Journey Man

It’s a pretty uneventful evening for me here in Cusco, but as you know from my latest post I have found a place to lay my head for the next two evenings. It’s pretty basic as basic goes. I will include a photo montage to try to give you a flavor for this place. Followed up shortly there after with commentary.

The courtyard right outside my door is somewhat entertaining as I try to figure the vision of the garden space.  I open my doors right out onto the courtyard. My door is an interesting story in and of it’s self. It’s locked with a padlock from the outside and some type of ancient mechanism for locking it on the inside. I suppose I feel safe because of the massive green door that you see in the photo that somebody would have to break through to get in here. Of course we had to break out of the place earlier so I could get some dinner. I did take time to stop on my way out and appreciate the Peruvian painting of a woman apparently breast-feeding, except the child doesn’t seem to be taking the milk. I stared at the painting for a long time to try to find its true meaning and was unable to do so and for that I am ashamed.

I look across to the unisex bathroom.  The few strands of some type of vine provide so much privacy!  I am reminded once again that in South America the plumbing is not set up to accept toilet paper but a trashcan is. I get little satisfaction out of opening the container to put my toilet paper in there but I do find solace knowing that the next person may have the same feelings as they look upon the layer I leave behind

I make it through the rain to a place that I believe serves chicken. I was afraid to go in because I don’t know how to order food so I stood outside for a moment. I gathered what little strenth I had left today and crossed the threshold into this chicken establishment. The familiar exchange of, I don’t speak Spanish took place again. I have yet to perfect this dance. I stood there in a stalemate staring at the woman who was staring at me.  I simply did not know what to do but I knew that I was hungry. I looked at the man who was pulling chicken out of his rotisserie as he chopped the chicken with a butcher knife and placed it on a plate snuggled up with a pile of what appeared to be french fries and a small pile of rice that at one time dominated the plate before the fries came in and the chicken made it made itself at home.  As our eyes met, I looked to the chef and indicated by hand gesture that I would like one of those plates. He gave me a thumbs up and I knew I was about to eat some food shortly.  I went to get a soda out of the refrigerator and I found it was merely something that resembled refrigerator but didn’t actually keep things cold. I settled for an orange Fanta.

Dinner started with a bowl of soup which is apparently customary here. My first spoonful brought out something I had never seen before in a bowl of soup. A chicken foot. I went ahead and removed that completely placed it on the saucer. My next spoonful pulled up something that I knew to be some type of organ and against my better judgment I ate it because I was hungry. Powdery like liver.

Meanwhile, The Gladiator was playing in Spanish with Spanish subtitles. A little redundant and it didn’t help me get into the story.

The soup was tasty and it was perfect on a cold rainy night. Once my food arrived, I dug into, honestly, the best rotisserie chicken I have ever tasted and may ever taste in my entire lifetime and for that I am sad.  The rice was cold as to be expected since it was the first inhabitant on that cold plate. I sprinkled what would appear to be a very fine dusting of salt on my french fries. After a couple of french fries were consumed, I decided I might opt for a condiment. Which one to choose however? There was a green one, a red one, a white one, and a yellow one. I’m pretty sure I know what was in each but I opted for the red one since it was probably ketchup.  I went to dispense the ketchup onto my fries and was unexpectedly greeted with a watery red substance that jumped across my plate and onto my pants. I managed to get a drop of it on my plate and it tasted like ketchup. But more importantly, the pants.

These pants and I have been through a lot over the last three days. I’ve worn them every day and they have served me well. I have not wanted to part with them because I feel like they would be sad. I have the brother pair of pants in my backpack waiting to get called up to the big league. Waiting and wanting to do battle. To smell the smells, to absorb the food that gets wiped on them.  The water from washed hands without any paper towels. I’m just not sure they’re ready for it yet though. These pants just have a never say die attitude about them that I’ve grown quite fond of.

One last observation is that when it rains,  as it is, and hasn’t stopped, the rain pours down outside my door sending shards of rain to litter my door. From there, the water runs down my door and invites itself into my room. Makes itself at home on the floor and in the floor.  Somebody came out and put a large garbage can out there to catch the water which turned into quite a large ruckus. But now with the bucket laid on its side to deflect the water away from my door we appear to be drying up in here.

So, I want to sit in here and read my book and get some good rest and prepare for hopefully a day without rain tomorrow.

Good night.