Viva La Vida: The Wheels (and doors) on the Bus

Transportation in a new culture can be similar to trying the food: you have to try a few different options, there will be something that will throw you for a loop, some of the options will make you sick, but it is all part of the experience. It's not like there is some outstanding, unique form of transportation here, like if I could say, well, people here fly in miniature spaceships. We walk, take a taxi, take a bus, etc. It is just the way we do these things. 

We walk a lot, and this is wonderful. I breathe in fresh mountain air like it is the water I need to survive, still breathe extra hard going uphill and always, no matter what, have mud caked up to mid-shin. The mountains are too beautiful and the neighborhoods too curious not to walk.

I have ridden one time in a personal car of Jane's, and we saw how well that went over (see a few below). Traffic here is exactly like China and nothing like the US. There aren't really rules. It is OK to swerve in and out of lanes (or just drive in the middle of the road) or be in the far right lane but still somehow make a left turn at the last minute. It is almost like a game where you try to get to your destination without crashing but coming as painstakingly close to it as possible. Our rigid rules of "do not pass here" or "drive with caution at the speed limit and only switch lanes after a blinker and a good look into your mirrors" are replaced here with simple honks--an individual car's rule they set for the other cars around them. It makes it seem like the US has a rigid, strict road, and it makes for car rides that make you feel like you are racing playing PS2's Gran Turismo. 

The buses are our main form of transportation. By buses I mean vans that have extra seats in them so that they technically could seat 10-14. They have names like "Servicio Rapido," "El Mirador" and "Batman." You stand on a corner and hope ones drives by, flag it down and, without stopping, a sliding door opens for you to jump in; think sweet Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine. There is no limit to how many people can be on this bus. I one time sat on a crowded Rapido, and the man next to me asked if, where I was from, they would ever let it slide to have people sitting on others' laps, people standing, others almost hanging from the bars on the van's ceiling. I smiled and said, probably not. 

My favorite bus experience has to be when Annie and I caught the last Rapido of the night to go home and, since it was packed, we were bending over some other passengers and rubbing skin with the girl who opens the door for everyone and collects the S/ 60 ($0.20) it costs to ride. On this particular night, we were swerving around when the girl flung the door open, let someone in, and then couldn't get the door closed. So Annie and I, with the wind in our hair, held on for dear life. At the next stop, the driver tried to get it closed but only pulled the door off of its hinge. There was a lot of yelling from him, and some people got off, but we rode with the poor girl holding the entire door on the bus and then trying to open and close it with much difficulty any time a passenger needed on/off. Our stops is one of the last ones, and I guess the driver wanted to call it a night because he didn't take us up the hill to our stop. An unhinged sliding door can be a problem.

Taxis are quite cheap; we can usually get to a destination for S/ 4 - S/ 7 ($1.30-2.30). There is also the idea of a "collectivo" taxi; if you have a large group of people going to one destination, everyone piles in until the trunk is full, and each person pays S/ 1. That saves gas. Rides to downtown Cuzco are quite eventful, and the gorgeous ride to Pisac is all up and down hills and around hairpin bends on the sides of mountains. I have had one driver cross himself as we headed out of Pisac. I didn't know to feel comforted or more afraid. 

However, I think the way people drive here almost makes them keep their eyes open more--no rules makes for a huge window of the unexpected, so it is impossible to just feel safe and sound in your lane, listening to music and not being aware of one crazy driver. No room for surprise here, so maybe I feel a bit more safe?

War & Pisac

Every February in Peru, the carnival season seeps through the mountains towns like the steady showers the rainy season brings. And I am beginning to see we are in the wet season for more than just the daily rains. 

For a weekend getaway, the four girls decided to head to Pisac to stay a night. There is a beautiful hotel there that has hot showers with pressure (!), a fireplace to eat your Peruvian dinner by, walls the colors of their extensive gardens and huge beds with down comforters. It was perfect. It was the flowers that graced the grounds that officially made me think I was in a tropical paradise: calla lilies, roses, hydrangea bushes, magnolias and drops of color I had never seen before. These line the sidewalk as you stroll towards the tennis courts and pool. We swam both Sat. and Sun. because, beside this pool being perhaps the nicest I have ever been to (OK, not the Water Cube), the sun was out, it is summer here and we wanted some wet exercise. (Yikes, on that we spoke too soon.)

After a wonderful evening of getting behind the bar to help the bartender make our drinks (that turned out well and responsible) and playing cards in the refreshing night air, Sunday was Carnival. In tiny Pisac, the central Plaza is filled with treats for the eyes and entertainment. The streets leading up to the Plaza are back-to-back markets where glistening silver and soft alpaca fur makes you stop to ask how much. Carnival celebrates tradition and fertility. They give thanks for the women and hope that the rains encourage successful farming--hence the ribbon- and balloon-decorated corn stalks. There is constant dancing and singing in traditional costumes--skirts, vests, hats, blouses, etc. The men step lightly and play flutes while the women twirl, their skirts like pinwheels in the wind. Some dancers are dressed as alpaca. 

Then there are the kids. Of course, the littlest of us clap and buy ice cream cones and wander the square away from parents to see what the festivities have to offer. But Carnival is known for a tradition I have already experienced, and that is the act of soaking anyone and everyone. We should have kept our swimming suits on after the pool. Annie and I returned from a sunny weekend to hang our jeans and sundresses out to dry. Kids, from the age of two to well, they say you're never too old, run through the streets with H2O ammunition: balloons, buckets, super soakers and cans that spray like shaving cream. You simply existing is reason enough for you to be soaked so, out of nowhere, splat: a balloon at your neck. Whoosh: a gallon of water down your backside. Squirt: you look like you just won the World Series. Annie chased a few kids down with our water bottles, but otherwise you just have to laugh and hope the clouds don't cover the sun. 

Even more entertaining was to watch the battles the children had between themselves. War raged on these streets, and I saw no mercy. 

No one really cares they've just been hit; you can say "no, por favor" all you'd like, and it is like the predators don't speak Spanish. However, we did watch one man, not once but twice, go up to kids who liquified him with a knife. He would point the knife into their side and circle them, sternly speaking. The police caught on, and this man who liked staying dry a little too much left the plaza. For more on the water getting out of control, click here. 

It was all absolutely stunning--the weather, the swim, the bed, the flowers, the growing friendships, the music, the dancing, the smiles any celebration in a little cobblestone town locked away in the mountains brings and, really, the chance to enrich ourselves with a tradition that, although not technically ours, opens our eyes to what others see as beautiful and important ... even if we do need goggles. 

Viva La Vida: To market, to market

Each weekend, my two roommates and I gather plastic shopping bags and head to the outdoor markets that grace Cuzco's side streets. 

Sidenote: We love the Peruvian food one can find in the restaurants here. If you go out to eat for supper, you can usually get a wonderful hot plate for S/ 15 - 20 ($5-7) where as a lunch sandwich might be S/ 8-10 ($2.50-3.15). I prefer La Menu--the set meal for the day at a set price. I have paid S/ 12 ($4) for this, and I have paid S/ 3 ($1) for what usually is a soup, drink (chicha, made from corn) and main course of a meat, rice and potato/vegetable. That's a deal.

But we also love (and can more easily afford) to cook. So we escape the sun and head into the shade of the market, a place where your nose is attacked and forced to surrender to the smells of our survival needs--some as sweet as flowers or fruit and others stink bombs (unknown meats, old cheeses, rotting produce). 

Some people sell scarves, hats, gloves and skirts. We usually stop to get fresh-squeezed juice of every fruit (as long as you ask them to use bottled water). There are young children who walk around with carts on wheels. In the bottom cage, there are two little birds. On the top of the cart are two bowls of eggs: one peeled, the other, in shells. Talk about fast food. 

We walk through bags of oats and dried corn seed, nuts and dried fruit. We hit the meat section, and my stomach turns. Entire carcasses of pigs, chickens and the like hang, easily recognizable and not at all appetizing. I keep my eyes on the mangoes and make a bee-line forward. In my favorite section, women sit up high and call from their thrones of color: bananas, star fruit, peaches, plums, apples, pineapple, mangoes, papaya, strawberries. We point, and they weigh, and it takes a lot of self-control to wait for boiling water before eating. We hunt for veggies and meat and, on the sunniest of days, I buy flowers because the day just wouldn't be the same without a bundle in my arm. 

Most fresh food is cheap. Here's a cheat sheet (the Peruvian currency is the Sol): 

1 bottled water: S/ 1 = $0.33

1 kilo carrots: S/ 4 = $1.33

1 red bell pepper: S/ .53 = $0.18

3 mangoes: S/ 2.50 = $0.83 

6 peaches: S/ 4.50 = $1.50

3 avocados: S/ 3 = $1

1 jar all-natural peanut butter: S/ 12 = $4

6 slices of cheese: S/ 3 = $1

2 freshly baked ciabatta rolls from the local bakery: S/ .50 = $0.16

3 large breasts of chicken (on the bone and with some blood): S/ 15 = $5

Pack of 24 Oreos: S/ 3.50 = $1.15

1 L orange juice: S/ 2.50 = $0.83

Cold milk--oh wait, it doesn't happen here. So to me, it's priceless. 

The groceries are quite funny (and it was like this in China) in the fact that over half of the store seems to be bread, cookies, candies and puddings. The rest is meat, noodles, yogurt and some beverage aisles. 

The freshness of these foods makes us want to turn eating into an art; in order to savor the locals' produce, we take every opportunity to cook and experiment with recipes so that we sit down for supper, nod our heads at each other and smile a silent "well done." Those trips to the market and the freshness of our food are things my senses have awoken to and grown a deep appreciation for. I wish I could invite you over for dinner. 

Viva La Vida: Intro

There is a pulse-raising art to traveling. With every train or bus or plane, my mind and heart start racing, competing with the wheels that carry us off to somewhere new. The adventure can be a bit wearing, actually. There are too many sites to see and cultures to experience to sleep in a bed that isn't yours. You wake up with the sun to work out a mode of transportation to your travel book's next suggestion. Sunlight ticks away with the clicks of your camera and lost steps of your feet. Curiosity makes you read the little signs on benches or under random artifacts --signs that, at home, you might never read. It's guaranteed that something will happen in this new place that will make you remember that you are off to somewhere else tomorrow, and you wish you had one more day here, in this place you could easily never return to.

 

But, then you spin the globe and smack your finger down on a city, and let traveling get mixed up with a bit of life, and you are somewhere completely foreign but get to live there, an unbelievable opportunity. You get to have a bed and closet and street that you always tell the taxi drivers to bring you home to. You are traveling but, within a few weeks, don't feel like a traveler. We have to take a break from our tourist mindset and explore the hypothesis, "if I lived here in Cuzco, I would...."

Hopefully this will be the first of many reenactments on living a life here in Cuzco, because it seems impossible to live everyday like a tourist trying to breathe a city in in 24 hours. We have work to do here, need things we are used to in our lives and need time to just be. When a new city, especially one of such history and beauty, seems to knock on your window with promises of adventure and new culture, it can be hard to close the curtains and stay in for dinner or a DVD. But how amazing is it that the city will be there tomorrow and the next day, never taking back its invitation? You live here now. Take it all in with a refined balance.

Our day's events unfold, and I feel molded into its schedule--nothing like a tourist. But there are surprises. This morning I woke up to a note from our wonderful roommate, Julia, saying she had made us pancakes with fresh fruit for breakfast. Later, the girls on staff were going out to lunch and, on the way, in Jane's newly acquired old-school Volkswagon, the car stopped in the middle of the road at a stoplight. I got out to direct the crazy traffic around the car, shielding my eyes from the sun in the middle of a street where basic instinct rules the road over any law. Standing there with my arms waving and my non-Peruvian features, I was dealt a dose of humility in the forms of water balloons (a direct hit), through-the-window high-fives, Spanish curses, Spanish cat-calls and men leaning out their windows to give me and my still mostly-English-understanding ears instructions on how to start the car. To most of these, I just smiled and nodded and motioned to please keep moving around. A turkey walked by on the sidewalk.

Going out to lunch to plan Jane's wedding was a girls date that had us gushing about wedding plans to the point that the sweet waiter brought us complimentary truffles to have with the lemonades and fresh juices we hadn't even finished because there was too much to talk about. We do our work and try to finish before our daily step/aerobics class that has us laughing at the amount of leg lifts our energetic teacher can do as she smiles and encourages us to her Elvis and salsa music. We cook dinner. We dance with soapy hands and dirty dishes. We watch Friends episodes. We play cards. I'm on my fourth novel. We need that. We need that because our lives are here in Cuzco and that doesn't change the fact we enjoy exercise or need rest after a day's work or want to take time to cook a family-style dinner. 

It all makes me love living in Cuzco even more; I can tour ruins, pet alpacas, shop the markets, get lost going up cobblestone hills, practice Spanish with the girl behind the counter where I buy apples, spend time with kids anxious for our love and, at the end of the day, come back "home," ready to work hard and explore more cracks and crannies of the Andes the next day. More on living the life of an average day later. 

Feliz dios de san Valentin!

I spent Valentine's Day falling in love with a city. The city had flower petals strewn on the cobblestone streets for under my feet. It supplied consistent background music, whether spicy Latin beats or symphonic renderings. Red heart balloons winked at me as I passed through doorways. Cuzco's cathedral's ancient walls against a bright blue sky and children laughing at its steps sent butterflies through my stomach.

Carrie Bradshaw always claims she has a relationship with New York City; they go on dates, find themselves in unpredictable situations and have bad days, but she goes to bed every night knowing her city is right outside her window, serenading her and ready to surprise her with unbelievably beautiful moments and a day of adventure.

We didn't even start the day in Cuzco but in Pisac, a hidden city about 45 minutes outside of Cuzco in the gorgeous Sacred Valley. Annie, Julia, Lauren and I took a taxi through the Andes, unable to see the tops even as we craned our necks and stuck our heads out the windows. We saw the rocky and green but could see snow-tops in the distance. Who was it who deemed the mountains "majestic?" They must have had a key to each human brain, because that word was written on my surroundings. Pisac is a quaint city that seems like it could get lost among the mountain air. The small central plaza had two outstanding trees in the center. One is a palm tree, as if perhaps it would be a luxurious detail mentioned in a travel book on this town that literally lies below Incan ruins. We shopped in the markets and took time to sit in colorful beach chairs as Pisac treated us to coffee and Valentine's cookies. I guess Pisac was the stand-in date as Cuzco prepared itself for the evening. 

Coming back to Cuzco, it was quite chilly, but, being the perpetual gentleman, there was an array of colorful alpaca-woven socks, sweaters, hats and gloves, all handmade, at our fingertips, if we decided to spend the Soles. 

I think it is the people that really get my heart fluttering when spending time with Cuzco. Each person that passes you seem to whisper a different story. With some, you have to play the guessing game as to where they are from and where they have traveled and where they are off to. There are other faces under traditional top hats, faces that seem to have a wrinkle for each year of life and hard work and times they have walked these streets. Mothers carry babies on their backs, and the miniature faces glance out from rainbow blankets to giggle at your waves. Alpacas greet you as you round a bend and barely miss getting hit by a taxi on the narrow roads and winding hills. 

Annie and I walked these streets and, peering over rooftops into a blanket of stars, could feel the love affair this city offers to its dwellers. 

Dinner was served high up on a balcony where Annie and I perched like birds with our pollo con arroz. Everything moved fast below us--taxis, friends off to clubs, Peter in boots, tourists with monster backpacks, women trying to sell one last thing--but Cuzco gave us the time of day just to watch, breathe in the mountain air and feel slightly special and removed, even if we were in the middle of the Plaza.

We took a combie bus home, and my ride was paid for by the nice man who I sat next to and who thought I knew more Spanish than I let on; that was a Valentine's gift in itself. The slight rain that was falling were our good-night kisses from a city that, even in 2 1/2 weeks, has put us in a construction-paper heart labeled "mine." 

A Little Food/Water for Thought

Today I read about water and the lack of it.

C'mon, Lauren, you might say; you have water literally being thrown at your feet and in your face (see below). 

That's true. There's also at least two scruffy dogs for every 10 feet I walk here, but I don't have a cuddly puppy of my own yet. 

Peru's Challenge was looking into the organization charity:water, a group tackling the fact that 1 in 6 people on Earth do not have safe drinking water. The fact that 80% of all sickness and disease comes from this problem. That around 35,000 children under the age of 5 die each week because of poor sanitation and unsafe drinking water. 

Coldplay claims, "you could see your future inside a glass of water." And it's true; the integral part of our planet's future rests in water. I am trying to look at it glass-half-full style, but clean drinking water is a problem we in the States barely give a second thought to as we happily shower, clean, garden, chug, etc. all with the turn of a knob. 

Water makes our world go round. And just as Benjamin Franklin said, "when the well is dry, we know the worth of water." The water that comes from the taps here in Peru is not safe. We pay for and then carry huge tanks of purified water uphill every few days to quench our thirst. There are sinks in the house that are strictly forbidden to use, even if you think, I'll just boil it. We use that water to flush the toilets when the water goes off completely. We take water from the taps with filters on them to boil so that we can wash the dishes and cook--but still don't drink this. We boil water so we can scream and curse as we pour it over our fruits, vegetables and hands as it is still bubbling, because you can never be too sure. 

And the water does go off-- quite often, actually. I am not one to complain about the fact that a shower is literally impossible to take, but we often find ourselves sweaty with lots of dishes in the sink, awkward restroom conversations and laundry hanging on clotheslines, having skipped the whole water/washing part. 

But I am not complaining. A few miles directly up, there isn't safe water to drink, either. The people of Pumamarca make up some of those statistics charity:water so boldly claims. The water there has to be used for washing, cooking and drinking, and it is all the while where the animals stand and do other things. Disease is obviously a dreadful risk. The women and children there are responsible for walking to a clean water source--usually at least two miles away--and then carrying whatever they can manage back to their houses. Peru's Challenge wants to help, and the project proposal currently involves finding a safe source, building reservoirs and putting in pipes. If you have some extra money in your pocket, let us know.  

The author of The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, said, "Water has no taste, no color, no odor; it cannot be defined, art relished while ever mysterious. Not necessary to life, but rather life itself. It fills us with a gratification that exceeds the delight of the senses." I had never thought about water that way; water delights us in a way we don't even need our senses for, and I wish everyone could experience that daily. But I have been spoiled --and probably even bored-- by a glass of water. That is not how it is for the developing countries of our world. 

Maybe it is just because water tends to be somewhat of a chore here compared to when at home that I have been considering this grave issue; and by chore I mean just something that takes a bit longer than usual. Nothing like just drinking what is available and risking disease or walking for hours for a single, heavy bucket or watching your child suffer fatally from the only thing you can offer to quench his thirst. I got shots to protect myself against the thing our lives revolve around to come here because the thing our lives revolve around here could harm, ruin or take my life; that doesn't even make sense. 

I'll now go drink from our ritzy blue tank and take its clean contents into the bathroom to brush my teeth with. I'll raise a glass and hope the future inside looks clear.

An Andes Reenact-mint: Holy Smokes, A Chimney

The closest I've ever been to the Andes is when I stand drooling over an array of the crisply wrapped chocolate mints, shelved like books in the box they come in. I love those Andes.

That little mint candy was founded by Andrew Kanelos, hence Andes, p.s. But how did the little mountains come to coat the wrapper? Maybe it's the green. It has to be the green.

We are currently experiencing Peru's summer and rainy season. It's that wonderful mountain weather where the sun beats down hard (who knew we were so close to the equator and should don sunscreen every time we dress?) even as gray clouds roll ominously over spread-out Cuzco, like a blanket for the city's quick, scheduled afternoon nap. It pours, and the sun shines, and the world is green. 

The first day we were in Cuzco, Peru's Challenge had a scheduled house visit. (If you are unsure of what our organization is about, visit the website; it is inspiring.) This involves volunteers heading up to the village of Pumamarca to help out a local family; it could be anything from construction to agricultural/livestock assistance to intervening with a violence/alcoholic problem. On this day, a house needed a chimney. We climbed into a rickety van and took hair-pin turns up into the mountains until there was no road to drive on, and we could only reach the family by foot, so we got out of the van and jumped, like Mary Poppins, into the picturesque scenery we see surrounding us everyday. 

I do know I was out of breath, but I am not sure if it was the new altitude or view that was taking it out of me. We were in the Andes, in a village that has been alive since before Cuzco laid itself out below as an expanding city with seemingly unnecessary things like grocery stores or cinemas. You don't drive out here. You walk, and you carry whatever you need on your back--flowers, a lamb, a child. 

Up here, you work around the beauty that lies in the sloping hills and wildflowers. Tiny huts seem to stand there embarrassed, as if impeding on the more-triumphant nature's ground. Cows, donkeys, pigs, chickens, goats, cats and dogs run freely. The curves of the untouched hills seem to go on forever against the sky's backdrop; it's The Sound of Music's Maria's heaven, and it took a lot for me not to twirl through, looking for the brook that trips and falls. 

It is even more beautiful to pass those who live here in their colorful clothing, welcoming smiles and cheerful "buenas tardes." The women have a load on their backs, a goat on a string and children in a wheelbarrow. Groups of people stand in pits of more carrots than I've ever seen in one spot, using water and their feet to clean them all. As I walked by, a little girl came up to me, offering one of her orange prizes. I pretended to take a bite and said, "mmm,

 delicioso," and she laughed. They were still working two hours later when we walked back in the dark, the moon shining just enough to see orange.

The beauty that is here is that of a double-edged sword. The poverty competes with it for the most outstanding feature. The family of four receiving our visit today lives in one room with Earth as their floor and no lights or furniture. The yard behind their fence is pure mud and manure, but the two children had us as guests; they still wanted to play with us in it, so we rolled up our pant legs and headed in, following their smiling, dirty faces. 

When the rainy season hits or the cold nights start to set in upon the mountains, the families cannot have open doors or windows in their houses. However, they need fires to keep warm, cook, boil water, etc. In a closed house, the smoke fills the room and presents health problems and annoyances, especially for the young and elderly. The solution? A chimney. We cut some surrounding bamboo and wood, did some magic with hammers and nails to create a flat board of these materials, put this board into the mud wall of the house in front of where we had created a hole and then threw wet mud the father had dug from their yard at the wood/bamboo. This was sprinkled with water and spread out to dry. There, using the Earth I stepped on and the trees I swayed in between, a house has a chimney; a family can breathe a bit easier. The children, amidst chasing chickens, asked if we would take a picture with them, and the mother hugged and kissed each one of us, speaking in Quechuan, the local language. 

Her delight in our simple task lifted my spirits so that I didn't even notice we were treading through water or trekking up rocky passages in the dark as we walked back to the van, which all of a sudden looked so out of place. We climbed in, and some of the local boys ran after it, laughing and staying right at our wheels until our speed picked up, and their waves ushered us out of their hills and back into the town where those hills are once again just the picturesque scenery. 

I know I love these Andes, too, crisply wrapped in their green.  I hope we spend more time jumping into the painting rather than just admiring it. 

Showering of Welcomes...it's wet.

Most people know "welcome" in a few different languages.  

Even if you drive away from the St. Louis airport, there is a bold green sign spelling out "welcome" in perhaps 10 different languages. Sure enough, we hopped off our Florida-to-Lima flight to a huge "Bienvenidos" sign glowing in the summer night air. We made it to South America. But the welcomes to this new place (it's been two weeks since we left the Midwest's freezer, Chicago) have seemed to go beyond language barriers. 

For example, on our first day here, Annie and I were trekking the coast of Lima when a car drove by and literally dumped a bucket of water on us, the only people walking on the sidewalk for as far as I could see. Annie's mouth was filled with salt water, and we both had soaked clothes.  

As we wandered through the ancient streets of Cusco this weekend, shadows I swore were birds turned into sopping explosions at our ankles; someone had thrown water balloons from a mystery tower above. Today, as I took a walk around my neighborhood--a good 20 minutes outside of downtown Cusco--I caught those same shadows out of the corner of my eye as a truck slowly drove by, kicking up dust that quickly turned to mud at my feet as a water balloon landed on my Reefs. Ten minutes down the road, one barely missed my head. At least it's warm here.

These welcomes are surely just open arms to Peru; it just takes a bit of interpretation. 

The bucket of water in Lima said, "you made it to the ocean! Did you get so close you could taste it?" The water balloons on the cobblestone streets of Cusco say, "just wanted to keep you cool in this equator sun warmth!" 

Or there is the man on the street who made my head and heart explode with anger when he couldn't keep his hands to himself. 

We stand out a bit here so take these welcomes with a grain of salt. 

It is impossible to be in Cusco's beautiful Plaza de Armes without a welcome from a local thrusting a painting or alpaca socks into your hands. "Will you buy?" "Where are you from?" "Oh, America, capital: Washington D.C. President Barack Obama. Welcome to Cusco; how long are you here for?" These way-too-young vendors each have their welcomes rehearsed and bask in your compliments on their English and gratefulness for the invitation to their city, even if you deny what they are selling.

But there have been other welcomes, too. 

I can't describe the feeling of flying on a 56-minute Lima-to-Cusco flight to our new home and having the Andes underneath, like open arms ready to catch our fall and hold us so tight we can hardly breathe (that might be the altitude). The mountainous expanse the rainy season has turned Cusco's guarding gates into is like walking into J.Crew when their spring line comes out; the green screams life and growth. The mountains bid you to come out and play. 

Lima held the welcomes whispered by a roaring ocean and, as we sat in a park, the welcomes from those who never make us ask for love--those from children. A family walked by and, as we waved at the youngest, the mother made this little boy, who was maybe two, plant kisses on our newly sun-kissed cheeks. Gracias, Peru.

There is the welcome of getting off of a plane in a foreign city and hearing your name being called out by a complete stranger--but your name sounds sweet and the stranger's voice familiar because you weren't sure if anyone was going to show up or not. The welcome from Peru's Challenge made us feel quite at home just because they all, too, have been first-time visitors at one point to this city nearly 11,000 ft. above sea level. We awoke that first day from naps to meet Peru's Challenge's beloved mother figure, Sentusa; she had apple cake and, although I knew about three words of Spanish at the time (luckily Annie is a pro) and nothing that Sentusa was saying, that piece of cake and smile made me love where I was. 

The list of things like this could go on. I was merely walking down a street by two little girls playing, and they ran next to me and both took my hands and looked up and laughed like we had been playing dolls and house and simple things for hours. 

And so we take in our new surroundings, accept the welcomes--whether verbal or not--as they come and, all the while, try to stay dry.