I will finish the above tale in a bit. Notes, in reverse order, for today:
Book: ‘climbing mountains drunk in peru’
Owen Wilson is either a prize navy pilot or working at a safeway in peru that only exists in the 4th dimension.
(cont’d)
The five hour wait passed in a haze of dial tones from lifted pay phones, browsing but not buying dunken donuts, inhaling polluted air laden with salt, sulfur and seaweed smells, sleeping on a tile floor that was in the process of being buffed, making fun of expats and surfer dudes and finally, a crippling sprint to refister for our flight when they opened up the flight chek-in.
Delicious rolls with butter and coca leaf tea...
Breakfast was served on a flight totaling 1 hour from gate to gate. The andes were visible peaking through cloud seas and we arrived in cusco in a daze of altitude, carbon monoxide from leaking mufflers, multiple people awaiting us at the gate with signs bearing some variation of my first name, last name, or both. Beds at hostal corihuasi rushed to meet us in an insane cross-city dash in a car that took 45 seconds of cranking to start. We had made it to peru.
