consisted of an outcropping of huge sloping rocks surrounded by big bugs. Taylor was already there, spraying on copious amounts of Off. There was little else to do. You could hop from rock to rock but you risked sliding off a 500 foot direct drop.

Alec and Saori made it up and we took a few photos before heading down. Luckily, the downward route did not involve any tiny caves. Instead it routed us past some ancient Incan dwellings used by astronomers. We ducked inside one to eat our lunch out of view.

After lunch, Taylor moved ahead quickly, making it down in about 30 minutes. All that physical labor at Fry’s really keeps him in shape. I brought up the rear, treading carefully downward and very happy with the holding power of my new Reebok trail runners.

I proudly signed in again showing I’d made it back down, noting my time.

We sat down to rest for a bit. But it was time for a bathroom again and that meant still another trip across the park. By now, Taylor and I were getting much better at finding more direct routes. The four of us made it back across and bought some more overpriced drinks at the Snack Bar.

Having been at Machu Picchu for hours, Tay headed back to the hostel. But I didn’t want to leave without learning more. So Alec and Saori and I decided to get a guide.

We asked one group of guides who pointed us toward a freelancer. The freelancer passed Saori’s English language skills test (a requirement our group instituted after we hired a guide in Qoricancha whose English was so weak we understood her better in Spanish).

The guide gave us a two hour tour of Machu Picchu. The crowds who had swarmed Machu Picchu while we’d been climbing had left, but unfortunately so had our energy. It was late afternoon and we were exhausted. Our guide was exhausted. We must have been his third or fourth tour of the day. At one point, I was almost not able to resist being toppled down the stairs by an overly friendly llama.

The guide did take us to a few spots we’d missed, including the stairway that Hiram Bingham, the “discoverer” of Machu Picchu had used to arrive. We learned that most of the artifacts he found were still at Yale University in Connecticut.

Interestingly, the guide seemed to think that Machu Picchu represented the peak of civilization. (As for me, I like living in the age of computers.) Around 4 p.m., after 9 hours at Machu Pichhu, we paid off the guide and stood in line for the bus to take us back to Agua Caliente.

“If there was a button for doing everything at Machu Picchu,” said Alec, “we would have earned it.”

“Sort of like the ‘I Did It All’ button you earned at Camp Geronimo,” I smiled.

So what did I think of Machu Picchu? The ruins were cool, but we’d seen great ruins all week. It was the natural beauty of the setting that really sets Machu Picchu apart. And while I think it is worth seeing, I have to admit I thought Luxor was more impressive. And to me, nothing can compare to the magic of Cambodia’s Ankor Watt.

We went back to the hostel where I was anxious to wash off some of that ancient Incan dust. Agua Caliente means “warm water.” Unfortunately, it was warm water in name only. Our shower was freezing. I went down to the front desk, armed with my room number in Spanish to explain our agua caliente was agua fria.

They sent a guy who literally spent 20 minutes running in and out of our bathroom testing the water. Eventually, he gave up and got another guy to come. The second guy got the hot water running in minutes.

And when I say hot, I mean hot. The shower was scalding! Only by constantly turning the hot water off and on was I able to get clean without boiling myself. My hair, of course, wasn’t going to dry in the rainforest. Next time, I’m bringing a blow dryer. I popped on Taylor’s "alpaca" hat over my wet hair to go to dinner.

Chez Maggie’s had a branch in Agua Caliente so we decided to head there. We couldn't find it and eventually stopped to ask someone. A friendly local told us we'd passed it and added that it was closed. We should try his recommended restaurant.

We'd been around the block a few too many times to believe the "your place is closed, go to my place" story. We backtracked and found Chez Maggie’s was open. Alec and I split a Maggie’s special which consisted of an egg, a banana and ham pizza.

Saori bravely ordered the cuy. It arrived looking like blackened roadkill. The body was flattened with the feet still attached. And if you weren’t grossed out enough, the head, while not attached, was also part of the presentation.

I forced myself to try it. It tasted like greasy chicken. After dinner, we played some cards and went to bed early. There was a lot of noise outside our room, but I was so exhausted by Machu Picchu that I could have slept through another Spanish invasion.

Photo: Saori, Alec and Taylor at Machu Pichhu. The mountain in the background was the one we climbed.

Trains, Buses and Combies

Photo: Taylor and Alec on the train to Agua Caliente.

Day 7
Cuzco to Agua Caliente

The hostel owner agreed to store our luggage so we took off with just our backpacks for our two day trip to Machu Picchu.

We took a taxi to the local bus terminal. Taylor decided to use the “restrooms” there. For men, this was a trough out in the open. The trough did have some privacy as it was behind a bus. Of course, as Taylor was using it, the bus pulled away.

Alec bought the four of us tickets (about 50 cents per person) for the two-hour bus trip to Ollanta where we’d catch the train to Agua Caliente. Our assigned seats on the bus were in the first row. At least we thought that was the first row. It turns out we were on the second row as the first row was a bench seat you shared with the driver. To get to the first row, you have to climb over the seat from behind.

I sat next to the window with Taylor beside me. We joked he had the “exit” aisle as he had extra legroom as his seat opened up into the loading area of the bus. However, as the bus loaded, every bit of that extra room (and more) was taken by the standing room-only passengers.

Taylor learned first-hand that South Americans have a very different sense of personal space. As more people kept getting on at every stop, he had various locals draped over him. One little girl was practically in his lap.

The bus also had a monitor, positioned by the door, to let people on and off the bus as we traveled. This process didn’t seem to slow us down at all as the bus hardly stopped for these exchanges. People would give the monitor a few coins and hop off with their large bundles as the bus slowed. As soon as the person was halfway off, the monitor would give the word to the driver and we took off again.

At Chinchero an enormous extended family got off the bus, finally clearing out the aisles. Half an hour later, we were at the changing point. We got off the bus and walked through a store to an adjoining courtyard. We were looking for more buses, but all we found were combies.

Combies are crowded minibuses used as local transportation the world over. In the courtyard, combies were continually being loaded up. As soon as one was full, another appeared. These are not the safest way in the world to travel. But we had a short way to go so piled in the next one.

We were fortunate to get seats in the back. These were not very big seats. In fact, they were too small to fit Taylor. But these seats were much better than the two rows of facing seats in the middle where anyone without a seat was smashed in. Like a bus, a combie runs a route, picking up and letting off passengers along the way. You pay the driver when you get off. Apparently, there is no limit to the number of people a combie can pick up.

Ours was fully loaded at the bus terminal. But this didn’t stop the driver from halting along the route to load more people in the middle section. Even the shortest of locals didn’t have room to stand up. Instead, they wedged in, bent over. Saori described this as a “human tetras.”

Much to my surprise, the combie did not seem to stop at all to let passengers on and off. It just seemed to slow down. Fortunately, a few people did hop out on the way, so we never seemed to have more than three or four peopled smashed into the aisle in the middle.

In 20 minutes, we pulled into a parking lot off the main square in Ollanta. Lucky for us, that was the final destination and the combie came to a complete halt so we didn't need a running start to hop out. At that point, I was ready for some civilization. I had spotted a “Whole Foods” sign at a restaurant in the square and I dragged our group in for a belated breakfast.

We were waited on by an American woman. We learned the restaurant operated solely as a fund-raising effort to help local women and children. They also sold textiles woven by these women. My transportation adventures had not killed my apetite and I ate very nice pancakes with fresh bananas.

After breakfast we left the picturesque square for the not-so-picturesque area next to the train station. I love to travel by train. No security, no lines, no having to be there hours in advance. We showed our ticket and boarded our train immediately.

The train had two seats on each side of the aisle. PeruRail sells tickets in numerical order. As luck had it, while our seats were numerically in order, they weren’t together. We had one seat on one row, two together, and another single. Luckily, we were able to change with another party.

Unless you plan to hike in (and you have to have a permit booked months in advance to do that), the only way to Machu Picchu is by PeruRail. They have four different types of trains. The cheapest is to go by local train, but that option is only opens to locals.

At the other end of the spectrum is the Hiram Bingham train. Inkan slaves must be at your beck and call the whole way because it costs a whopping $294 roundtrip. In contrast, the Backpacker train, which we took, is $48 roundtrip and the Vistadome train is $71.

The Vistadome has glass cut-ins on the ceiling for a better view. You also get a free snack. Unfortunately, the view train means no overhead space, so Vistadome travelers are limited to one bag each.

The Backpacker train has no bag limitations. Besides being cheaper, the backpacker train also offers a lot more legroom. (I have no idea why.) I stretched out my legs and thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful scenery for the 90 minute ride.

All too soon we arrived at the station at Agua Caliente. Agua Caliente has to be one of the most touristy places I’ve ever been. But with that fabulous scenery of the surrounding mountains, it was touristy in a really scenic way.

It was lightly raining when we arrived. How had I missed the fact that Machu Picchu is in a RAIN FOREST? We were there in dry season, but somebody forgot to tell the weather that. It rained a lot.

We wandered around in the rain until we happened upon the main square. This wasn’t hard as the town is really small. Our hostel, Gringo Bill’s, occupied a corner of the square.

Gringo Bill’s was an open-air multi-level boutique hotel with pebblestone pathways. It was the second most charming place in which I’ve ever stayed. (It was edged out of first place only by that inn in Africa with the guestrooms in trees connected by rope bridges.)

Alec had made the arrangements and I tried not to be nervous because the hostel had only confirmed our first night. Fortunately, when we checked in, they were able to confirm us for both nights, canceling another party that hadn’t left a deposit. Taking no chances, we hit an ATM and paid for both nights in advance. (None of the places we stayed on this trip took credit cards.)

Our plan had been to head up to Machu Picchu and spend the afternoon there. It’s a half hour bus ride from Agua Caliente so we went down to buy bus tickets. That’s when we found out that the last bus up for the day had already left.

We bought bus tickets for the next day and then went the Cultural Center to stand in line for our tickets to Machu Picchu. Agua Caliente was beginning to remind me a lot of Disneyland. It was this fakey cute place, where you stood in lines for the big attractions and everything was overpriced.

Afterwards, Taylor and I found a combination Chinese restaurant/internet place and I logged on to get my emails. It took five minutes to get into my accounts. I think they must have converted every electronic impulse into Morse code and back.

There was an e-mail from the law school telling me my deadline to register for all my classes was two days away. There’s no way I could do this even with a decent internet connection as my logon and password were in a file folder in Phoenix. I wasn’t happy but I’d have to deal with the consequences of late registration when I got back.

We had some time to kill before dinner so the four of us went to the café/bar and sampled the famous Pisco Sour. I expected something like a Whisky sour, but this was made with Pisco, a Peruvian brandy, and lemon juice, bitters and egg whites. As Taylor would say when I served something he hated, “not my favorite.”

After dinner, we met in Alec’s room to map out our Machu Pichhu plan of attack for tomorrow. We’d have only one day there and we wanted to make the most of it.

Photo: Taylor on the patio roof of Gringo Bill's.

Mountains and Markets

Photo: View from the road to Pisac.

Day 6
Roundtrip Cuzco to Pisac

Our driver showed up at 8:30 as promised. Alec and Saori were feeling better so we all piled into the late model station wagon taxi for the scenic drive to Pisac.

In addition to its market, Pisac is also famed for its Inkan ruins in the mountains above. (Is there ANYPLACE around here without fabulous ruins?) We decided to head there first.

It was a good decision. With every other tourist in the area at the market, we had the ruins practically to ourselves. But we couldn't resist a brief stop on the way to take some photos of the terraces built into the mountains.


The ruins were spread out over an extensive area and we spent the next 2.5 hours hiking and climbing around them.

It was a lot for fun, but at that altitude, the way back up was a struggle. When I finally, finally emerged back at the top, a vendor twirled his wares and asked, “Wind chime?”

“Agua!” I panted. The line of vendors, like a well-choreographed chorus line, all immediately pointed me in one direction. A water vendor emerged, selling me four bottles of water for 2 soles each, double what I paid in town. From the looks of me, he knew I wouldn’t be haggling.

I handed the cold water to Taylor, Alec and Saori as they came up behind me. We sat down the only place we could find, a rock behind a blanket filled with souvenirs for sale. “If anybody comes by, I’ll make them a good deal on this stuff,” I joked.

Our driver, who must have feared we were lost forever in the ruins, appeared. He had given up on meeting us at the appointed place.

We were happy to be found and settled back in his taxi. It took him awhile to get out of the parking lot. He had to maneuver past all these huge arriving tour buses. Finally, we were on our way down the mountain to the village.

Pisac is a picturesque town, centered around a square. The town pretty much disappears on market days as stands and canopies emerge from everywhere. Fortified with a coco mate break, we waded in.

The market had a lot of same things we’d seen in Cuzco, just a bigger variety. Lured by the smell of roasting meat, we wandered into an open courtyard to find spits of guinea pigs over open flames. Off to the side was a large cage full of the live furry critters. Taylor walked up to the cage, asking, “Okay, who’s the fattest?” Taking no chances, the animals all immediately scampered into their hutch.

We weren’t really tempted to eat. Instead we wandered around, giving most of our business to a small art gallery which featured watercolors of traditional Incan and Andean symbols. Saori, Taylor and I all made purchases there during the day. While wrapping up my artwork, the vendor remarked that guy helping him was the artist.

After a few hours, we headed back to Cuzco. Alec and Saori found it, but I never did see the local food market.

For dinner that night, we ate Peruvian food at Papa Llama, a restaurant in San Blas. It had a lovely courtyard with a wood burning oven. Unfortunately, it also had aggressive pigeons. With my bird phobia, we had to sit inside.

I felt bad about dragging everyone inside until ten minutes later when the temperatures started dropping. The cold would have driven us in anyway. Our dinner included clay pot chicken parmesan served without the clay pot and alpaca.

After dinner, Alec and Saori ended up at a German Techno bar which played Moby videos. Tay and I went out to buy a carved wooden frame for his angel picture. We ended the evening by trying on, but not purchasing, fluffy llama fur slippers.

Photo: Alec and Saori by the terraces.

The Pizza Man Cometh

Photo: Nancy, Alec, Taylor and Saori explore the Inkan ruins at Qoricancha.

Day 5
Cuzco

A Do-Not-Miss on almost every tourist agenda was the Sunday market at the village of Pisac. People in Pisac, having figured out they had a huge tourist draw have expanded their "weekly" market to three days a week. The orginal Sunday market, however, was the only day that featured local produce. And that was the one we wanted to see.

But first, we needed to figure out how to get there. Pisac is a 45 minute drive outside of Cuzco. Our options were to hire a car or take a local bus. (Taylor strongly favored hiring a car.) Alec had discussed both with the hostel owner.

Alec was in the process of getting directions to the bus depot when the owner’s daughter, interrupted. “Did anyone order pizza?” she asked. Pizza? At 10 a.m.? Not us.

It turns out it wasn’t pizza, but Pisac. A taxi driver the owner had contacted was outside, offering to chauffer us to Pisac tomorrow. We agreed to talk to him and much to Taylor’s relief, struck a deal. For $40 he would take us to Pisac and back, being at our service all day.

With tomorrow’s plans all set, we tackled our next logistical issue: picking up our train tickets to Agua Caliente, the town outside Machu Picchu. At the PeruRail office, we got in line behind eight other people. Fortunately for us, the line moved quickly. I then noticed the speed was due to the fact that no one was buying any tickets.

This is the ONLY way to get to Machu Pichhu. I was thankful we had planned ahead, getting through the complicated Verified by Visa qualifications, to buy our tickets online. We had only to exchange the vouchers I’d printed out at home. As we checked our train tickets for accuracy before leaving, I noticed the line behind us had grown to at least 20 people.

Our next stop was the cathedral. Alec and Saori wanted to walk there. It seemed a long way to me, particularly at this oxygen-robbing altitude, but I figured after we got tired I could talk them into grabbing a cab.

There was no need. When traveling by car in Cuzco, you almost always have to take the long way because of one-way roads and/or narrow passageways cars can’t traverse. Heavy traffic also slows you down. But traveling on foot means no delays and you get to take the most direct route.

We stopped on the way at an Internet place so I could e-mail relatives my Peruvian cellphone number. I also looked up the Delta baggage claim phone number in the U.S. Taylor’s bag was still missing. Over the past few days, I had called the Delta baggage number in Lima dozens of times at all hours and no one ever answered.

Nearing the Plaza, we stopped at a restaurant for a coffee break. I had heard the siren call of their cappacino machine frothing milk and found it irrestible. We sat outside in the warm sunshine, continually waiving off local kids who wanted to shine our shoes and women with babies on their back selling little dolls.

We each took advantage of the restaurant’s beautiful bathroom. You know you’ve been in a third world country too long when you all start gushing about how nice a bathroom is. It was such a pleasant spot, I settled in to call Delta in Atlanta about Taylor’s bag.

This was a very long process. The guy at Delta insisted I give them the Delta ten digit tracking number assigned to our lost bag. I would have been more than happy to comply, but the Delta baggage claim people in Peru where we’d filed our claim hadn’t given me one. I did have every piece of documentation Delta had given me.

The Delta guy then insisted I call Delta baggage in Lima to get this required ten digit number. I informed them I had called Delta baggage in Lima dozens of times at all hours and no one EVER answered. I offered to stay on hold, while HE called to see if they could get through. The Delta guy told me he wasn’t allowed to call long distance. Frankly, if he worked for me I don’t think I’d trust him to call long distance either.

I calmly but firmly asked for his help multiple times in multiple ways. “Please. I just want to know how to find my suitcase.” But his one solution was to give me a phone number that was never answered. Finally, he suggested that I personally go to baggage claim at the Lima airport to try to get the tracking number.

“Lima is a 20-hour bus ride from here,” I said. When he had no reply to this, I asked for his supervisor. After 20 more minutes on hold, the supervisor came on and told me our bag had been flown via Lan to Cuzco three days ago. No trips to Lima and no ten digit tracking code needed.

With the bag situation hopefully resolved, we decided to walk to Qoricancha. This is the site of the ruins of the ancient Inca Temple of the Sun. Qoricancha actually means golden courtyard. The Incas thought that precious metals should be reserved for the gods. Gold was for the sun and silver was for the moon. As for themselves, cocoa leaves were more highly prized.

Eventually, the Spanish conquistadores arrived, ransacking the temple, melting down the gold and then building a convent on the ruins. Once again, the intricacy of the Inca construction was amazing. The baroque Spanish church built adjacent seemed unimpressive in comparison. But the convent grounds did offer some lovely colonial religious paintings from the Cuzco school.

Inside the church we found large banners with local children portrayed as the traditional angels. It was a bit disconcerting to me seeing one of them with a giant sword.

At this point, Taylor was ready to find “an ancient Incan bathroom.” After that, we headed for the exit and stopped at a display of ceramic whistles in animal shapes. The two vendors were charming musicians and could coax amazing sounds from them. Unfortunately, the more interest we showed, the higher their prices went.

Eventually, we opted not to buy, deciding we could find the same thing for much less in the markets somewhere. (We were wrong. This is probably the ONLY Peruvian item that you can’t find in the markets.)

While Alec and Saori elected to explore Cuzco more, Taylor and I headed to the airport. At the Lan counter, we showed them our documentation. They made a copy of Taylor’s passport and much to my relief, produced his missing bag.

We went back to the hostel and found that while all of Taylor’s clothes were there, his toiletries and his electric razor were missing. I bet the first thing the Delta will want on the missing item claim form is that ten digit number.

Later that afternoon, I called a group meeting to review the pluses and minuses of our trip so far. We all agreed we liked the leisurely pace, the hostel and our itinerary. Alec asked me to do more of the translating duties. (I had been slacking off since his Spanish is better than mine.) While all the restaurants on my “recommended” list were good, Saori wanted to eat more like locals do.

In keeping with that feedback, we went to dinner at a local chicken place around the corner recommended by the hostel owner. We ordered grilled chicken and French fries to go. We took them out to the adjoining square and watched the local teens dancing. (It was Saturday night.) The kids danced in large groups, boys on one side and girls on the other, like an Indian music video. Occasionally, one group would dance through the other group for excitement, assembling on the opposite side.

The chicken and fries were a little greasy, but delicious. We had a couple of children come by with trays of cigarettes and candy but everyone else ignored us. The young dancers, flanked by hundreds of lights dotting the surrounding hillsides, were wonderful entertainment.

We walked back to the hostel and played cards until our usual bedtime of 8:30. The music from the nearby square continued to blare into the wee hours, but I was so tired, I fell asleep immediately.

I was awoken by someone knocking on my door. I ignored it. They knocked louder. I still ignored it. Then I heard, “Mom?” I got up and opened the door to Alec. He had altitude sickness. He was short of breath, his heart was racing and he couldn’t sleep. He wanted to know if I had any altitude medication left.

I did. About 80 percent of Cuzco’s visitors have problems with altitude sickness. Those were odds I hadn’t cared to face. So I had gotten Diamox. Taylor and I had taken half dosages since we left Phoenix as a preventative. Having taken full dosages of the stuff for my trip to Tibet, I knew I could tolerate it well.

It’s a good thing my doctor made me do the research on dosages for Diamox so I knew exactly what to “prescribe.” I had three pills left and I gave them to Alec with instructions to take a full dose twice a day.

The medication wouldn’t take effect for 24 hours. But much of that time, we’d be in Pisco, which was several hundred meters lower. We’d have one more night in high-altitude Cuzco and then we’d leave for the lower climes of the area surrounding Machu Pichhu.

After playing Dr. Mom, I crawled back under my stack of alpaca blankets and went right to sleep.

Photo: Alec, Saori and Taylor entertain themselves with the finger puppets they purchased in the market.

Cuzco on the Rocks

Photo: View of Cuzco's Plaza de Armas from Sacsayhuamán.

Day 4
Cuzco

The four of us took a taxi over to the tourist office to buy our Boleta Tourista. The Boleta Tourista is one ticket which covers many of the major tourist attractions in the Cuzco area. The ticket costs about $43 each (cash only).

Surprisingly, we seemed to be the only actual tourists buying the Tourist Ticket. Everyone else was from some kind of tour agency.

Before continuing on, we decided to stop for a mate de cocoa (cocoa tea) break at one of those restaurants overlooking the Plaza de Armas. Cocoa tea does comes in bags. But the best way to drink it is to loosely scatter cocoa leaves in the bottom fourth of your cup. Pour hot water over the leaves and let it steep a few minutes before drinking.

Cocoa grows wild all over the place here. These are the same cocoa leaves that are the source of cocaine. In fact, Peru is number two in the world in cocaine production. (First, is Columbia.)

But it takes bushels of leaves and exacting process to convert the cocoa to cocaine. The main effects of the tea we drank was to settle our stomachs and give us a mild caffeine hit. It’s a very pleasant drink. But forget brewing your own back home. It’s illegal to import cocoa leaves to the U.S. in any quantity.

After drinking our tea, we needed to find a bathroom. The restaurant’s restroom was located down two flights of rickety stairs. Then you step inside a small area surrounded by scratched-up plastic walls, exit that through a dilapidated swinging double half door. Tucked into a darkened corner under the stairs was the toilet. Getting there felt like an Indiana Jones adventure.

From the Square, we took a taxi up narrow streets to Sacsayhuamán, loosely pronounced “Sexy Woman.” Sacsayhuamán really means satisfied vulture, although we could never find out exactly how it came by that moniker.

Today Sacsayhuamán is the remains of an Incan walled fortress overlooking Cuzco. The City of Cuzco was shaped like a puma, one of the Incan’s sacred animals. Sacsayhuamán is the head of the puma with its zig-zag shaped walls as the teeth.

We accepted the services of one of the local freelance tour guides hanging out at the entrance to show us around. He got a B- for his English ability, but an A for knowledge of the site.

While we had two in our group, you didn’t have to be an architect to appreciate the Inka building methods. Large limestone rocks were cut to fit exactingly together without mortar and engineered to withstand earthquakes.

When Cuzco suffered devastating earthquakes (in 1750 and 1950), everything built on top of the Inkan walls collapsed. But the Inkan-construction held firm. I was reminded of that phrase I’d heard in Egypt: “Time laughs at all things, but the pyramids laugh at time.”

We took another taxi back down to San Blas, the former Bohemian area of Cuzco. I had really wanted to stay in this picturesque section of town but couldn’t find anywhere available in our price range. But after negotiating the very narrow stairs adjoining the very narrow streets, I was happy we didn’t have to deal with this every day. Really, your average overweight American would have been sideswiped by every passing car.

After the taxi drove off, Alec discovered his wallet had fallen out during the cab drive. While he lost $100, the wallet didn’t have any credit cards or I.D.

We went to Heidi’s for lunch. Heidi’s is run by a German family with a farm outside of town. Heidi is the name of their cow. The restaurant’s decor was modern European, sort of like an upscale Ikea. Service, however, was typical Latin American “whenever we get around to it.” But the food! I ate the lunch special (menu del plata) which included a perfectly grilled trout that was so fresh it had to have been swimming hours ago.

For dessert, Alec and Taylor ordered “Nelson Mandela” chocolate cake. They liked it but it was more of a light chocolate mousse confection than they had expected. Alec joked that it should have been called “Hallie Berry” cake instead.

The food was all so wonderful I could almost forgive the fact it took them at least 20 minutes after we twice requested to give us our check. At this point the restaurant had people WAITING to get in. In Latin American restaurants, one is expected to lounge for hours after every meal.

After finally paying our bill, we continued exploring San Blas. At a small art gallery, I bought some of the black and white Chulucanas pots. These come from a village in northern Peru. They are handmade and baked in a kiln with mango leaves. The soot from the leaves dyes the unpainted portions black.

After all that hiking, we were getting tired so we headed back to the hostel for a siesta. I immediately went to sleep while Alec, Saori and Taylor played cards in the other room. At 4 p.m., they woke me up to go to the Inka Museum.

The Inka Musuem was highly recommended by all our guide books. But apparently, these people must have gone to some OTHER Inka Museum in Cuzco. The place we went had few English captions and lots of bad photos of exhibits, rather than the real items.

The only real attraction was the mummy room where actual skeletons were displayed in ghoulish positions. The skeletons also included those of children. And just so Junior gets a good look, they had special cut-in views at eye level for young children.

Hungry again, we wandered back over to Chez Maggie for some garlic oven-fired pizza which we washed down with cocoa tea and limonada. Why can’t the U.S. restaurants produce so perfect a lemonade? Ours are always too fizzy, too sweet and not nearly fresh lemony enough. Oh, well, the U.S. has great tater tots. That’s some concession.

As Taylor had been wearing the same clothes for days, I bought him an Inka Cola teeshirt for $3. Inka Cola is the carbonated beverage of choice in Peru. It has the sickly-sweet smell of bubblegum and is, apparently, an acquired taste.

I also went to a store specializing in rugs. Taylor and I looked at probably 30 before narrowing it down to two choices. Saori and Alec wandered in just in time to weigh in. The rug with the condor, another Incan sacred animal, was the unanimous choice for those three. I wasn’t completely sure, so I made the salesperson a lowball offer in cash. I had been pricing rugs all over town, so I knew this was a longshot, particularly for a rug of that quality.

Cuzco, incidentally, is not a good place to negotiate. There’s probably too many tourist who think everything is a good deal. Earlier, I’d asked the price of a llama fur teddy bear. The vendor told me 25 soles, about $6. How much if I buy two? “Quanta questa por dos?” The vendor quickily replied 50 soles, no discount whatsoever.

So I was fairly shocked when my lowball offer for the rug was accepted. It was late and they must have had a very bad sales day. Anyway, I had my souvenir.

Photo: Incan symbol rug.