A Nighttime Arrival

Tonight is the Eve of St. Patrick's Day, and it's a chilly one in New York. Cold seeps in, collecting in a pool of icy air around my feet. Sleep gnaws at my tired eyes. Notes stand uncollected in various journals, announcing a painstaking process of re-assembly. It's late, but my warm bed must wait. I've got some writing to do. It's time to write about Peru. High time.

Two months have passed since our return from the Land of the Incas. The trip is now a strange, half-forgotten dream, residing in slightly frosted over corners of my mind. As Spring prepares the laborious task of thawing a thoroughly chilled New York City, I now must do the same with my recollections of Peru.

My arrival in Lima was postponed a day by a missed connection that held me in Ft. Lauderdale overnight. Determined to make something of my forced layover by "experiencing" the Floridian coastline, I spent a windy morning defiantly marching along the beach through a powerful storm. Perhaps it was the sand blasted against my face like a thousand tiny needles, more likely it was the perfumed pillows at the airport hotel, but my face was red and puffy with eczema by the time I landed at Jorge Chávez International Airport.

One look at my face told the airport clinicians that I could not be administered the yellow fever vaccine: the risk of a severe allergic reaction was too great. So I agreed not to venture into the Peruvian rainforest - a promise I would break days later.

Ambling through the airport lobby with my suitcases invited hordes of cab drivers to assail me with shouted fares: "Miraflores? Cincuenta soles!" "Cuarenta y cinco!" "Cuarenta!". In the end, I went for the official airport taxi service, priced at sixty soles - a premium for a better safety guarantee. As I stood waiting for my driver and stared at the cabbies I'd spurned, I felt a strange guilt at this excess of caution.

My eventual driver was a jovial young man, with whom I tested my Spanish chops as we drove through the warm evening air. Glimpses of Lima flitted by in the dark. I'd have to wait for sunrise to form a better notion of the seaside metropolis. The driver and I shared a few laughs, and he waxed poetic about the girls from Chile and Argentina. Soon he offered me a cigarette, which I declined as I don't smoke. I later regretted missing out on that particular experience.

At the hostel, I found my tripmates returning from a local bar crawl, laden with late night food - paella, fries, and chicken. We embraced joyfully, then drank beers in the dusk on the hostel terrace. It was a moment of bliss.

More from Peru to come.