[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
platano with a five sol note. And be careful: counterfeiting runs rampant in Peru.
The plane ride took twice as long as it did to Rome; to say I was happy to land
was an understatement. As in Rome, I spent my first day in Lima getting acclimated and
letting jet lag take over and sleeping. This time, because of Sam s novel, I had more of an
agenda. I didn t want to simply be a tourist on vacation I wanted to talk to locals,
observe the culture in action, and capture sights and smells and tastes for the benefit of
the reader. My Spanish was better than my Italian, and Julian had often made me
converse with him in Spanish even when we went out for coffee so I could practice.
On the second day, Manny picked me up and took me to various places in Lima.
The people were warm and friendly and hospitable toward me. The kids loved my iPod.
The girls loved my hair. The men loved my curves. I spent hours outside watching,
writing, describing every detail down to the color of the street. Like Rome, Lima s
surroundings had an organic feel to it, full of browns and sepias and greens, save a burst
of color here and there. I could picture Sam here, taking it all in, having a blast, getting
into a game of soccer with the kids. He loved to go anywhere he could be both an
observer and a participant. He wasn t afraid of the foreign.
Manny invited me to his house for dinner and to meet his wife Marta. She was
striking: young and tan-skinned and lean, with tresses of hair the color of blackberries
falling way past her shoulders. She made a dinner consisting of ceviche: fish marinated in
lime juice and chili peppers, served with corn sliced in cross-sections on a cob twice as
thick as Long Island corn, with fat, white-yellowish kernels tasting less sweet and more
starchy. Afterwards we drank mate de coca, a kind of herbal tea made with coca leaves,
which, for some reason, gave me a splitting headache. I popped two Tylenol and washed
them down with bottled water Julian had commanded me to stay away from the tap
water ( even when you brush your teeth, use bottled ).
The following day, Marta took me to Miraflores, a suburb of Lima. The density of
Rome or Manhattan was not found in Miraflores, where many of the older buildings were
more like sprawling haciendas combined with a variety of cool, modern architecture.
Julian said that many of the original buildings had been destroyed by earthquakes and
replaced by more modern concrete and steel structures. Marta and I visited stores and
street vendors selling art and clothes and touristy items. I thought of David when I saw
the art, and bought one of the smaller pieces.
I appreciated and enjoyed both Marta and Manny s company quite a bit, and both
spoke English very well. I seemed to be more sociable than I had been in Rome. As
always, I missed Sam, but in Peru the pain had decreased to more of a dull ache in
comparison to the vice-grip of grief that I had experienced in Italy. Maybe it was finally
getting easier.
And yet, I missed David, too. I d called him when I arrived at the hotel, and sent
him a postcard once a day, always including a new phrase I d learned in Spanish: No
more mate de coca, please it gives me a headache. I don t watch American Idol. On
behalf of my country, I apologize for McDonald s.
On the night before Manny and I were to begin our journey to Machu Picchu,
Marta asked to give me what seemed to be a tarot card reading, and I obliged, albeit
surprised, considering that many Peruvians were quite religious. I hadn t had a tarot card
reading since my early twenties, when I attended what was known as a psychic fair at
the Marriot in Smithtown, Long Island, and among other clairvoyants, fortune tellers, and
aura readers, met a then-unknown John Edward, who told me that the spirit of my
grandfather wanted to know why I was taking a semester off from college. All I had
wanted to know was the name of the man I was going to marry. John Edward told me that
my future husband s name was, incidentally, Edward; two other psychics said it was
Glenn; and a tarot card reader asked me if I d ever been a lesbian in a past life.
Marta and I sat face to face at the small, square table covered with plum-colored
fabric. She lit a homemade wax candle and set the cards in a formation I d never seen
before, sort of like a clock face. She then turned over the first card to her top right. The
pictures were colorful and artistic, almost like stained glass or mosaic drawings, with
Spanish words that I didn t recognize written on them.
Marta spoke to me in English. It says that you experience a loss that was too
painful for you. Your soulmate left you for the afterlife.
I took out my wallet-sized photo of Sam, faded and full of creases and smudges
where I had caressed his face with my thumb countless times, and showed it to her.
El amor de mi vida, I said. Fue mi esposo.
It says that your husband is your eternal soulmate and came to live with you on
earth so that you may recognize him in the next life. He is with you always, guiding you,
but you are too blinded by your pain to follow. Marta looked up at me. If you ask him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl wyciskamy.pev.pl
platano with a five sol note. And be careful: counterfeiting runs rampant in Peru.
The plane ride took twice as long as it did to Rome; to say I was happy to land
was an understatement. As in Rome, I spent my first day in Lima getting acclimated and
letting jet lag take over and sleeping. This time, because of Sam s novel, I had more of an
agenda. I didn t want to simply be a tourist on vacation I wanted to talk to locals,
observe the culture in action, and capture sights and smells and tastes for the benefit of
the reader. My Spanish was better than my Italian, and Julian had often made me
converse with him in Spanish even when we went out for coffee so I could practice.
On the second day, Manny picked me up and took me to various places in Lima.
The people were warm and friendly and hospitable toward me. The kids loved my iPod.
The girls loved my hair. The men loved my curves. I spent hours outside watching,
writing, describing every detail down to the color of the street. Like Rome, Lima s
surroundings had an organic feel to it, full of browns and sepias and greens, save a burst
of color here and there. I could picture Sam here, taking it all in, having a blast, getting
into a game of soccer with the kids. He loved to go anywhere he could be both an
observer and a participant. He wasn t afraid of the foreign.
Manny invited me to his house for dinner and to meet his wife Marta. She was
striking: young and tan-skinned and lean, with tresses of hair the color of blackberries
falling way past her shoulders. She made a dinner consisting of ceviche: fish marinated in
lime juice and chili peppers, served with corn sliced in cross-sections on a cob twice as
thick as Long Island corn, with fat, white-yellowish kernels tasting less sweet and more
starchy. Afterwards we drank mate de coca, a kind of herbal tea made with coca leaves,
which, for some reason, gave me a splitting headache. I popped two Tylenol and washed
them down with bottled water Julian had commanded me to stay away from the tap
water ( even when you brush your teeth, use bottled ).
The following day, Marta took me to Miraflores, a suburb of Lima. The density of
Rome or Manhattan was not found in Miraflores, where many of the older buildings were
more like sprawling haciendas combined with a variety of cool, modern architecture.
Julian said that many of the original buildings had been destroyed by earthquakes and
replaced by more modern concrete and steel structures. Marta and I visited stores and
street vendors selling art and clothes and touristy items. I thought of David when I saw
the art, and bought one of the smaller pieces.
I appreciated and enjoyed both Marta and Manny s company quite a bit, and both
spoke English very well. I seemed to be more sociable than I had been in Rome. As
always, I missed Sam, but in Peru the pain had decreased to more of a dull ache in
comparison to the vice-grip of grief that I had experienced in Italy. Maybe it was finally
getting easier.
And yet, I missed David, too. I d called him when I arrived at the hotel, and sent
him a postcard once a day, always including a new phrase I d learned in Spanish: No
more mate de coca, please it gives me a headache. I don t watch American Idol. On
behalf of my country, I apologize for McDonald s.
On the night before Manny and I were to begin our journey to Machu Picchu,
Marta asked to give me what seemed to be a tarot card reading, and I obliged, albeit
surprised, considering that many Peruvians were quite religious. I hadn t had a tarot card
reading since my early twenties, when I attended what was known as a psychic fair at
the Marriot in Smithtown, Long Island, and among other clairvoyants, fortune tellers, and
aura readers, met a then-unknown John Edward, who told me that the spirit of my
grandfather wanted to know why I was taking a semester off from college. All I had
wanted to know was the name of the man I was going to marry. John Edward told me that
my future husband s name was, incidentally, Edward; two other psychics said it was
Glenn; and a tarot card reader asked me if I d ever been a lesbian in a past life.
Marta and I sat face to face at the small, square table covered with plum-colored
fabric. She lit a homemade wax candle and set the cards in a formation I d never seen
before, sort of like a clock face. She then turned over the first card to her top right. The
pictures were colorful and artistic, almost like stained glass or mosaic drawings, with
Spanish words that I didn t recognize written on them.
Marta spoke to me in English. It says that you experience a loss that was too
painful for you. Your soulmate left you for the afterlife.
I took out my wallet-sized photo of Sam, faded and full of creases and smudges
where I had caressed his face with my thumb countless times, and showed it to her.
El amor de mi vida, I said. Fue mi esposo.
It says that your husband is your eternal soulmate and came to live with you on
earth so that you may recognize him in the next life. He is with you always, guiding you,
but you are too blinded by your pain to follow. Marta looked up at me. If you ask him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]