‘Oohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ as tourists jostle over to our side of the bus, and I’m up close and personal with a gringa grandma’s armpit folds. She’s taking pictures, oblivious to my plight, and all I can think of is some bizarre live-action, geriatric armpit-licking fetish that’s so kinky it’s not even covered in the entire canon of internet porn.
Pushing Grandma aside, I uncoil out of my seat and look around. Auntie M jabs at my shoulder, pointing down at the commotion on the street. A guy in a homemade superhero outfit the color of a ripened key lime somersaults between rows of cars at the stop light.
It’s an impromptu Cirque du Soleil street show. A surreal venue to see a skillfully-trained performer risk a snapped ankle from a failed pratfall or a gashed face from a side view mirror, and all for spare change.
The light turns green. Sprinkled applause as the masked man stashes his tip money into an old tin can. Our bus pulls away and I ponder how many other surprises await us in a city teeming with creative working-class hustles.
“This is it!” Julio has ditched the microphone, preferring to scream through cupped hands. He admonishes us fifteen times that we’re getting off now and not to stray too far away, waving his yellow flag on a twig for emphasis.
The tour guide’s lecture ends with Ray Ray, Sr. yelling out, “Could you repeat all that?”, then cackling like he’s just finished up his sold-out South American comedy tour.
He beams at his wife. She hands him a stroller as the other tourists leave the bus in a disorganized clot.
Stepping off the bus, I peer along a long street filled with vendors, then over at Julio. He’s itching his back with his yellow flag while flirting with a young lass working at a booth hawking Moche erotic art.
Great. He could drop us off at a city dump and say it’s an Incan shrine to Atahualpa and we’d be none the wiser. Looking down at my ‘World’s Okayest Peruvian’ T-shirt. Ah, yes, the tourist life.
I watch as Auntie M takes a long, catlike stretch and yawns without opening her eyes. “Where are we?”
“No sé.” She stops, looking around. “You been here long enoughs. Español, por favor.”
I feel the words wedge uncomfortably between my teeth. Shit. She’s called my shitty Spanish bluff. “¿Qué. . . hacemos, uh, ahora?”
“¿Ahora? Caminamos. ¿Por qué?”
“Uh. . .” Whatever comes out. Comes out.
“Go ahead.”
“¿Nadachante?” Cringe-worthy.
“¿Nadachante? You is makings up words?”
Guilty as charged.
Auntie M puts her phone in her pocket and unfurls her arm in an affected manner, pointing down the street where our tourist group clamors and shops. “Just follows the jello brick road.”
A sharp slap to his face signifies that all is not well with Julio’s flirtship. Primal Directive frustrated, Julio breaks free, cat-herding his gringo charges around his yellow banner and leading us into the courtyard maw of the Plaza de Armas’ amazing architecture:
The Neo-Baroque Government Palace, with Pizarro’s coat of arms displayed on the main portico; the Baroque Archbishop’s Palace, with its facade of reintigrated rock and ornate cedar balconies; the Lima Cathedral and its neoclassical slate towers; and the Municipal Palace with its mustard-colored facade and influences from the French Renaissance.
Auntie M and I follow closely as our guide walks towards the center of the Plaza, keeping his head down and speaking in hushed tones like an actor badly reciting rehearsed lines.
“The historic center was founded by Pizarro in 1535. The Plaza was heavily damaged during an earthquake in 1746. Almost all the churches, convents, monasteries, chapels, and hospitals were flattened. The Cathedral of Lima began its reconstruction in 1752. . .”
I smile, hearing Ray Ray, Sr., somewhere in the back, spout off “Could you repeat all that,” followed by his own smug laughter. The joke that never dies.
We admire the Central Fountain. Beautifully-carved mastiffs dry-hump gargoyles who projectile-vomit streams of water at a three-disked obelisk surmounted by a bust of a fairy king playing the trumpet. As a confirmed non-expert on just about everything, I’m at a loss, but it looks important.
More “Oohs” and “Aahs” as everyone selfies themselves into a smartphone oblivion while Julio narrates.
“In 1651 this bronze fountain was erected. It was here on July 28th, 1821, when the Fiestas Patrias, or Independence Day of Peru was proclaimed. Lima also celebrates Pisco Day on the 4th Sunday of July. They replace the water and fill up this fountain with 2,000 liters of Pisco, and when Pisco Day falls on Independence Day. . . ”
He frowns and places his thumb and index finger in his mouth and screeches a coarse whistle. Heads snap around.
Then, back to his shy, deadpan self. “. . . watch out.”
Oh my God. LOVE your writing 😍 this brought me joy !
“Beautifully-carved mastiffs dry-hump gargoyles who projectile-vomit streams of water at a three-disked obelisk surmounted by a bust of a fairy king playing the trumpet. “ — I so enjoy the way you weave your unique descriptions together.