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| Cusco Airport |
As my mom dropped me off at the San Francisco
International Airport, I had for the first time a realization that would
continue to flash through my mind for the first 48 hours of my trip to Peru: “Holy
f***. I’m actually doing this.” When I backpacked through Europe with
Libby Cooper in 2009 and ventured through SE Asia with my sister Shelley in
2010, I first discovered that it was fairly common for women and men to travel
by themselves, oftentimes for great periods of time-- 6 months, 1 year, 2 and
counting… I saw the benefits in this experience; spontaneity, self-reliance,
never having to compromise. What’s more, these people never really seemed lonely.
The hostels are set up for making connections with other travelers. Nevertheless,
in that moment, it felt daunting and foreign. But I strapped on my two
backpacks and stepped into the airport alone.
My first flight was to Mexico City. An
eighteen-year old flower child eyed me out as a potential friend and switched
seats to sit with me. She was scrawny with mildly unkempt brown hair and a
sweet face. She wore a second-hand wool top and a chartreuse velvet skirt that
almost reached her ankles. An aspiring herbalist, she fit bill, and was heading
to a 2-week Plant Lovers Tour of Costa Rican organic farms and ecovillages.
Throughout the flight she dropped a vinegary marijuana tincture under her
tongue (“This is my marijuana!”), spritzed her body with cardamom (“Chai tea
perfume!!”), rubbed her lips with homemade balm, and applied tea tree oil to
her apparently acne prone face. All of these were unlabeled, homemade
creations. The girl was a recent transplant to Eureka, where she and her
boyfriend moved to clip marijuana, apparently her favorite word, as she used it
50 or more times that 4 hour flight.
The Mexico
City Airport was gaudy as expected. Samsung has taken over the place, providing
charging stations and large monitors perhaps for information or advertisements,
but all displaying error messages. However, there was a brief moment of magic.
As I sat in my gate, something black caught my eye. At first glance I thought it
was a sparrow, then my stomach tightened as I saw the way it flew, bat-like,
but it turned out to be a moth. As big as my outstretched hand, my eyes
followed it as it passed high above my head. I stared, wide-eyed at my first
taste of Latin American wildlife, and found my look of disbelief and awe
mirrored in a young Peruvian woman across from me. No one else seemed to
notice, and it soon disappeared deep into the terminal.
On my
redeye to Lima, I the same realization but in a more panicked, desperate
manner. I found myself next to an Argentine and a Peruvian. Pablo, a man of the
circus business, spoke Spanish with an impossibly difficult to understand
Argentinian accent. The Peruvian was to his right, and too far away to hear
properly. Our communication was strained and more than once they suggested we
speak in English. By the end of the flight they had made it clear that they
could not believe I was traveling alone, and that I had better learn some
Spanish, quickly. Needless to say, as I entered Peru I was discouraged, and I
had to give myself a little talking to in line for immigration: Change your attitude. It’s too late to turn
back now.
The final
stretch was a one hour flight to Cusco. I sat with a Cusqueño who didn’t speak
a world of English. At once she told me about a room for rent in her house. Cheap
if I help her with the three girls, she told me. We exchanged numbers, but so
far, I haven’t called.
As I had
planned, a man with a sign bearing my name was waiting outside the airport. He
helped me with my ridiculous amount of things to Kokopelli Hostel, which I had
booked before I left. A shockingly smooth trip, I had finally arrived in Cusco.
