Cusco Airport |
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.
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