e arrive in Vilcabamba at sunrise. Only the birds and the good Catholics are awake.
We have been on a bus all night. Every one else slept on the way here, but I started with every swerve of the bus. The bus swerved a lot. I am stinky and grumpy. In the station at Loja, I ate the worst eggs ever cooked by man or beast, and I feel like giving them back about every five minutes.
But Vilcabamba is heaven. Our hostel -- "the best shower in South America!" the advertisement said -- has a garden outside our room, with lemon and banana trees growing. We sleep all morning, and when I wake up in the afternoon, I laze around in the hammock inside the garden and sleep some more. It is actually hot, something I haven't felt in a month. The sun feels close and familiar and perfect. Afterward I take a shower. Is it the best in South America? It is. It must be.
Kim and I have been traveling with an Israeli guy we met on the coast. He's 23, just got laid off from a high-tech firm and decided to travel for a half-year. His name is Yuval. He's sweet, but a bit of a goof. Two weeks ago, he didn't speak a word of Spanish, but everywhere we go he is practicing, talking with the locals. It's great for him, but a bit tedious for me and Kim, who have to suffer through every protracted sentence. Kim has an imitation of him, which never fails to make me crack up: "Yo, uh, yo .. yo quiero ... uh, yo ..." It really is like that.
In the evening, Kim and I make guacamole in the kitchen and Yuval makes us an Israeli dish whose name I can never remember. Shakshuka? Shakira? Shaq Attack? And afterward, we sit under the stars and write letters to people we miss. Only I don't miss much here, because it is quiet and warm, and already I can't wait to come back.
Tomorrow, I will be in Peru.