Lima is huge. This capital rises over the  Pacific  and is divided into 43 districts, some newer and richer, some more historic and less wealthy. As always, we saw as much as we could without collapsing from exhaustion, and spontaneously threw in a football match in the national stadium.

 

 

Day Eight

Crashing on couches was not ideal, but we tipped the front desk and drank hot tea to make it more bearable. By 4:00am we rejoined the rest of our group and took a taxi back to the airport.

Once again LCPeru changed our flight details. Finally we boarded at 6:30 and before I knew it I was changing into summer clothes in the Lima airport.

Just outside of the grounds to the right the stop for combis (minivans) and busses. We took one to the Miraflores neighborhood, $1, one hour, and walked into the first hostel we saw. Pariwana Hostel was kind enough to let us store our bags and suck their wifi for $3 a person, a welcome price compared to the $45 for an airport locker.

The cheapest breakfast seemed to be croissants and bananas at the Metro supermarket. Catherine purchased an entire baguette and a half-pound block of solid butter. The hot sun was quickly melting everything so we ripped and dipped until the bread ran out.

Still way above the beaches, we first got to an outlet mall with great views but no stairs. We had to figure out how to follow the Malecon (a scenic walkway connecting the Miraflores and Barranco districts) for several blocks in the opposite direction of where we wanted to go, and backtrack at sea level until we passed the main the pier. Here Catherine and Cody left to explore Barranco.

Quentin, Will, and I were engulfed in a disgusting swarm of options for beginner surfing. Having surfed once before in Panama, I found the instructors far less considerate of their clients, partially because they were overworked themselves. Few beginners were able to catch waves. So many people were out in the water, clueless and flailing against the tide, I’m surprised people weren’t colliding every five minutes. The lesson was only $17 for 90 minutes, though my South American friends tell me this price was still a rip-off.

I had already been in contact with Pukana Surf School so I picked them, but I recommend going to an emptier one so you get more attention for the on-shore teaching portion, as the lesson quality is about the same among all tents. Will and I slid on wet suits, and did our best to understand instructions given mainly in Spanish with a little broken English thrown in.

The shore consists entirely of large, smooth pebbles that are quite uncomfortable to walk on, but as soon as we touched the water all our stress and fatigue disappeared. Our love for physical activity and the ocean took over our minds for the next hour. If I was able to stand up at all, it was short-lived and with poor form, but a blast nonetheless. I decided I’ll continue my progress by spontaneously learning from fellow backpackers I meet on future adventures.

To return to the city we found the normal ramp everyone in Cusco had been referring to. In dire need of liquids, we found some.

I brushed by a familiar face, perhaps more clean shaven. Then it hit me that he was the cute Argentine from the night taxis out by Machu Picchu! I quickly double and triple checked with Q and W to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, and promptly ran after him. I laughed when he told me his flight home was actually tomorrow. He headed to surf while we continued inland.

Increasingly running out of all cash, the three of us grabbed some fruit and used the very handy free wifi, offered throughout Miraflores public spaces. Despite having spent my fair share on Starbucks drinks in my past, I entered a branch and used the restroom, resulting in a severely pissed off staff. Q and W report that the barista was pacing between the bathroom and where they were waiting for me, and got a security guard to knock on the door, which accomplishes nothing because I was on the other side of that door and had no idea. When I left everything seemed normal, I just had to find the boys.

Bussing to the historic center of the city would take an hour, so we walked the Malecon again, this time all the way to Barranco. I had set up to meet one of my most inspirational friends from my university in this Boho, quirky, romantic, touristy district. I could immediately feel that it was more down-to-earth than Miraflores. Will pointed out that each of the 43 city districts appears to have their own colorful symbol.

We asked our way to Puente de los Susprios, or the Bridge of Sighs, but not before caving in to the beckoning of a tres leches from La Espiga de Oro, and getting a little lost among weird architecture and pretty plazas.

I was set on the idea of sitting in the middle of the bridge and enjoying our cake. Some Peruvian tourists clearly liked this too, because they asked us to stay seated while they got a photo with us. I noticed them trying to take a selfie and went over to take a normal picture for them, and in my periphery a security guard walked by. Totally a theme of this trip, she went over and kicked off W and Q.

 

 

We finished our bae cake just as Stephanie sat down next to us. We screamed, hugged, and were briefed on her adventures of a lifetime. Jamaica had been her first international experience and her first mountain hike. Since then she left her job and sold everything, taught for three months each in Bolivia and Peru via workaway, spending a total of $300 including her one-way flight from America, and ultimately decided she’s not coming back.

It was crazy to see her again, so much freer now that she’s a full-time explorer. It wasn’t too long ago that I was in the car that dropped her off for her four weeks solo-hiking the Appalachian Trail; that night was pitch dark, and dogs were howling.

Stephanie is making a difference in children’s lives. When she confronted the school staff about one of her students having dyslexia, they blew it off and told her to just give the young girl a word search. Think about it…dyslexia…word search… Instead, Stephanie’s been integrating art, such as having students make their own themed board games, or act out alternate endings to Harry Potter or Twilight.

In addition to the delicious meals provided by her host family, Stephanie’s daily staples have been fresh carrots and two fat mangoes, eaten with the skin (she later taught me to do the same). Her stories about how backwards and different Bolivia was made the country very tempting.

The four of us could repeatedly swipe her metro card and use the speedy public transport. Around sunset we cut to central Lima, wanting to see the nightly fountain shows that invite you to swim and walk through arcs of colorfully lit up water in Parque de La Reserva. However, upon alighting amongst crowds of fans decked out in soccer gear, Will was admirably persistent and found the line for purchasing affordable game tickets, $4, sold out of a bus window.

With seats in the Estadio Nacional de Lima secured, we relaxed at one of the many anticuchorerias, and ordered, naturally, anticuchos, or skewers of grilled beef heart. This Peruvian delicacy was served with the classic golden potatoes, a hunk of choclo (yay!!), and spicy, citrus-y, fresh sauces. A plate of two skewers costs $3.

We were in line again, this time filing into the stadium as people constantly yelled “¡Corre!” at those in front of them. Tons of police on horses watched us. So. Much. Street food everywhere. W got some more of that familiar sweetened, puffed cereal from the Sacred Valley. Our bags were checked over and we found seats good. I felt safe with my day pack holding my valuables; it wasn’t all too different from an American college football game, at least at first.

We finally scored, shirts came off and were swung above heads like lassos, and as W pointed out, when they all jumped in the stands it looked like a heartbeat. Little kids and their parents were going bezerk.

Drained, it was about 9:00pm when I was starting to fall asleep, and past 10:00 when we got out. The fountain shows were over. We got some quail eggs and arroz con leche with purple choclo pudding, and because I really wanted to see the historic center, we dragged ourselves even further away from the gringo nightlife that would’ve been in full swing back in Miraflores and Barranco. And I was glad we did.

I can only picture how stunning the looming colonial buildings look in the daylight. Some churches looked like they came from Candy Land. Founded by Francisco Pizarro in 1535 and the oldest public space of the city, Plaza De Armas (also called Plaza Mayor) is home to the Palacio de Gobierno, or presidential palace. My favorites were the drop-dead gorgeous yellow buildings surrounding us, because they were drop-dead gorgeous.

 

 

Our trip concluded the only way we know how, with soft serve McDonald’s ice cream. Our taxi driver dropped off Stephanie at the bus stop she needed before he took us back to Pariwana, half an hour, $4 for the whole car. I appreciated my last glance of the National Stadium.

Not able to contact the dozen others from our university scattered around Lima, we found our own ride to the airport, $4 each, 45 minutes. I had never met a taxi driver who lost his own car keys, but he found them soon enough.

Two homeless nights and a surf excursion later, I think my hair was ready for dreads.