nly one week traveling, and I have already lost track. I can't remember where I slept two nights ago -- was it in Ecuador or Peru? Was I in a hostel or on a bus? I can't keep track of what story I told to which person, or which revelation I shared and which one I kept to myself. I think it's Friday.
My life has become a Journey song.
Piura, Peru was all stray dogs and houses without roofs. We were tired of bus rides, so we broke down and bought plane tickets.
All the travelers say to avoid Lima if you can. But you never can. So we fly in to the big, ugly city for a night, long enough to see the inside of an overpriced hotel room, and then in the Lima airport I drank my first real cup of coffee in a month at Dunkin Donuts and almost wept with gratitude. In Ecuador, coffee is something like a practical joke. You ask for the stuff and they give you lumpy milk made from powder and a can of Nescafe. So cruel! So close to Colombia!
Now we are further south in Cuzco, Peru. It's a gorgeous city, with perfect blue skies and Spanish cathedrals made from the same stones the Incas used to build their empire. There's more tourists than locals here. All the kids sell postcards on the streets. Yesterday, one kid tried to sell me his little puppy. "20 soles," he said.
"15," I said, picking up the fuzzy little black thing and placing him on my chest.
"Fine," he said.
"I'm only joking," I said, handing him back the puppy. He shoved him under his arm and walked off.
This afternoon, I am reading in the park when two little boys sit down beside me on the bench with their stack of postcards.
"20 dollars for one," the first boy says to me. He is probably 13, with a broad face and big eyes. White stains circle his dark mouth, like he's been drinking milk or drooling in his sleep.
"$20?" I say. "That's really expensive!"
"Okay, then give me your shoes."
"No," I tell him, "I need my shoes."
"Then give me your water," he says.
"No," I say, laughing. "I want this water. I just bought it."
His friend asks me where I'm from, and I tell him the United States.
"Why are all the tourists from the United States so bad?" the first boy asks.
"They're not. Why are they bad?" I ask.
"I think you are good," the second boy tells me in English, and then bursts into peals of nervous laughter.
"He thinks you're good," the boys says, shoving his friend playfully. "But I think you need to give me some water. Or buy some postcards."
"I already bought some," I tell him. I bring the postcards out of my purse and show him.
"These are bad," he says, taking them and putting them back in his stack. "I have much better postcards. Here. What do you want? $20 for one."
"I don't HAVE $20," I say.
"Your shoes are fine," he says. "Or a sip of water."
This continues. Eventually, I break down and buy two from each of them. What the hell? Postcards for all my friends -- Cuzco by night, Cuzco by day, Cuzco with llama. The boys are beside themselves, giggling at their good fortune, giddy that they finally got their way. When we shake hands goodbye, they start a thumb war. I let the second boy, who told me I was a good tourist, win. I pin the first boy's thumb over and over.
When they leave, all the other vendors in the square descend with their paintings and jewelry and plastic cups. I have been marked as a softie.