For once I am writing while still in the presence of what I write about. I am at an exhibition of works by Peruvian artist Cristina Galvez. A good portion of her work is sculpture and drawings of animal- or form-faced human forms, skinny, with arms that taper off a quarter of the way down. Their armlessness and straight thinness is disturbing and the fantastical quality fo the characters I find very masculine. A series of ink drawings tell a story of a faceless king, and loop-faced queen. The king is murdered, there is a battle.
Other of Galvez's works are quite different and lovely: two ink or charcoal drawings of women with a cat; a beautiful sculpture of a hollow, slant-eyed and sad-looking tiger; a sculpture of a trapeze artist, a woman projecting herself back from a dangling triangle, hands gripping the bar, feet just above. It is all black and the woman is formed of wire-like long gobs of swirling metal.
A series of simple sketches in pen show Indian people - a snake charmer, female dancer, the back of a rickshaw - and there is a series of erotic orgy sketches titled 'joie de vivre'. I particularly like a sculpture of a sitting woman that is completely her metal drapery.
It is difficult to imagine that the same imagination produced these various works.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
8.00am, Tuesday May 19th, Pirwa hostel bar ....the curse of pimples
'Pimples' is such a harmles word compared to what goes on on my chin. Before I left for this trip I developed more huge painful zits that I tried to leave alone. I gave in to my overwhelming desire to massacre them: they hurt. So I came here with a series of welts that I have been incredibly self-conscious of, commenting on my face to others, particularly when I am told I look so much younger than I am - 'It's the zits', I say, 'Like I'm fourteen!' I was hoping they would go away by the time I got to Venezuela but instead I got another one that I turned into a vibrant scab while wandering around Lima yesterday. I hate my face!
But now I drink coca tea, the stuff that cocaine is made from. In tea, rather than drug, form, its properties are 'restorative and energetic', anti-diaretic, helpful for altitude sickens and tiredness,
'relieves tiredness of voice' and 'regulates the metabolism of carbohydrate'. It is nice - a sharp green tea flavour.
I was woken up at 6.30am by the three very loud boys who sleep in the room adjacent to mine. They also woke me when they came home late last night. They don't seem to understand the concept of hostel and my earplugs are no match for them.
Upon emerging into the bright sun from the Franciscan monastery yesterday, J and I picked a direction and walked. We saw the colourful houses of Lima's poor rising up the side of a mountain with a cross on its peak and wandered an area full of little shops in the wall, selling fabric, spectacles, decorative crap and other sundries. We turned a corner and found the Inquisition Museum, which J had wanted to see.
I was suddenly very tired. The museum was free but the tour in Spanish, so I can't tell you much about the tour. We began in the Inquisition room, church-like, with three mannequins sitting behind a big table and an accused mannequin to its side. The tour led through rooms with cut-away floors exposing bits of stone dungeon-like torture chambers. Simulations of torture, such as water poured in the eyes, were also provided by mannequins. Overall, a rather gruesome place.
Again picking a direction to walk, J and I stumbled upon the Museo de Oro - museum of gold -housed in what seemed like an old bank building. The entry floor displayed coins from various epochs of Peru's colonial history. An upper floor housed a collection of paintings organized to take the viewer through the defining movements of Peruvian fine arts. There were some lovely works here - a painting of two llamas, one standing, one sitting; a mother and child; some abstract works. The lower floor showed us a collection of ancient Peruvian pottery and jewellery, and the Inca gold - necklaces, masks and dishware. The pottery was wonderful - cute, squat animal figures - and all of the work had much personality and celebration. The gold was mostly hammered, thin, patterned pieces, though there was also some beaded necklaces with gold charms.
I felt tired to the point of illness at the Inquisition Museum, better as we wandered, and by the time I was ready to leave the gold museum I wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep. J and I found a cafe - a huge, long room with green arched and rendered walls and neon green light in the back room. I had what tasted like banana cake with dates. J and I felt refreshed after eating and drinking water and sitting for a while, so we decided to try catching the bus back to Miraflores.
J's guidebook recommended buses as safer than taxis. The hostel worker decried buses. I feel up for any adventure when I am not alone and I always want to take public transportation when I am in a new city. So, to the bus! After some discussion and street-crossing and questioning we found a bus to Miraflores and it was me, ME!, me with my non-existent sense of direction and hyperactive tendency to get lost, who recognised where to get off. It was such a moment of triumph!
We found ourselves a mini-bus, one of several types of buses cruising around the city, and we sat up front. The bus drivers are crazy and beep all the time and nearly hit other vehicles as they weave in and out of traffic lanes. But aside from the dangers of impatient bus drivers, I never felt unsafe, sinffed nary a whiff of danger. I wonder if people get overprotective of tourists, or perhaps overreact to tourists' own fears? Safety, it seems, is a very subjective sense.
Whereas Buenos Aireans do not believe in sitting on toilet seats, Lima folks do not flush toilet paper. Throwing toilet paper into a bin is gross for all involved.
It looks to be another sunny, beautiful day. This time I put sunscreen on.
But now I drink coca tea, the stuff that cocaine is made from. In tea, rather than drug, form, its properties are 'restorative and energetic', anti-diaretic, helpful for altitude sickens and tiredness,
'relieves tiredness of voice' and 'regulates the metabolism of carbohydrate'. It is nice - a sharp green tea flavour.
I was woken up at 6.30am by the three very loud boys who sleep in the room adjacent to mine. They also woke me when they came home late last night. They don't seem to understand the concept of hostel and my earplugs are no match for them.
Upon emerging into the bright sun from the Franciscan monastery yesterday, J and I picked a direction and walked. We saw the colourful houses of Lima's poor rising up the side of a mountain with a cross on its peak and wandered an area full of little shops in the wall, selling fabric, spectacles, decorative crap and other sundries. We turned a corner and found the Inquisition Museum, which J had wanted to see.
I was suddenly very tired. The museum was free but the tour in Spanish, so I can't tell you much about the tour. We began in the Inquisition room, church-like, with three mannequins sitting behind a big table and an accused mannequin to its side. The tour led through rooms with cut-away floors exposing bits of stone dungeon-like torture chambers. Simulations of torture, such as water poured in the eyes, were also provided by mannequins. Overall, a rather gruesome place.
Again picking a direction to walk, J and I stumbled upon the Museo de Oro - museum of gold -housed in what seemed like an old bank building. The entry floor displayed coins from various epochs of Peru's colonial history. An upper floor housed a collection of paintings organized to take the viewer through the defining movements of Peruvian fine arts. There were some lovely works here - a painting of two llamas, one standing, one sitting; a mother and child; some abstract works. The lower floor showed us a collection of ancient Peruvian pottery and jewellery, and the Inca gold - necklaces, masks and dishware. The pottery was wonderful - cute, squat animal figures - and all of the work had much personality and celebration. The gold was mostly hammered, thin, patterned pieces, though there was also some beaded necklaces with gold charms.
I felt tired to the point of illness at the Inquisition Museum, better as we wandered, and by the time I was ready to leave the gold museum I wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep. J and I found a cafe - a huge, long room with green arched and rendered walls and neon green light in the back room. I had what tasted like banana cake with dates. J and I felt refreshed after eating and drinking water and sitting for a while, so we decided to try catching the bus back to Miraflores.
J's guidebook recommended buses as safer than taxis. The hostel worker decried buses. I feel up for any adventure when I am not alone and I always want to take public transportation when I am in a new city. So, to the bus! After some discussion and street-crossing and questioning we found a bus to Miraflores and it was me, ME!, me with my non-existent sense of direction and hyperactive tendency to get lost, who recognised where to get off. It was such a moment of triumph!
We found ourselves a mini-bus, one of several types of buses cruising around the city, and we sat up front. The bus drivers are crazy and beep all the time and nearly hit other vehicles as they weave in and out of traffic lanes. But aside from the dangers of impatient bus drivers, I never felt unsafe, sinffed nary a whiff of danger. I wonder if people get overprotective of tourists, or perhaps overreact to tourists' own fears? Safety, it seems, is a very subjective sense.
Whereas Buenos Aireans do not believe in sitting on toilet seats, Lima folks do not flush toilet paper. Throwing toilet paper into a bin is gross for all involved.
It looks to be another sunny, beautiful day. This time I put sunscreen on.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
10.45pm, Monday May 18, lower bunk ....such a nice day
It is late (yes, yes, in my normal life it is all too early) but I wanted to write a little bit. I have come from a nice dinner with J. The vegetarian restaurant was not open, so we walked a bit and found a little restaurant catering to locals rather than tourists - cheap meals, non-atmosphere, dotted with old men. I had a tortilla verdura, which was a straight omelette, enormous, with canned vegetables, served on a bed of rice with green yoghurty chili sauce. J had grilled chicken on a bed of rice, with fries and salad. We shared a large bottle of beer ($5 solars).
J is a psychologist, finishing her PhD with hopes to be a researcher. We talked a lot about our issues and self-betterment goals. It was nice talking with another open American. Overall it was such a lovely day - sunny (my nose is sunburnt), full of good conversation, gorgeous objects and buildings, adventure, relaxation, triumph. But more detail tomorrow. Now, sleep.
7.16pm, Monday May 18, hostel bar ....just quickly
I am shortly to go off to dinner at a vegetarian restaurant with J, an American doctoral scientist from Michigan. We spent the day together in the beautiful city centre of Lima, all conquistador architecture - government buildings and cathedrals. Yellow boxy buildings with several stories of enclosed black balconies; an enormous white governor´s mansion reminiscent of both Buckingham Palace and London´s Parliament building.
J and I listened to the military band play American tunes in front of the mansion and went to an awe-inspiring Franciscan monastery. Surrounding a small, beautiful dry-looking courtyard with palms, oleanders and other green flowering things, the monastery has a general grand spaciousness that was changed over the centuries, from wall friezes which only bits of can be seen after layers of wall were scraped away to whitewash. These balconies are covered by ageing wooden ceiling tiling. The monastery´s major stairway is topped by an impressive Moorish wooden star-patterned dome and in the cathedral the figures of saints are intricately carved on every friar´s seat, which all face a stand for an enormous songbook. The monastery also houses a library that still has 300-year-old parchment books (that only special researchers may touch), a skylight and a classic spiral wooden staircase to a balcony level.
Underneath the monastery are catacombs, burial home to 250,000 people. Archeologists have organised the bones they found according to type, and in a few deep pits decorously arranged them in kaleidescopic patterns of skulls and bones. There are many higgeldy-piggeldy narrow passageways and random rooms, making the catacombs look more like a secret escape route or covert prison than anything else.
J and I listened to the military band play American tunes in front of the mansion and went to an awe-inspiring Franciscan monastery. Surrounding a small, beautiful dry-looking courtyard with palms, oleanders and other green flowering things, the monastery has a general grand spaciousness that was changed over the centuries, from wall friezes which only bits of can be seen after layers of wall were scraped away to whitewash. These balconies are covered by ageing wooden ceiling tiling. The monastery´s major stairway is topped by an impressive Moorish wooden star-patterned dome and in the cathedral the figures of saints are intricately carved on every friar´s seat, which all face a stand for an enormous songbook. The monastery also houses a library that still has 300-year-old parchment books (that only special researchers may touch), a skylight and a classic spiral wooden staircase to a balcony level.
Underneath the monastery are catacombs, burial home to 250,000 people. Archeologists have organised the bones they found according to type, and in a few deep pits decorously arranged them in kaleidescopic patterns of skulls and bones. There are many higgeldy-piggeldy narrow passageways and random rooms, making the catacombs look more like a secret escape route or covert prison than anything else.
9.24am, Monday May 18th, ....waiting
I will take a taxi into the city centre with an American girl I haven´t met yet, so to speak. I asked the hostel staff about catching the bus to the city and one gentleman strongly recommended against it on the grounds of unsafety. As he was showing me central Lima on a wall map, a young woman asked him about the city and bus as well - in Spanish - and I gathered she was in the same predicament as I was so I asked her if she wanted to take a cab with me. She looked startled but said yes. I am waiting for her to use the internet to check a flight.
It is sunny again today and hopefully will be hot. My camisole shirt smells, so I´d like to take it off.
Solitude is for May Sarton the only way she can handle the world. How tragic that the human relations she so rightly values are always accompanied by some sort of distres: anxiety of prepartion, despair at loss of time, concern about self-presentation, her occasional outburst of anger and conflict. It is sad when equanimity can only be found in a vase of flowers or a cat.
It is sunny again today and hopefully will be hot. My camisole shirt smells, so I´d like to take it off.
Solitude is for May Sarton the only way she can handle the world. How tragic that the human relations she so rightly values are always accompanied by some sort of distres: anxiety of prepartion, despair at loss of time, concern about self-presentation, her occasional outburst of anger and conflict. It is sad when equanimity can only be found in a vase of flowers or a cat.
6.16pm, Sunday May 17, KSA Tomada bookshop ....happiness
Happiness is an excellent bookstore/cafe. I was looking for Huaca Pucllana, which I gather is some sort of archeological site (it is an elongated brown blob on the map) but instead found one of the best bookstore/cafes I have ever been to. KSA Tomada is spacious and modern and quiet, with dark wood bookshelves and white walls. The tables of the cafe, a large room with red walls and shellacked concerte floor, has large glass-topped tables with scattered coffee beans and picture books of Peru under the glass. There is a low-ceilinged upstairs with red couches and chairs.
After trying and failing to figure out what ´palto´is (avocado!) I am eating a ´triple´with egg, tomato, and avocado and mayonnaise. Crustless. Divine. I think the menu says that this was Borges´s favourite sandwich (don´t quote me on that). Simple but divine. I also have a bottle of cusqueña beer, which is cheap. $5.50 solars a bottle and the exchange rate is $1Aus to 2.25 solars.
Before I arriving at this calm spot I found an immensely grand supermarket. It had two floors connected by a grand balustraded wooden staircase. Despite its grandeur it wasn´t expensive...well, not for me. I bought a small slice of blue-veined cheese; three different sorts of beautiful looking bread rolls (one more wholemeal pita-like) ; a tamale verde, which I hope isn´t stuffed with meat; a cucumber; more big, white passionfruits; and another unknown fruit to try, which I´ve seen before - yellow with five pod-like sides. I also bought deodorant, which I got away without using in cold Buenos Aires but now my clothes are smelling, and another disposable camera. I shot my last photo on my first camera while walking above the ocean and want to take more where the beach becomes prettier. I thought I was being frugal with photo taking but already I have taken 27 photos.
For May Sarton happiness is a vase of flowers in her ´cosy room´. For me it is a great bookstore/cafe. In such places being alone is a pleasure.
But, one must READ in a bookstore/cafe...
People are allowed to smoke here in the cafe. In Buenos Aires people smoked in train stations, though it is technically against the rules. There was a smoker and a not-young couple from which emanated a constant stream of kissing sounds sitting in the cafe but they have now gone to leave me in more peace.
A few details I have remembered:
Here in Miraflores there are little strippy gas stations in the median strips of major thoroughfares.
On Buenos Aires mornings, waiters holding trays of coffee cross streets to deliver breakfast to shopworkers.
Everyone beeps plentifully here in Miraflores, little soft beeps. Mostly it is taxi drivers letting you know they are available for you, but I wonder if some of the beeping is to warn other cars and pedestrians that a car is coming because many crossings don´t have lights. Even if there are traffic lights, people cross as soon as the opportunity arrives, regardless of lights.
After trying and failing to figure out what ´palto´is (avocado!) I am eating a ´triple´with egg, tomato, and avocado and mayonnaise. Crustless. Divine. I think the menu says that this was Borges´s favourite sandwich (don´t quote me on that). Simple but divine. I also have a bottle of cusqueña beer, which is cheap. $5.50 solars a bottle and the exchange rate is $1Aus to 2.25 solars.
Before I arriving at this calm spot I found an immensely grand supermarket. It had two floors connected by a grand balustraded wooden staircase. Despite its grandeur it wasn´t expensive...well, not for me. I bought a small slice of blue-veined cheese; three different sorts of beautiful looking bread rolls (one more wholemeal pita-like) ; a tamale verde, which I hope isn´t stuffed with meat; a cucumber; more big, white passionfruits; and another unknown fruit to try, which I´ve seen before - yellow with five pod-like sides. I also bought deodorant, which I got away without using in cold Buenos Aires but now my clothes are smelling, and another disposable camera. I shot my last photo on my first camera while walking above the ocean and want to take more where the beach becomes prettier. I thought I was being frugal with photo taking but already I have taken 27 photos.
For May Sarton happiness is a vase of flowers in her ´cosy room´. For me it is a great bookstore/cafe. In such places being alone is a pleasure.
But, one must READ in a bookstore/cafe...
People are allowed to smoke here in the cafe. In Buenos Aires people smoked in train stations, though it is technically against the rules. There was a smoker and a not-young couple from which emanated a constant stream of kissing sounds sitting in the cafe but they have now gone to leave me in more peace.
A few details I have remembered:
Here in Miraflores there are little strippy gas stations in the median strips of major thoroughfares.
On Buenos Aires mornings, waiters holding trays of coffee cross streets to deliver breakfast to shopworkers.
Everyone beeps plentifully here in Miraflores, little soft beeps. Mostly it is taxi drivers letting you know they are available for you, but I wonder if some of the beeping is to warn other cars and pedestrians that a car is coming because many crossings don´t have lights. Even if there are traffic lights, people cross as soon as the opportunity arrives, regardless of lights.
4.20pm, Sunday May 17, cliff edge in Miraflores ....misty by the beach
I look out at the ocean, watching the surfers come in through the haze. Surfers come to Peru for the waves, but the beach here, below Miraflores, is not beautiful. A major highway runs along it and there are only several meters of packed-flat dark sand with cars parked on it, and then rocks lead to the water. The sea is a greeny dark grey. There are occasional inlets with much more sand in rounded clumps. I watch the mist cloud sail in from the sea, passing a green cliff farther down from where I perch covered in morning glories. It is very green here in this park above the sea, with morning glory ground cover, thick green grass, short palms planted in diagonal rows and couples making out underneath them. Another couple has just come with six little white golf balls and mallets.
Parque El Faro
Parque El Faro
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
10.50am, Sunday, May 17, cafeteria in Lima ....kissed by a waiter
Oh my, I just took a bite out of my crema volteada (flan) and it is delicious.
I have come from an exhibit of 'croces' - crosses - in the municipal building. They were made of all kinds of materials, from old gear shifts to ropes and rocks.
While searching for a cafe to write in, the waiter of the first restaurant I passed tried to get me in for breakfast and kissed me on the lips when I said goodbye. How rude. Yet still I stay polite in the face of such overt, if salesman-like, politesse. If you ask me, this is the problem with kissing strangers on the cheek. It can go wrong.
I was keen to write this morning but one of the hostel workers who was preparing breakfast wanted to practice English with me. He has been studying English for 8 months and speaks pretty well. He helped me with Spanish as well. I thought I got off to a late start this morning but my clock was two hours ahead of the correct time. Not sure why.
In any case, the day is still young. It is cloudy and humid, with a chill in the air. I feel well rested but mentally tired. The suburb isnt beautiful enough, or the day nice enough, to make me excited about exploring.
Yesterday I arrived in Lima airport to the sounds of a family in traditional dress singing traditional songs. I dont know if this is usual or if they were there to greet a long-missed relation. I spent too much money on a taxi. I was looking for the public bus at the airport and one particular driver singled me out for accosting. I resisted his negotiations at first. But when I left the information stand to look for the bathrooms - the attendant spending much time with the man ahead of me - he accosted me again, this time with an English-looking English speaker, beefy, with red face and close-cropped hair, dog tags. He told me that the bus I was looking for had moved and the taxi wasnt that much more expensive.
The driver told me it would cost 15 dollars. However once I was in the taxi and on my way towards downtown Lima and told the driver I was going to Miraflores he said he had to charge me 25 dollars, or 75 solars. I got him down to 70 solars when I said he could just take me to the city. He wanted to take me to a particular hostel and (pretended to?) looked confused when I showed him the address of the hostel I had booked.
So he took me where he wanted, walked me into his selected hostel, and was there when I told the clerk that I was actually booked into a different hostel. The clerk tried to get me to stay there - it seemed a decent hostel - but I insisted Id lose my booking fee and could he please show me where I am.
Pirwa hostel is not the place to arrive when you are feeling fragile and confused. The woman at the front desk was not full of information and cheer. However, it is clean; doesnt have many guests; and I have a four-bed dorm room to myself. I felt better after talking to Marya, the Dutch traveller, and the sweet Peruvian hostel worker who is learning English.
I have come from an exhibit of 'croces' - crosses - in the municipal building. They were made of all kinds of materials, from old gear shifts to ropes and rocks.
While searching for a cafe to write in, the waiter of the first restaurant I passed tried to get me in for breakfast and kissed me on the lips when I said goodbye. How rude. Yet still I stay polite in the face of such overt, if salesman-like, politesse. If you ask me, this is the problem with kissing strangers on the cheek. It can go wrong.
I was keen to write this morning but one of the hostel workers who was preparing breakfast wanted to practice English with me. He has been studying English for 8 months and speaks pretty well. He helped me with Spanish as well. I thought I got off to a late start this morning but my clock was two hours ahead of the correct time. Not sure why.
In any case, the day is still young. It is cloudy and humid, with a chill in the air. I feel well rested but mentally tired. The suburb isnt beautiful enough, or the day nice enough, to make me excited about exploring.
Yesterday I arrived in Lima airport to the sounds of a family in traditional dress singing traditional songs. I dont know if this is usual or if they were there to greet a long-missed relation. I spent too much money on a taxi. I was looking for the public bus at the airport and one particular driver singled me out for accosting. I resisted his negotiations at first. But when I left the information stand to look for the bathrooms - the attendant spending much time with the man ahead of me - he accosted me again, this time with an English-looking English speaker, beefy, with red face and close-cropped hair, dog tags. He told me that the bus I was looking for had moved and the taxi wasnt that much more expensive.
The driver told me it would cost 15 dollars. However once I was in the taxi and on my way towards downtown Lima and told the driver I was going to Miraflores he said he had to charge me 25 dollars, or 75 solars. I got him down to 70 solars when I said he could just take me to the city. He wanted to take me to a particular hostel and (pretended to?) looked confused when I showed him the address of the hostel I had booked.
So he took me where he wanted, walked me into his selected hostel, and was there when I told the clerk that I was actually booked into a different hostel. The clerk tried to get me to stay there - it seemed a decent hostel - but I insisted Id lose my booking fee and could he please show me where I am.
Pirwa hostel is not the place to arrive when you are feeling fragile and confused. The woman at the front desk was not full of information and cheer. However, it is clean; doesnt have many guests; and I have a four-bed dorm room to myself. I felt better after talking to Marya, the Dutch traveller, and the sweet Peruvian hostel worker who is learning English.
Friday, June 5, 2009
May 16 continues to continue
While walking around Miraflores with Marya, the beautiful Isreali, I told her all my neuroses, anxieties, fears, concerns. About money; about feeling safe (uuuh, how tasty is salt? Especially on avocado.); about wanting to be competent. I dont even know her! How pathetic I must seem (I am only a little bit pathetic, in very certain ways, but you wouldnt know that from the way I talk), though I think she was impressed that I am travelling alone. She is travelling with two boys and they speak Spanish. She has been to Laos and Thailand, has lived all of her life on a kibbutz and will have to go back to the army when she is done with her travels. I let her know I was Jewish when I said my neuroses was genetically inherited. I always have to tellJewish people I meet that I am Jewish too. Why?
We approached political topics carefully. I asked her about national service, about harrassment and gender issues. She saidthe service matures people and brings them a unique and vital sameness of experience. When I asked if she found Peruvians to be very friendly she said yes but that not everyone likes Israelis and, though she understands Israel has done some not nice things... It shouldnt affect individuals, I finished. I talked about expecting to experience the same as an American in Venezuela but that I kind of find those feelings fair enough.
I must come back from this trip keeping my mouth shut about my anxieties. They need to go back to pre-30-years-old levels. Even if they don't, I need to keep them to myself. I must relax!
Right now I feel good. I emailed and blogged for a long time, interrupted by talking to a graphic designer from Denmark who is backpacking for4 months after having taken tours in previous years. She says Amsterdam is dangerous, anything can happen to you anywhere. She was held up in Amsterdam.
Maybe I need to blather and write in order to feel better. To unload my anxieties so they are honoured and discarded in communication.
We approached political topics carefully. I asked her about national service, about harrassment and gender issues. She saidthe service matures people and brings them a unique and vital sameness of experience. When I asked if she found Peruvians to be very friendly she said yes but that not everyone likes Israelis and, though she understands Israel has done some not nice things... It shouldnt affect individuals, I finished. I talked about expecting to experience the same as an American in Venezuela but that I kind of find those feelings fair enough.
I must come back from this trip keeping my mouth shut about my anxieties. They need to go back to pre-30-years-old levels. Even if they don't, I need to keep them to myself. I must relax!
Right now I feel good. I emailed and blogged for a long time, interrupted by talking to a graphic designer from Denmark who is backpacking for4 months after having taken tours in previous years. She says Amsterdam is dangerous, anything can happen to you anywhere. She was held up in Amsterdam.
Maybe I need to blather and write in order to feel better. To unload my anxieties so they are honoured and discarded in communication.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
5.45pm, Saturday May 16, Pirwa Hostel, Lima ....hot and lost
I have just come back from a walk around the Miraflores district of Lima with a beautiful Israeli gril named Marya. With tight black curls, curvy hips and pink Peruvian harem pants, men in passing cars kept whistling at her.
8.11pm, hostel rooftop bar ....feeling good
I am eating a dinner of avocado, tomato, sunflower seeds and cajun seasoning. It is delicious. I will partake of Lima´s restaurant offerings tomorrow.
I don´t like who I am right now as a traveller. I still have these horrid zits on my chin and they make me feel unattractive, hence insecure and hence I manage to bring them up in conversation.
I ate meat today, well fish, I think, for the first time in a long time. I didn´t set out to of course, but I was in a local supermarket - wooden and glass box shelving gave the shop an entirely different, old-fashioned feel. I couldn´t find a loaf of bread and greatly desired lunch so I bought a double sandwich, called a triple: an extra large saran-wrapped, decrusted wedge with three slices of bread, one layer spread with jam, another with egg and the other with...some sort of dessicated fish with mayonaisse I think. I was hungry, I am in Lima.
8.11pm, hostel rooftop bar ....feeling good
I am eating a dinner of avocado, tomato, sunflower seeds and cajun seasoning. It is delicious. I will partake of Lima´s restaurant offerings tomorrow.
I don´t like who I am right now as a traveller. I still have these horrid zits on my chin and they make me feel unattractive, hence insecure and hence I manage to bring them up in conversation.
I ate meat today, well fish, I think, for the first time in a long time. I didn´t set out to of course, but I was in a local supermarket - wooden and glass box shelving gave the shop an entirely different, old-fashioned feel. I couldn´t find a loaf of bread and greatly desired lunch so I bought a double sandwich, called a triple: an extra large saran-wrapped, decrusted wedge with three slices of bread, one layer spread with jam, another with egg and the other with...some sort of dessicated fish with mayonaisse I think. I was hungry, I am in Lima.
more May 16 ....and that is it for Buenos Aires
Buenos Aires once ran trams, as evidence by bits of letover line. Now, its subway and trains are overcrowded and dangerous. When there is room on the train in non'peak hours, people wander the train selling many things - tissues, chocolate, choclate milk, diaries, lighters.
On Thursday night W and I browsed bookshops together on Corrientes, admiring the bargains. Classic literature in different ranges, some plain bound, others Victorian flowery. I bought a Spanish-English dictionary for $11 pesos. On our trip back to Haedo a man rolled his amplifier onto the train, set up his guitar, harmonica and tambourine around his leg and played country, folky music. He was wonder, really talented. W said, ´I love this´. She said there are a few musicians who play on this route who were very good. Most passengers gave the musician money and many bought chocolate from the train vendors as well.
It is great to experience W´s enthusiasm for the city she has lived in all of her life. She is scared to cross train tracks, as the trains come fast and no barriers stop people from crossing. She said there are a lot of accidents and suicides and told the story of a girl who fainted onto the tracks, got hit by a train and emerged only bruised.
As I sit here in the airport I watch a young female passenger don a face mask. Many airport workers are wearing them too. I hope it keeps the swine flu away.
On Thursday night W and I browsed bookshops together on Corrientes, admiring the bargains. Classic literature in different ranges, some plain bound, others Victorian flowery. I bought a Spanish-English dictionary for $11 pesos. On our trip back to Haedo a man rolled his amplifier onto the train, set up his guitar, harmonica and tambourine around his leg and played country, folky music. He was wonder, really talented. W said, ´I love this´. She said there are a few musicians who play on this route who were very good. Most passengers gave the musician money and many bought chocolate from the train vendors as well.
It is great to experience W´s enthusiasm for the city she has lived in all of her life. She is scared to cross train tracks, as the trains come fast and no barriers stop people from crossing. She said there are a lot of accidents and suicides and told the story of a girl who fainted onto the tracks, got hit by a train and emerged only bruised.
As I sit here in the airport I watch a young female passenger don a face mask. Many airport workers are wearing them too. I hope it keeps the swine flu away.
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