El Sombrero De Fofo

In less than two days, John and I will begin what we came here to do. And yet, here, Monday, I found myself in bed until almost noon munching delicious little galletas with sesame seeds on top, reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez in an "hospedaje" still reverberating with revving engines, dog barks, people shouting, slamming doors.

We tried to buy some kind of a sedative that would knock me out like a heavyweight punch and drown out any yips or crashes during the night. But you need a prescription for anything even mildly sleep-inducive. So I bought Valerian root and somewhere in the process managed to convince the pharmacist that I needed ear tampons.

It is as if for the last couple days we have been floating, suspended in some kind of limbo where we become increasingly distanced from work.

It turns out, also, that I will be teaching a group of 10-13 year olds. WHOOP!

In half an hour we will begin the search for housing, which apparently entails starting from square one, looking at classifieds. I have felt frustrated for the past twenty four hours because of my boss´s somewhat jovial bigotry--like celebrating Miller´s acquisition of Cusquena, the Peruvian beer, or lamenting not having enough places to play golf, or that African Americans´"accents" aren´t audible in dubbed films.

This plus my lack of sleep make for a sense of inutility or perhaps regret.

We passed by a woman swiming in a hammock next to a llama, looking over into the flowing current that runs through Arequipa. If only all suspension could be relaxing.