The airport in Cuzco was nothing like the writhing cluster of travelers in
Lima. Its dozen gates were more like Springfield, Missouri.
In the Ozarks, though, it’s the northern hemisphere, so
it’s the hottest part of summer. Guess
what that makes it here, at 11,000 feet?
“It’s so…cold…” said Middle-child, like the last ten
minutes of a movie, where the hero is about to die.
“I can see my breath,” youngest said, then demonstrated.
After a quick stop at baggage claim, we headed to the
exit, and finally saw a young woman holding a sign with our names written on
it.
We piled into the mini-van, bound for our hostel. It is a three-star place, but I have no idea
what that means, if anything. In Peru, it could
mean windows that close, a door that locks, and water that runs, although not
necessarily hot.
Past the main square and its massive cathedrals, the
streets turn narrow, the kind of foreign streets that I imagine being caught in
a stolen Fiat, grinding gears and driving at high speeds over concrete stairs
to escape gunmen in BMWs with tinted windows.
I yell at my wife to hold it steady while I return fire and the kids
reload for me. I have great kids.
My paranoia increased when we arrived at a barely marked
doorway on a one-way alley, with a sign that said in Spanish, “Please be
patient and don’t ring the bell.” I
never found the hidden camera, but a man was there shortly to take our bags. Maybe he was using some forbidden Inca knowledge to just know.
The tiny lobby opened up into a courtyard, where maybe
ten doors stared down like spectators. The
place was punctuated by bright flowers I had never seen. We entered the small kitchen, where the lady
brought us a cup of hot tea, to help us adjust to the altitude, which I had not
yet felt.
At least not until we climbed the eight steps to the door
of the room. Someone had forgotten to
order oxygen. And moisture.
Wife unlocked the padlock on the room door, and we
entered. Our two-room suite was…well, it
had two rooms, technically. Walls of
solid concrete, but with a tiny balcony overlooking the cathedral square
mentioned earlier, with the mountains in the distance.
Once our gear was stowed, we decided to do some exploring
nearby. It wouldn’t be unusual to find
little tiendas that sold bottled water and snack foods for a song, so we didn’t
get stuck somewhere buying bottled water for $4. The Peruvians had learned that trick from Disneyworld.
We of course found one on the corner, and a buck and a
half later, we all had chips and a bottle of water to share.
Just to our right was a street with wide steps on either
side of it, and topped by an arched doorway.
“Let’s go check that out,” I said evilly.
After ten steps, Wife and Middle had stopped, learned
against the wall, and were supporting their weight by putting their hands on
their knees. My medical friends would
call this tri-podding.
I snickered, by only on the
inside. I only made it another ten. After making a bit of a to-do about where I should
stand to get the best photo of the arch, I simply said, “Okay!” and started
back down. This had been my plan all
along. I never intended to go up all
those steps.
Fortunately, the hostel was downhill from us, maybe fifty
yards or so. We returned there, to wait
for our ride, who had promised to take us on a tour of the city.
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