Colca Canyon Tour

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

 Arequipa, Peru is high in tourism and tour-related industry. For our final week in the city, I hoped that Forrest and I might take an excursion together. I collected pamphlets around the square and comparing them, we liked the Colca Canyon tour. It offered either a day's trip to Colca Canyon or a three-day hike into the canyon. They provided meals, a tour guide, and overnight lodgings with a local family. 

“That’s too planned for me,” said Forrest. “If I hike the canyon, I’ll go on my own or with friends. And we’ll camp.” 

I suggested the day trip. “That way you can see if it’s worth an overnight trip later.” 

Forrest agreed, set everything up with the tour company, and informed the front desk of our early pickup time. 

Since the main door was not open at four a.m. a hotel employee had to arrive and unlock a side door for us. The early hour was to get us to the viewing area when the condors are most likely to be there. Seeing these impressive birds in flight over the canyon was meant to be a highlight of the excursion. 

It was very cold that early. I dressed in layers and wore my long sweater coat over a sweatshirt. 

The van had space for fifteen or twenty. I chose seats halfway back, sitting next to the window and leaving the aisle seat for Forrest. This allowed him to talk to other passengers if he felt like it, which he usually did. 

Our fellow passengers were from all over. We heard German, Russian, Italian, and French as well as Spanish and English. Arequipa is a magnet for global tourists. It is a beautiful, historic city and makes a convenient stop for those going to Cusco and Macchu Picchu. The Colca Canyon, even deeper than the Grand Canyon, is a major attraction. 

After four hours of driving, we stopped in the mountains for breakfast, provided as part of the tour. On each plate was bread and a pat of butter. Coffee or tea was available at a side table. Once everyone had entered and seated, a server came around with a modest serving of scrambled eggs for each person. 

After breakfast, people dispersed and wandered through the small grounds outside the restaurant. Near one of the buildings, two kids in traditional dress performed a dance. They were both dressed in skirts, although one was much prettier and danced more gracefully than the other one.

Back in the van, the tour guide explained that the dance was one of courtship performed by a girl and a boy dressed as a girl. The dance celebrated past Incan history, when protective parents did not want young men coming to the house to see their daughters. To get around this obstacle, the young man would disguise himself as a girl to visit his sweetheart. The parents, thinking the visitor was a girl, welcomed him into the home. It was only after several visits, once the parents got to know him and like him, that he would reveal his true gender. By that time, they were fine with it and allowed the young couple to continue their courtship. 

Our tour guide shared other interesting information as we traveled through the mountains. An earthquake some years ago had damaged many of these hill communities and caused such economic hardship it took years to recover. He pointed out where landslides had destroyed valuable grazing and crop land. 

He explained about sheep, llamas, and alpacas, all of which are raised here, and the differences between them and the yarn woven from their wool. He told us about coca leaves, how everyone chews them for energy, health and to better adapt to the high altitude. 

I had seen the loose leaves in bowls served with hot beverages. When I took herb tea, I always added several to the hot water in my cup. The guide passed a small bag for us to try, especially since we were headed to higher altitudes.  They are dry like bay leaves, and I had no desire to chew on them.

When we reached the viewpoint of Colca Canyon, we did indeed see a few condors flying over the canyon. There was a short hike to a better viewing area if we chose to go. 

Hiking up to the viewing area

Forrest had paired up with an attractive Dutch girl from our van. I walked up on my own since Forrest tended to disassociate himself with me in public. Why would he want a girl knowing that he was traveling with his mom? Understandable and it didn’t hurt my feelings. 

After the condor viewing, we drove further to where the herds of llamas were kept at 14,000 feet elevation, well beyond Arequipa at 7000 feet. Llamas thrive at these higher elevations, the guide explained. 

Upon arrival at the llama pasture, our guide invited us to walk onto the field for a closer look. The animals were peaceful and calm, he said. We wouldn’t bother them or they us. This explained why the people loved their llamas and treated them like pets, carrying the babies around in their arms, and leading full-grown ones on a leash. Once in Arequipa, I walked past a couple maneuvering a llama into the back of a taxi with the rest of their family. 

Llama faces all have that adorable little smile. No wonder everyone loves them.

Llama herd at 17,000 feet altitude

At this elevation, I became dizzy and nauseous and couldn’t walk down to the herd. I wasn't the only one affected. People were bent over vomiting and a few lay on the ground. 

I sat on a rock until I felt well enough to head back to the van. Our guide handed us cotton balls dipped in rubbing alcohol as therapy against altitude sickness. He told me to sniff it, and then he rubbed it on my forehead. Instantly, I felt normal again. 

When Forrest arrived, he said he felt fine, maybe a bit dizzy. I rubbed the cotton ball on his forehead just the same. It surprised me that he had not been affected since he came from nearly sea-level Portland, and I was living in Utah at 7000 feet. But then there were those vomiting and collapsing, so I suppose it affected people differently. 

On the drive back, we stopped at a scenic area near a river, where people could swim in the hot springs or walk along the riverbank. You could go on a twenty-minute horse ride for a small fee. I waited in line and enjoyed a brief ride with a silent, cowboy-ish guide. We clomped along a quiet paved road with a beautiful view of the river below. I could see Forrest and the Dutch girl sitting on a couple of boulders next to the river, talking and throwing stones into the water. 

Finally, it was time to return to the van and continue on down these mountains. As we reached lower elevations and drove through hilly, green fields, it felt like traveling through farm country back home. The well-tended fields of crops, cows, horses and sheep grazing in pastures, with the occasional house with its fences and gardens looked like paradise. I imagined those living in such an environment must be the happiest people on earth. Farm country in Peru was not that different from farm country in the U.S. It had that same well-ordered, peaceful aura. 

Our final stop was in a small town where a buffet dinner was offered at a hotel. Forrest and I wandered in, looked at the price and decided against it. Instead, we walked to the center of town and chose a restaurant near the park. I wasn’t hungry and just ordered a soda. Forrest bought a sandwich and fries. 

After that, it was straight down to Arequipa. 

So, we had done the Colca Canyon tour. Forrest said, "As much as everyone raves about it, I wasn't that impressed." 

I think what most impressed him was the lovely blond Dutch girl. After we disembarked in Arequipa, I noticed the two of them exchanging phone numbers. I smiled at that and thought of the Incan courtship dance. Ah, the circle of life.

Guilty or Not Guilty?

 I have a lovely sister who is my best friend, close in age but as different in personality as two people can be. 

Karen and Jeri (on the right)

She feels guilty for all kinds of things, but I hardly ever do. Unless I do something rude or stupid or mean, then I feel bad and will apologize. But my sister Jeri feels guilty about the strangest things, like reading a book instead of cleaning out a closet. Or skipping a party or event when she is tired.

Jeri has a blog where she posts her poems, and recently she added this one about guilt. Her blog is here if anyone wants to check it out. It is called The Rhythm of Life. 

I'm curious where people stand on the topic of guilt. Are you one who suffers under feelings of guilt even when you've done nothing wrong, like my sister in her poem? 

And what do you think causes this anyway? Why does one person second guess every decision and feel bad when she makes one choice over another? And another (me, for example) goes her own way guiltlessly content with how she chooses to spend her time and resources? 

It is something my sister and I have always puzzled over.

Guilt poem by Jeri Franz

Guilt for sin only, my husband will say.

I laugh and reply, you don’t understand my way!

I feel guilt when I leave grandkids or a place too soon

And guilt when I take too long looking at the moon!

I feel guilty for spending too much time at one child’s place

Thinking I should be with that other one, like it’s some kind of race.

And to take a day and do just what I would like to do?

With no kind of chatter or shoulds blocking my happy view?

Oh my, I can’t imagine but I think that sounds divine!

So one day a week I’ll accept no guilt and I'll feel just fine! 

When I’m shopping at Goodwill or wandering in a store

Instead of chiding myself I will smile and browse a little more.

If I take too long reading or stay a while more on the couch

I’ll smile and accept myself for I am happy instead of a grouch! 

For in this world, the days we are here seem to quickly flee

And I don’t want to waste any more days pitching guilt at me!! 

So at least one day a week and who knows maybe more??

I’ll enjoy each place my feet are, for feeling guilt is such a chore!! 

Bad News and Comfort Food

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. As before when I posted daily for the A to Z Challenge, my intent is to make each one complete in itself. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

Forrest and I had made ourselves cozily at home at Estancia 107. We were sorry to leave it. Our spacious room held a couch, three big closets, two queen-sized beds, a makeshift kitchen counter, and the satisfactory routine that comes with staying three weeks in one place. 

The Hotel Royale wasn't as nice. Not as quiet a street, not as solid a building. Noise carried. Our cramped room was up a couple flights of narrow stairs. 

The window looked out on the scenic volcano Misti. Because it also opened to the balcony where other residents passed to and from their rooms, we kept the curtains shut on the lovely Misti. Still, the place was clean and affordable with a professional staff. Tolerable until we left Arequipa next week for Cusco and Machu Picchu. 

                                              The view of Misti outside our room

The hotel offered a free breakfast that we tried the first morning. It was below the ground floor near a small kitchen and so chilly I drank cup after cup of hot manzanilla tea. They provided toast, milk, and a small serving of scrambled eggs for each person. 

After breakfast, I showered and went out to drop off the laundry and pick up a few things at the store. When I returned to the room, Forrest sat cross-legged on his bed with a stricken look, staring at his cell phone. He looked up at me and said, “My friend’s dad just died.” 

“Which friend?” I emptied a sack of bananas and a few sodas from my backpack.

“James,” said Forrest. He shook his head at my offer of a banana.

“James who?” There was James Dickson, but certainly it couldn't be his dad. Casey Dickson was barely fifty. I had worked with him back in South Jordan when he was bishop of our ward and I was Relief Society president. 

“James Dickson is my only friend named James. His dad just died.” 

“What? Casey Dickson died?” 

“Yeah. From a heart attack. Our friend Brandon just texted me. Bishop Dickson was in Idaho when it happened, and Brandon lives there now. I guess someone called him to the hospital to give a Priesthood blessing, but Bishop Dickson died right before he arrived." 

Casey Dickson was too young, this was too sudden. Bishop Dickson had been such a good friend to our family. I cried for his wife Cathy and their kids, several of them still young and in school. 

Forrest and I sat frozen on our beds barely able to comprehend it. We couldn't help but think of our own family a year ago. I was in Salt Lake City then, worrying over my husband, watching for every little sign of recovery or improvement.

“At least Dad didn’t die suddenly,” Forrest said. 

Bruce had suffered an aortic rupture, normally fatal, but he had made it into surgery. We waited through those long hours and rejoiced when he survived the operation. Not yet awake, but alive. It was impossible to sleep, not knowing if he would last the night. 

My daughter Allie, a nurse, said, “Mom, no matter how long or short of a time Dad has, we can be glad it was not a sudden death. Because sudden death is the worst.” 

Bruce fought to survive and improve, although never able to leave hospital care. He died four months later surrounded by his family. 

I couldn’t imagine how awful it must have been for Cathy back home in South Jordan, learning that her husband had succumbed to a fatal heart attack in another state. I felt terrible for her. It was sad and tragic. 

“Are you going to the funeral, Forrest?”  Mentally, I was at the hospital with Bruce, where of course I couldn't attend a funeral. My husband was on the verge of life and death. But perhaps Forrest could go and represent our family.

Forrest stared at me. “Mom, I am here with you in Peru.” 

How strange to have reality shift like that. “Oh, right. For a minute there I forgot where we were.” 

That evening, Forrest and I wanted comfort food. We checked first for chorizo burgers, but our favorite street vendor wasn't there. 

We decided to get salchipapas instead, a favorite of kids and teens in Arequipa. The best place for salchipapas was a little place over by Estancia 104. They nearly always had a line out the door and down the street. Most people ordered to go, although they did have a few tables inside. The line wasn’t too long, thankfully, and we took our plates to sit at one of their tables. 

The cook was man in his fifties or sixties, helped by a plump woman of the same age, probably his wife. She bustled about passing out the orders and bringing her husband whatever he needed so he wouldn’t have to leave his grill. They seemed so happy, like they were living their dream.

The menu was salchipapas, fried chicken, and rice or noodles. Salchipapas are French fries topped with cut-up hot dogs, topped with watered-down catsup, mayonnaise and hot sauce. They don’t sound like much but they're delicious and comforting. 

So the night our friend died, we went for salchipapas and fried chicken.

A Reader Review Event is Not a Book Blog Tour

 For some reason, I did not realize this event had posted 3 weeks ago:  https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/2024/06/we-burned-our-boats-review-event.html.

So it's a bit late, but I thought I'd share it along with my analysis of the experience. 

Women on Writing, or WOW, calls this a Reader Review Event. I signed up for it as part of my marketing for We Burned Our Boats. I've done blog tours before with Women on Writing, and I've recommended them to my authors. Blog tours are great for marketing and generally worth the money, especially when the participants do a review instead of an interview or guest post. 

A good review is the gift that keeps on giving. The publisher can take snippets of it and post with the name of the blog on the Editorial Review section of the book's Amazon page. When they're chosen carefully, these snippets will help to sell a book. Reviews from random readers are nice if they post on Goodreads and Amazon, but a good editorial review on your Amazon page is way better.

I chose WOW's reader review option rather than their book blog tour option, not realizing fully the difference. It didn't help that the person I dealt with seemed distracted and not forthcoming with information. Although I sent her my updated photo and bio, she used an outdated one from a blog tour I did with her ten years ago for Afraid of Everything.

I missed the event because she didn't notify me when it posted. I only happened to come across it online. And were there links to blogs where I could see the full reviews? I guess not. The participants apparently aren't book bloggers. They're individuals who agree to do a review in exchange for a book. WOW facilitates the process, which is what you're paying them for. Fair enough, but for a little bit more money, I could have gotten the traditional book tour with links to the participating blogs. Perhaps with the upgrade, I might also have gotten better communication from my facilitator. 

I do think most of my book's reviewers did an excellent job. I'm overall pleased with their reviews, just not sure the value of this service was worth the expense. If I were to do it again, which I won't, or advise anyone else, I'd suggest they pay a little more and get the real book blog tour instead of the cheaper reader review option. 

Malfunctioning Blog List

 I should never have deleted my Blog List. I could have edited and updated it without deleting and starting over, I'm sure, and that's what I wish I had done. Because although everything on the gadget looks like it should work, it's not working. The list doesn't update itself according to new posts. It doesn't show the titles and snippets of the most recent post. It's only a list of blogs I follow with a quick link to their blog.

I've taken it off and added it back numerous times to see if that helps, but it never comes back like it used to, with the functionality working as it's meant to work. Where you can see the blogs you follow automatically updated according to their latest post. I've tweaked it every way I can think of, but still get nothing but the links. No snippets, no automatic updates.

This is a small and simple thing that's causing me way more frustration than it should. If anyone knows a way to fix that gadget I'd love to hear your ideas. And if anyone is tempted to remove yours and reinstall to update it, DON'T. 

The Shabby Corner Hotel

 Working on my South America manuscript, I found myself editing it in sections for blog posts like I did for the A to Z Challenge. Well, why not go with it? So, this continues my South America stories where they ended on April 30.  

They'll show up now and then rather than daily like in April. As before, my intent is to make each one complete in itself whether read from the beginning post or coming to it for the first time. This manuscript has yet to have a title or an ending. But you'll find a story woven through these experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. I hope you enjoy it.

A couple days before we left Estancia 107, I finally satisfied my curiosity about a nearby building on the corner. It looked like a large three-story house, gated with a small front garden. When I asked the hotel clerk at Estancia about it, she said it’s called Runcu. They allowed long-term guests for about 700 soles a month, the clerk said. That was only $200 a month!

Walking past a few days later, I saw a lady outside doing a bit of gardening. I greeted her and asked if she owned the building. A nicely dressed middle-aged woman who cares about the property and decides to pull a few random weeds. In other words, the owner.

When she responded in the affirmative, I asked if I could see a room. “I’m staying at Estancia 107 now, but I’d like to return to Arequipa next year for a few months,” I explained. 

I found her friendly and easy to talk to and we hit it off right away. She said, “We mostly rent to professional people who need to stay in the city for awhile.” 

“That’s perfect for me,” I replied, “because I want to enroll at the Spanish school and study.” 

She took me around to see the available rooms. They looked shabby but comfortable, what one might call “shabby chic.” Except that shabby was no longer chic, especially not in a hotel. Still, it was clean and quiet, obviously well-cared for by this pleasant lady and, at $200 a month, the price was right. 

“We are putting in a kitchen with laundry for guests as part of our remodel,” she said. “It should be ready next year when you want to come back.” 

I thanked her for the tour and asked how to contact her; she wrote down the hotel Facebook page and said to private message her.  When I returned to Arequipa, I wanted to stay at this charming but shabby big house. I knew from our conversation that any guests had to first meet with her approval. “Mostly professionals,” said it all. This was no hostel for backpacking millennials. 

It was August, 2019. I decided right then to come back in 2020 and study Spanish in Arequipa, lodging at the Runcu. I saw myself curled up in one of those big comfy armchairs in the bedrooms—I would want a room on the second or third floor—working on a book, like Hemingway during his expat days in Paris. 

Such were my dreams for 2020, a magical number that would surely bring magical events. I had big plans for 2020.

No Such Place as Perfect

 I've been missing in action since April ended due to traveling and then guests. I arrived in Kansas City just in time to rush from the airport to the school and see these two on their last day. Kindergarten "graduation"-- missed the "ceremony" but got to surprise the graduate afterward. I don't think he expected to see me. Then we picked up his brother in first grade for a photo opportunity. Nonny who lives in Mexico hasn't been around much, unfortunately.

After two weeks in the States, I returned home to Veracruz and prepared for one of my sons and his family to visit. Here we are visiting Mandinga, a small fishing village north of Veracruz. This is one of the best pictures but unfortunately, my daughter in law isn't in it since she took the picture. Probably why it turned out so well. She's great with a camera.

I love the tropical climate and relaxed lifestyle where I live. It's only a few minutes from the beach and in an area with lots to see and do. Quite a few family members have come and stayed in my large house with me. When I leased it, it was with my family in mind. I'm so happy when they come and sad when they go. Travis's family was here last summer and loved visiting the taco stand across the street from my house.

I've been here nearly five years and even with flying back a couple times a year, I miss so much. I will miss Mexico when I move back to the States, no question about that. The ideal would be for all my family to move to Veracruz so I wouldn't have to leave. But that won't happen because jobs, money, mortgages, kids, schools, college, responsibilities. 

Me, I'm retired and can come and go as I please. I tend to chase the ideal so who knows where I'll land. But I always remind myself there's no such place as perfect. Only those oh so fleeting perfect moments, captured now and then with a camera. 

Reflections Post

This is how I won: I posted daily according to the alphabet, mainly by creating titles for the posts where the first word started with the specified letter of the day. Since there are so many words in the English language, that wasn't too big of a stretch although I admit to the usual "cheating" for X and Z days.

My theme was Stories from A to Z, composed of stories about traveling to South America with my son the summer of 2019. Although they were connected according to our travels, I tried to compose each entry to stand alone. Figuring it wasn't likely too many visitors would come for each day and read each story, I wanted them to enjoy the experience without having to read what came before or after.

I had visits and comments which made me happy, feeling like people connected with my stories. I visited quite a few blogs on the Challenge and commented on many posts during the month. Isn't that the point? There were bloggers who kindly returned the favor and others who did not. I don't understand that, because again, isn't that the point?

Overall it was a positive experience, and I'm very glad I signed up this year. I wasn't sure if I could handle it since I've been away from blogging for so long. I missed the community and social interaction I always enjoyed from this "slow" social media. It suits me and I'm glad I jumped right in with this intense, month-long Challenge. 

Well done to everyone who participated and especially to the organizers and facilitators. I'm amazed that it's still active after all these years. I think my first Challenge was in 2011!

Zee last story of this Challenge: Stories from A to Z

 Near the central park, I noticed several tour booths that offered horseback excursions. Forrest wasn’t interested and besides, he still had a week of Spanish school left. I found the prices quite cheap for what it would cost in the States for a comparable experience.

 Everywhere I checked, they said, “Hoy?” 

No, hoy no. 

“Manana?” 

I scheduled my ride for manana from one to four, a three-hour ride through the countryside on the outskirts of Arequipa. A driver would pick me up at my hotel at 12:30. 

Not sure how to dress or what to take, I ended up with a water bottle and a light jacket in my backpack. At the office when I signed up, they told me to bring a hat. I decided against my hat, since it didn’t work with my hair in a ponytail, and I was concerned about it flying off during the ride. I wore leggings, my Doc Marten boots, and a long-sleeved t shirt with a flannel over it. This had become my standard comfort outfit for Chile and Peru, ready for either a cool day or a hot one or often both in the same day. 

The car that picked me up drove to a farm outside of town. I thought it was a taxi, but no, the driver was from the farm. His brother would be my guide, he told me. Apparently, it was a family farm and they all lived there. I assumed this ride was paid by my fees, so I had not brought any money for anything, although I felt cheap not tipping the driver. 

The guide when I met him was a friendly, talkative fellow. While getting the horses ready, he asked me about myself and said he had recently returned from living in Germany for several years. 

There were several horses in the corral; healthy, nice-looking, medium-sized horses. I noticed the differences in the saddles. Our Western saddles are large with lots of leather, a substantial saddle horn and plenty of room in the stirrups. These on the other hand were half the size all around. I wondered if I would feel supported by it. 

The guide helped me mount. The stirrups were awful for me, so narrow and small. I couldn’t get my boots in them comfortably and as a result, did not feel like my legs were positioned correctly. I was afraid if I didn’t get my feet and legs situated, I'd fall off this tiny saddle. Finally, I managed to find some level of workability and say, “Okay, I’m ready.” 

The guide looked so relaxed and at ease on his horse, I wondered where I had gone wrong. I hoped with time I could settle into it better. Unfortunately, I was disappointed in that hope. 

I wasn’t sure if it was the saddle or the stirrups causing me problems. I expected it was the stirrups that needed adjusting for my legs. The guide did none of that. He had helped me up and then mounted his own horse while keeping a running monologue about his time in Germany. I’d have appreciated more attention to make sure I fit comfortably in this saddle instead of a travelogue.

We headed out the gates of the farm and faced the next stressful encounter of the day-- crossing a busy street with cars rushing by at sixty miles an hour. On our horses. A horse I did not know and hoped I could control. 

Holy crap. What had I gotten myself into? 

At a break in the traffic, the guide headed across and I quickly urged my horse right after. Thankfully, my horse followed right behind his friend. Then we were on a dusty country road. When a car approached, which it rarely did on this road, we moved to the edge as it passed. 

The guide explained things along the way, such as what crops grew in the fields. He said he had changed our route due to protests. They were over water rights of the farmers versus the corporate mine owners, he explained. That explained the protests and signs I had seen going on around the central park. Peaceful marchers carried banners printed with Farmers yes, Miners no. 

Packs of dogs often came out of nowhere and chased after our horses. The guide yelled at them, Fuera! All dogs understand the word fuera, he said. If you yell “fuera” to any dog, it goes away. I wondered if it would work for American dogs. 

About two hours into our ride, he asked if I was ready to go back. Yes, I replied. I felt quite sore. My legs, still in that awkward position, were the worst. This was the only time in my life where I felt a horseback ride was too long. Normally, it’s the opposite, where they always turn back before you’re ready. 

He seemed confused over direction. A few times he stopped and asked someone along the road about our location. 

We apparently were headed the right way, because eventually he said, “It won’t be long now. Do you want to go fast?” 

Sure, anything to get this over with. Then we galloped for awhile to make better time. 

Another two hours went by. NOTE - we're now on HOUR FOUR of what is supposed to be a three-hour ride, and still out somewhere in the country. 

At long last, we faced the highway again. Good, because that meant we were nearly to the farm. Bad, because it was five pm and traffic was worse. 

We waited and waited, until finally at a slight break he said, “Let’s go!” And galloped across the road. 

I had no choice but to follow, thinking I’m going to die. I’m going to get this horse and myself hit by a car and killed. But I made it, although I think my brain blacked out for a second racing across the street. 

Back at the farm, I could not wait to get off this horse. I had never ridden four straight hours in my life. And this while fitting awkwardly in the stirrups and the saddle. 

The guide helped me off. My legs were wobbly and too weak to hold me up. Besides that, I felt a wave of nausea and dizziness where I nearly passed out. He said it was the altitude and led me over to the hay bales. "Rest here. And don’t worry," he said, "I’ll take care of your horse." 

The horse was the least of my worries. After all this, did he mean to say I was responsible for removing the saddle and patting down the horse and leading it back to the corral? If so then I’m glad I almost fell over, because no way could I have managed that.

I felt suddenly chilled and pulled the jacket out of my backpack. I emptied my water bottle, wishing I had more. I curled up on top of the hay bale and closed my eyes and lost track of time. 

It seemed like the guide was gone with the horses for a very long time. It was getting dark. I longed to return to the hotel and go to bed. I hoped Forrest was there. Getting locked out would not be a happy ending. There was only one set of room keys that we shared, and I had left them for him.

Finally, the guide returned. He asked if I’d like to come inside and stay for dinner and wait until I felt better. 

"No, thank you. I'm ready to get back. I'm fine now." 

His brother was not there and so he was the one who drove me back. He drove slowly and talked about Germany and what he did there until finally we reached the welcome destination of Estancia 107.

I thanked him for everything and wobbled into the hotel and on to our room. Forrest was there looking relaxed, comfortable, and peaceful. The opposite of me. 

“How was it?” he asked. 

“Not that great. Peruvian saddles are a lot smaller than Western ones, and the stirrups are weird. And the guide was strange but oh well, I’m glad I went and I’m glad it’s over.” 

I went to shower and put on pajamas. Blood was on my clothes and running down my thighs. Must be from saddle sores, I thought. I had never before gotten saddle sores.

It felt so good to lay down in our peaceful, familiar room at Estancia 107, with my lanky son stretched out on his bed reading an e-book. 

In a few days, we had to check out and move to another hotel for our final week in Arequipa. After that, we were off to a month in Cusco. Forrest and I had so enjoyed ourselves here, beginning with our first night carrying on for hours about the Sixty Days and the initial lack of WiFi. Was that only three weeks ago?

This hotel with the odd name that looked like a house had truly become home to us. I would miss it.

Your brief tour of our daily life in Arequipa Peru: Stories from A to Z

 After church on Sunday, we walked past a park with an event happening. Since the entrance fee was minimal and we had a whole day to fill, we decided to go in. 

We saw a large pond where a long boat took people around in circles. At the end of the pond, a giant slide was set up for kids to climb and swoop down into the water. 

There were stalls for face painting and selling trinkets. Food sales is what we were after. There must have been a dog contest too, since we saw people dressed up in costumes to match their dogs. 

As Forrest and I sauntered through the park, we bought some cookies, fruit and sandwiches. When we found an empty bench, we ate and watched the crowd. 

“This has been an entertaining couple of hours,” I said. “I’m glad we came.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Forrest agreed. 

“If it were me alone, I wouldn’t have come in.” 

“Why not?” 

“Crowds of people. I tend to avoid large crowds. It’s automatic. But you’re like how Dad was in his early years. You just take charge and say let’s go here or there or do this thing. At first, I might not want to, but then I go along and end up really enjoying it.” 

“You don’t think you’d do any of this stuff if you were on your own? Like if you decided to move to Arequipa and live here permanently, you wouldn’t go out and do things like this?” 

“Probably not.” 

“That could be a problem, Mom. Once you’re on your own, I’m afraid you will isolate too much and end up getting bored and lonely.” 

“But I like my alone time.” 

“If I lived alone in a foreign country, I would find someplace to volunteer. You could volunteer, Mom.” 

“I’m not the volunteering type. Other than taking a calling at church when they ask me.”

My handsome son

 After that first weekend, our days took on a comfortable regularity. I had the room to myself all morning while Forrest went to Spanish school. I wrote and worked until I felt ready to go out. 

We both returned to the room around one and ate lunch together. Most often bread, butter, cheese and fruit, which we kept in a small cabinet, "our kitchen." We’d gather what we wanted and take it to the dining room. 

We might go out for lunch if Forrest didn’t have a meal scheduled with a couch surfing or Spanish school friend. Either way was fine with me. I enjoyed time alone and I enjoyed time with him, adapting as needed to either situation. 

Forrest didn’t seem bored with this simple, easy routine of taking a great deal of time to do very little. I figured he would grow restless with it. But he had pushed himself to finish undergraduate and graduate school in five years without a break, and this was his break. “I’m fine doing nothing,” he said. 

Although like me, he didn’t actually “do nothing.” He went to the Spanish school from 8 to 12:30 and did homework outside of class. He read books on my Kindle. He connected with people and engaged in conversation with native Spanish speakers. 

My language study was watching Netflix telenovelas in Spanish with Spanish subtitles. Socializing was spending time with my son.  I wrote and kept up with my publishing business.

I loved walking everywhere in the historic area near our hotel, appreciating the grand architecture as I observed life happening all around.

Street near the central park

 

Historic Church built by early Spaniards

Typical architectural detail in Arequipa buildings from Spanish era

There are always pigeons to feed

This man sits in the park with his typewriter and will type up things for a small fee

If Forrest felt hungry in the evenings, we went out for street food or to get popcorn from his favorite popcorn guy. When he liked a vendor, he returned again and again. Whether it was popcorn or jugo or the chorizo burgers, he headed straight to his favorite person. If they weren’t there, he would do without rather than go to someone else at the next corner. 

One lady made chorizo burgers at her stand with sauteed onions and a soft fried egg on top. The first time we tried them, he said it was the best food he had ever eaten in his life. She set up her cart most evenings but not always. He would do without his chorizo burger rather than go to another lady selling the same thing a block away. Once Forrest found his person, he stayed loyal.

The mercado had a full aisle devoted to selling mixed juice drinks, or jugo. Of course, Forrest had his jugo lady. Whenever we went to the mercado, he ordered one from her and sat there drinking it happily in her presence. If she wasn't busy, he would engage her in conversation to practice Spanish. 

Jugo ladies lined up at the mercado

One time, Forrest wanted ceviche. The ceviche stands were closing since it was after three and past time for people at the mercado to eat. He found a lady who still had some left and ordered a plate of it. Ugh, no bite for me. No way would I eat raw fish ceviche four hours after they had opened. 

I could have eaten tamales every day at one mercado stand. I tried each of the varieties, and they were all so good. People waited in line for these tamales. You had to get there early before they sold out. For some reason, Forrest didn’t stay loyal to this tamale place. 

For him, his loyalty was based on a combination of friendliness, willingness to speak Spanish with him, how big were their servings, and price.

Shopping from a friendly street vendor

Xtra funny or Xtra Confusing: Stories from A to Z

The free breakfast was quite nice. They set the table and put out a basket of rolls on our table for two. On the sideboard was fruit, yogurt, milk and cereal. I noticed a small dish of what looked like bay leaves next to the manzanilla (chamomile) tea. Forrest and I each added a couple of leaves to our teacups. 

Later, we learned they were coca leaves, very common in Peru, used for energy and to help with altitude adjustment. Peruvians will chew on them throughout the day. 

The Internet had come on during the night. Forrest sat on the couch in our room with his iPad, catching up on his couch surfing buddies, I supposed. Or maybe his brothers and random friends. I left him to go explore the neighborhood.

 

It turned out to be a lovely area. I had chosen the hotel specifically for its location near the historic central park. While out, I noticed a Spanish school just up the street from us. How convenient for Forrest to take classes if he wanted to do that. 

Besides the wonderful park, I saw tiendas, lavanderias, street food, and sidewalk cafes on neighboring streets, with people out everywhere enjoying themselves. I was glad we planned to stay in Arequipa this month before going on to Cusco. Our hotel, however, was available only for the three-week reservation. Our final week, I had booked a different one.

Arequipa's lovely central park

Estancia 107 (the strange name of our hotel) was clean, quiet and ideally located. I checked to see if they had any availability in September, when we came back this way after Cusco. No, they didn’t. "July is our quiet month," the receptionist explained. After that, they are busy with retreats for business meetings. 

View of the courtyard at Estancia 107

By dinnertime, neither Forrest nor I were that hungry. I had eaten breakfast and later bought some street food, and Forrest had gone out to lunch with a couch surfing group.

I said, “Let’s go out for dinner anyway. We can save most of it for tomorrow and won't have to buy food on the Sabbath.” 

We chose one of the little sidewalk cafes on a side street. It had a board out front stating their basic menu and prices-- a small inexpensive place with local food. 

I ordered a fried chicken filet that came with rice, a cucumber salad, and the ever-present soup with potatoes and vegetables. Tomorrow after church, I'd cut the chicken in pieces and mix with the rice and salad like a cold chicken salad. Delicious!

I tasted a few bites of the chicken, which was so good it was hard not to finish. But the soup was amazing too and wouldn’t make me too full. I ate the soup and left the main meal to take home and put in the kitchen fridge at our hotel. 

We sat there for quite a while ignoring our food. Like me, Forrest ate his soup and left the rest, a pork chop he declared was incredible. 

The girl who had brought our meals cleaned up while two little kids, perhaps her siblings or children, played around on the tables, making a great deal of noise as they chattered and clattered near us. 

I complained about it to Forrest, who laughed and said, “Mom, you had ten kids. I can’t believe you’re so sensitive.”

 “Maybe it’s my age, I don’t know, but they’re sure annoying.” I called the girl over to our table, said we were finished and would like to take this with us. “Para llevar, por favor,” I said. 

She hesitated and said, “Recojo?” 

“Si, para llevar.” 

“Recojo?” she repeated, looking puzzled.

"Una caja para llevar," I said. A box to go. 

She took our plates to the back and was gone quite a long time. Soon she returned to continue her sweeping. At least the annoying little kids had disappeared. It looked like they were preparing to close, although it was barely six. 

“They don’t eat late in Arequipa,” Forrest said. “The main meal, their dinners, are eaten around three because of the altitude.”

 “What’s altitude got to do with it?” 

“Apparently an altitude this high interferes with digestion, and if you go to bed on a full stomach, you don’t sleep well.” Forrest was always picking up interesting information from his couch surfing groups. Like what he had told me about eclipse chasers and eclipse celebrities. 

We kept waiting for the girl to bring us our takeout, seeing how it looked like closing time. “What the heck is going on, Forrest? Why isn’t she bringing our food so we can leave?” 

Forrest wondered if I had expressed myself correctly. “You said para llevar but she said recojo, with a question mark. ‘Recojo?’” 

He looked up recoger. “It means ‘to take care of,’ "to pick up,' or ‘to take.’ She must have thought you wanted her to get rid of the food rather than box it up for us.” 

“Based on that definition, ‘take care of it’ could mean dispose of it or box it up for us.” 

“It could, but I have a feeling it means take it away or throw it away,” said Forrest. 

“Don’t tell me she tossed out our barely eaten dinners!” 

“I think so, Mom. Probably those little kids playing around here earlier are in the kitchen right now enjoying our food.” 

We looked at each other, accepting the truth. “We tried,” Forrest said with a smile. 

“Who the heck doesn’t know the meaning of para llevar? I used it all the time in Guatemala and Mexico.  Everyone knows it means take away, as in the CUSTOMER is taking it away not the SERVER.”

 Forrest laughed. It was a big joke to him, like the sixty days had been to me. For days afterward, he’d say “recojo?” and start in laughing while I fumed about not getting our take-out. 

“I could barely hear myself think with those kids yelling and clattering, plus the TV blaring. She probably didn’t hear me.” I was so annoyed. “Let’s get out of here.” 

At least the meal was cheap, coming to only three dollars each. “The soup itself was worth three dollars,” I said as we left. 

So much for our plans to not buy food on Sunday. As Forrest said, “We tried.”

Our $3 bowls of soup

WHY DID I SAY SIXTY DAYS: Stories from A to Z

 Forrest had selected seats near the front for a better view. The bus was okay; nothing as nice as the ones in Chile but they were also less expensive. First off, we opened our phone calendars and counted the days until this tourist visa expired. 

Looking rather loopy on the bus to Arequipa

Sure enough, we had cut ourselves short by two weeks. “WHY did I say sixty days,” Forrest moaned. “That’s only two months!” 

“I wondered about that.” 

“I hope we don’t have any trouble getting back.” 

“Oh, I doubt it. They’ll just charge us for whatever days we go over. That’s what they do in Guatemala and Mexico. It’s really not a big deal.” 

“I could just as easily have said ninety days. Noventa dias. NOVENTA. I know my numbers.” 

“Yeah, because tourist visas in Peru can go as long as one hundred eighty days. Six months, like Mexico. I don’t know why the guy had to put down the exact number of days stated. Why not just put one hundred eighty? That’s what they do in Mexico, and in Guatemala they automatically write it for ninety days.” 

I thumbed through my passport to find a record of those times his dad and I had crossed back and forth between Mexico and Guatemala. “I can’t tell from all the ink in this passport.” I gave up the search. “Anyway, we will be fine." 

“Sixty days!” he muttered before finally settling down to enjoy the bus ride and watch the great expanse of desert and dunes fly by. When we finally got past desert scenery and into the mountainous terrain of Peru, it was such a welcome change.

Passengers got off and on at stops along the road or at depots in towns. Once closer to Arequipa, the bus was crowded with passengers. Traffic had increased considerably, slowing us down until we were at a standstill in certain sections along the mountain road. 

Approaching the city, it was stop and go, stop and go, crawling along with lines and lines of vehicles on the narrow street coming through the hill into the city. I wondered if perhaps an accident up ahead blocked the way. 

Later, we learned that Friday is the worst day to travel from Arica to Arequipa. Since prices are so much cheaper in Peru, every Friday Chileans cross the border and drive to Arequipa for weekend shopping, dinner and entertainment. 

Other towns along the way, such as Tacna and Moquegua, are closer to the border but not as large and diverse as Arequipa. This was no accident or anything unusual, simply a typical Friday where a six-hour trip turns into eight hours. 

Forrest bought a snack from one of the vendors who came through the aisle during one of the depot stops. It was a quarter ear of corn on the cob with a piece of salty, white cheese lying on the top. I didn’t want anything, since the solid breakfast had kept me satisfied for hours. By seven, however, I was hungry. 

We finally arrived at the bus depot at nine-thirty. Seven had been my stated arrival time on our hotel booking. The bus pulled into the back area of the depot as they do. With relief, we disembarked then waited while our luggage was unloaded. At last, we passed through to the front of the depot where taxis generally wait. 

Sure enough, we easily got a cab, and I gave him the address. He wasn’t familiar with this hotel, named Estancia 107. He thought it was foolish to stay three weeks in a hotel we didn't know, and after my Iquique experience, I concurred.

 "It might not be a good place," he said. “You should stay only one or two nights, and if you don’t like it find another hotel.” Once in the neighborhood, it still took him awhile to find it, since it was located on an alleyway running between two regular streets. 

When he finally found the address and pulled up to Estancia 107, I thought it looked too much like a house. Could this possibly be right? But the girl at the front desk rushed right to the door, ushered us in, and seemed relieved to see us. The cab driver brought in my luggage—Forrest always took care of his own—and we were set. 

The girl took us to our room, a big room with two double beds and a sofa, along with two large cabinets for clothes and storage. The bathroom was separate, down the hall a short way, but she assured us it was private, only for this room.

Breakfast is free your first day, she explained, so in the morning be sure to get breakfast from 7 to 9. Other days, she said, it is seven soles per person. 

The dining area was roomy and centrally located. We had walked through it to get to our room. I planned most definitely to get up early for breakfast, as I hadn't eaten anything since Arica. That felt like a lifetime ago. 

After showing us the room and bathroom, telling us about breakfast, and giving us room keys and WiFi password, she wished us a good night and left us to fret over our sixty days.

Forrest zipped up in his sleeping bag like a mummy. This was how he slept in the Iquique hotel. In Estancia 107, he used the sheets as it was a clean hotel where they changed bedding daily. 

“I was such an idiot to say sixty days,” Forrest once again lamented. We were in our beds and trying to connect to the Internet, which wasn’t happening. “This better not be another Coquimbo situation with no WiFi in the building!” he yelled in frustration.

“Yeah, because look at this nice couch where I can sit and work, and we are here for three weeks.” 

Just mentioning time got Forrest going again. “I can’t believe I said sixty days!”

I started laughing and couldn’t stop. All I had to do was say “sixty days” and he responded with groans and carrying on about how dumb he was. And that would get me laughing even harder. 

It was like a game the older kids used to play with toddler Sean. Someone would say “fish bucket” and someone else would say “hahaha,” until they programmed this two-year-old to say hahaha whenever anyone said fish bucket. Everyone laughed which further cemented the programming; through the years, Sean at any age said hahaha in response to “fish bucket.”  Then a similar game between Forrest and me when he was a kid, where one of us would say “lamp” and the other “haircut” over and over, while I laughed hilariously, driving everyone else crazy because it made no sense whatsoever. 

We couldn’t seem to settle down between continuing to try the Internet to no avail and playing the sixty days game. His agony and carrying on about it, “what a bother, I can’t believe I did that!” was so unlike normally stoic adult Forrest that I had a hard time letting it go. 

Finally, giving up on the Internet, our conversation died down as we tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t help piping up with “Sixty days” now and then to get him going again. 

We laughed about the sixty days. We laughed about the Internet. And finally, looking forward to breakfast in the morning, we fell asleep around midnight.