Bags

Under my eyes. In my hand.

I started out calm, which should count for something. Through the inefficient and discourteous check-in at Hartsfield International, and a detainment at random security check points, I remained tranquil as a butterly drunk on some particularly virile flower´s nectar.

But then came the four hour delay at the grimy, freezing Ft. Lauderdale ¨Hollywood¨ airport, our particular jet delayed for no apparent reason in clear, sunny Orlando. Seats then that would not go back because we were in the emergency lane. So we moved. And the seats were broken. A cacophonous chorus of screeching armrests filling the next six hours, and having to pay--with credit card--for every beverage and paltry snack that we were desperate enough to crave.

Spirit airlines. The best way to make sure you´re sullen and sickly when you meet your new employers!

Lack of water, food, sleep all made me want to curse every aspect of the trip, recant my desire to travel anywhere ever. I wish that this kind of pessimissm didn´t rear its head so easily in me.

I remember feeling a sense of familiarity when I read V.S. Naipaul´s¨"An Area of Darkness" three years ago. His first few chapters center around arrival in a sweltering, inefficient and uncaring Mumbai, and his narrative holds nothing back of the frustration and desperation that shake his whole countenance.

Even with a deep love of travelling, we are still imperfect journey makers, and thus fall prey to loneliness and fear in the moment we cease basking in what is easy, practiced.

When we finally got into Lima, I somehow managed to lose my record of vaccinations. Check.

Then a well-dressed older man named Francisco picked us up, threw our things into a van and wisked us for half an hour to the center of town to a lovely hotel that we could enjoy for an hour and a half only, our plane having gotten in too late for such a luxury as rest.

Francisco spent some time in Sardegna, and so he and I spent the whole carride chiacchiando in Italian while sleepy John watched the scenery. Cloked in early morning shadow, the industrial and military buildings, the deserted streets, reminded me somehow of Milan. The water tower that read "Ahorra agua cierra el cano¨"

I took a shivery shower as an attempt to sooth my tired bones, but wound up wasting more energy chattering the teeth. Then we got on a LAN plane to Cuzco, had to pay some kind of tariff just to go through security, and soared over the Andes in a stupor.

But arriving in Cuzco, our bellies momentarily sated by the generous breakfast that the Peruvian airline offered, I could smell wood burning. We descended stairs onto the tarmac and felt crisp, chilly air, saw colorful blankets draped to keep their owners warm, heard pipes playing as we picked up our luggage. The place felt like every wonderful fall memory I have ever had--from the Lake Eden Arts Festival in Asheville, to the Olde English Festival when I was little, and mountains all around us.

Cuzco is gorgeous. I am ready to collapse. John and I are scared that we won´t know the first thing about teaching English. But we have arrived for the moment with excitement intact.