April
8, 2015 (Wednesday)
Our
last day in Cuzco was a free day for John, Joy and me since we opted out of the
additional tour. After a leisurely
breakfast I intended to go back to my room to plan my day, but I had
accidentally requested maid service. So instead I wandered up to the local market
to research possible souvenirs and pick up some more bottles of water while
they cleaned my room.
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It
makes sense to mention at this point that upon arrival in Cuzco the tour
company gave each of us a handcrafted doll and a small handcrafted carrying bag
(or as Joy aptly put it, a man purse) with our name, our guide’s name, and an
emergency tour contact (Diego) pinned to it.
I used the man bag when I went to Machu Picchu, so I could leave my
backpack on the bus. It came in very
handy throughout the trip, so much so that I had gotten into the habit of
carrying it with me (slung over my shoulder) whenever I wandered about. In it I carried a bottle of water, a rain
poncho (which came with the bag, but I didn’t need thanks to my newly purchased
rain jacket), my tube of sunscreen, and some portable toilet paper purchase in
the U.S.
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Armed
with my trusty man bag, my rain jacket and wide-brimmed hat I set off for
Qorikancha, some Incan ruins which (according to Lonely Planet) form the base
of the colonial (read: Spanish) church and convent of Santo Domingo. The ruins were about halfway between my hotel
and the Plaza de Armas, where I planned to have lunch either at Jack’s Café
(which the Lonely Planet reviewer claimed was the only place she was willing to
stand in line for) or at Granja Heidi just up the street from Jack’s. Qorikancha is an architectural marvel. Its walls had once been lined with gold until
Pizarro and the Spanish conquistadors looted the temple and melted down their
booty. What remains is still
fascinating, and there are lovely grounds upon which you can walk. When I arrived at Qorikancha, the streets had
filled with demonstrators and the streets were lined with the Peruvian equivalent
of our National Guard and the local police.
They were not overtly threatening, but the guns and shields were
disconcerting. While I wandered the
ruins I stumbled across an exhibit of Salvador Dali’s series of paintings
depicting the various circles of Hell, a subject right up his surrealist alley.
Next
up was lunch at the Granja Heidi. Jack’s
Café’s line was long (as predicted), but, unlike the Lonely Planet reviewer, I
was unwilling to stand in line when a less crowded and just as appealing option
waited just up the street. In addition
to offering a la carte many restaurants also offer a fixed price menu. Granja Heidi had a fixed price lunch that
included soup, vegetarian option for an appetizer and for the main course, and
cheesecake for dessert – all for just under the equivalent of US$10. Worth a try, I thought. I went upstairs and was escorted to a table. There were a handful of patrons. It felt more like a coffee shop than
restaurant. I ordered a cold ginger milk
drink and the fixed price lunch. My
waiter (who I believe was the owner, because he would sit and chat with other
customers like old friends, then get up when more patrons arrived) pointed out
that the lunch came with a drink and did I still want the milk drink. I asked to think about it, and he was
amenable. He teased me good-naturedly
when I used the word “chica” (girl) when I should have said “chicha” (a type of
drink). I liked the place already. The soup was a very simple broth with
vegetables and grains, the drink was refreshing and had little chunks of apple in
it, the appetizer and main course (they came together, so I can’t be certain which
was which) had vegetables, quinoa, tofu and other things I have forgotten, but all were delicious. Only the cheesecake was less than inspiring,
but, for the price, perfectly acceptable.
I declined the other drink, because I was stuffed to the proverbial
gills. I headed back to my hotel to gird
myself for the market and a little souvenir shopping.
Upon
my arrival at the hotel, which was a leisurely 30-minute walk from the Granja
Heidi, I realized I had left my man bag slung over my chair in the
restaurant. So I hoofed it back,
trusting in the goodness of man. As I
walked it began to rain steadily. My
trusty new rain jacket is the best travel purchase I made. (At this time our compatriots who had taken
the optional tour were wet and cold on the grounds of the Sacsaywaman
ruins.) I arrived at the Granja Heidi to
the smiling proprietor who promptly returned by man bag. I thanked him profusely and called myself a
stupid tourist in broken Spanish. He
pointed out I was not so stupid since my bag still had the emergency contact
information pinned to it. I found out
later when Diego called my hotel room that the proprietor had called to let him
(Diego) know I’d left the bag. At that
moment I realized I loved the city of Cuzco and its people.
Our
tour group of lucky number 13 agreed to meet for a dinner on our last night in
Cuzco. John and Joy handled the
arrangements. The 7 at our hotel met the
6 at the other hotel and commenced the long march to the restaurant Chicha,
just west of the Plaza de Armas. The
older Asian women struggled on the journey (it was uphill and longer than
anticipated). Matters were not helped by
Linda barreling ahead and expressing frustration at the pace of the
70+-year-old women (whom I thought were doing rather well). Did I mention that Linda was a headstrong,
somewhat selfish Southern belle? Despite
Linda’s annoying complaints we arrived for our reservation early. That’s not to say the Asian women don’t
create frustrations of their own – a sometimes grating combination of language
barrier and cultural pushiness. The 3
older Asian women gave our barely legal (and very patient) waiter no end of
misery when placing their order. I hid
behind my menu in embarrassment. The
youngest of their group, Nancy (who, I was beginning to suspect, had a crush on
me based on the amount of attention she paid to me) was more flexible in her
culinary tastes and ordered what Bonnie ordered. She got a little drunk by evening’s end. I ordered a drink with pisco and lime in it
and was initially distressed when it arrived pink. I was reminded by Debbie that Campari
(another ingredient in my drink) gave it that color. It was quite delicious. I ordered the trout, which was spectacular,
and saved room for dessert – a chocolate soufflé that took 18 minutes to
prepare. It was worth the wait. Served with a scoop of mint chocolate chip
ice cream, it was sin in a bowl. I
persuaded a handful of our group to try some, but most was left for me to
eat. And eat it I did. It would have been a sin to waste it. The 3 older Asian women and John and Joy had
left before dessert arrived, so the rest of us stumbled downhill, tipsy and
sated, to our respective hotels.
However, that meant that once the upgraded group dropped off it was
Nancy and I alone for the rest of the walk.
Again, I got a vibe that Nancy might have an interest in me.
April
9, 2015 (Thursday)
Today
we were to take a 10-hour bus tour to Puno.
There were several stops along the way, but it was going to be a long
haul nonetheless. We had to be checked
out by 6:20 a.m., which meant a 4:30 a.m. wake up call in order to make
breakfast by 5:15 a.m. and to finish packing.
I arrived in the dining area, and only the 4 Asian women were
there. I knew Joy thought 5:30 a.m. too
early for breakfast and would not be there, but I felt certain John would make it up
eventually. The restaurant was at the
top of the hotel and offered a spectacular view of the city and surrounding mountains. I had finished most of my breakfast and was
relaxing with a final cup of coffee. The
3 older Asian women got up and left, and Nancy walked over to my table bearing
a cup of coffee with milk (just how I drink it). She asked to sit and of course I said yes,
then she offered me the coffee she had brought over. I said it was early and she would probably
need the coffee, to which she replied that she doesn’t drink coffee, only
tea. Suspicions confirmed. Unfortunately the interest was not
reciprocal. Nancy dressed young for her
age and behaved somewhat immaturely. I
had already been down that road and wanted to simply enjoy my vacation. Luckily John arrived at that moment, saving
me from an awkward exchange.
Our
comfortable group of 13 grew much larger as we merged into a larger
tour bus with about 25 additional tourists for the drive to Puno. Our group was in the front of the bus – a
plus – however, because I travelled alone I sat next to a very nice, quiet
elderly gentleman with a cane who spoke no English. Having minimal human interaction during the
drive eventually led to my lethargy. Our
first stop was the church of San Pedro Apostol de Andahuaylillas. We were given a set amount of free time after
the guided portion of the tour, and they were militant about it. Just to move stragglers along, the driver
would start driving away at the appointed time, then wait as you rushed to the
vehicle. It was unnerving but kept us on
a tight schedule. Our next stop was a
church in (I believe) Huaro, which had two striking paintings of the damned
being devoured by serpents.
Next
were the ruins at Raqchi. We were left
to wander through the maze-like stonework after the guide finished his
spiel. How apt that as I reached the far
side of the ruins, the onset of Atahualpa’s Revenge made itself known. I walked quickly but carefully back to the
plaza area (jostling seemed ill-advised) and was confronted by a brusque woman
demanding 1 sole for admittance to the toilet.
I absolutely forked it over (and even have a receipt to prove it). Crisis averted. Our next stop was the buffet lunch, which was
not nearly as impressive as the one a couple days ago at Tunupa. Or maybe, thanks to gastric issues, I wasn’t
all that receptive to eating. Anyway the
next stop was La Raya Pass at an elevation of 4,338 meters or 14,232 feet. Between snapping pictures of the snow-capped
peaks, several tour members took the opportunity to purchase wool sweaters and
hats from the merchants at the pass.
Pukara
was our next stop. There were several
fascinating skull exhibits; however, I was soon preoccupied by the reemergence
of Atahualpa’s Revenge and ducked into the nearest bathroom. To my (further) distress there was no toilet
paper. But (thank you, Lonely Planet!) I
was prepared with some of my own. Mission
accomplished.
On the
last leg of the trip we drove through Juliaca, which is over an hour outside of
Puno, and the streets were flooded from the recent rains. It was slow going. Juliaca has nothing to recommend it but the
airport we would be flying to Lima from in a couple of days. It’s like Fresno but without the personality. I hope the roads aren’t as treacherous on
Saturday.
After
checking in at the Qelqatani Hotel in Puno, John, Joy and I walked to Mojsa for
dinner. The place was packed (a good
sign) but they were able to seat us in the bar upstairs where a sweet,
overwhelmed young bartender suddenly found himself serving food to lots of
diners. By the time we left, the bar was
full of dinner overflow. I had a pisco
sour (natch!) and a delicious vegetable lasagna. John had the alpaca, which he said was the
best he’d had on the trip. Back at the
hotel I recharged my camera battery in anticipation of our boat tour of Islas Uros
tomorrow on Lake Titicaca (pronounced properly as “Lake Titty-HaHa”).
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