If This Is Tuesday, It Must Be Miraflores

After passing another night at the old house in the Lince district, I did have an overriding thought. If one ever fancied living in the 1930's this is the place for you. I considered myself lucky that even though there was no hot water, there was still electricity and phone. Forget about cable or Wi-Fi. Imminent demolition does have its disadvantages.

Its a humbling experience to have to not just function but also do it with a smile on your mug, which a majority of Limeños I've met seem to do. This despite quite difficult conditions that would frustrate nine out of ten US urban dwellers. Most of the modest-income folks I've met are kind, helpful and quick with a joke (or a light up your smoke). Especially the cab drivers.

As I mentioned in my last post, these folks putter around in cars of varying makes and conditions either making a living or supplementing a meager income. Deisel-driven desperados. In fact, while watching traffic from the street, you wonder how anyone in Peru makes it past 20 years old. However, to my surprise, sitting inside a cab is a totally different experience. While you still are subjected to all manners of g-forces as you thread your way in and out of lanes, one oddly tends to develop a sort of zen way about it. After your initial stroke-inducing ride, each succeeding one becomes less so. I owe that to watching the driver. Having attained a ninja-like level of defensive driving skills unattainable stateside, it's clear the driver is the road and the road is your driver. I quickly learned to relax, sit back, look out the window and fork over my 6 soles to Obi-Wan.

Today the cab dropped us off at Peru's House of Graft...er, Congress. With the appropriately located Museum of the Inquisition alongside, it was a great place to start our walk that day.

Opting for the Museum of the Inquisition (for a peppy, clear your head, start) we walked in and through this massive wooden entranceway. The inside was quiet which, considering the subject matter, kind of caught me by surprise. Another odd thing was that I had not seen any foreign tourists since arriving in Peru. No sooner had that thought entered my mind when, as luck would have, it a tall young fellow in shorts and clean white sneakers walked in. I love it when things like that happen.

We joined the only other Spanish speaking person there, a sole Chilean woman, for a small three person group. Our guide was this middle age woman who despite her knowledge on the subject, clearly had led one too many groups on tour. She recited her script that with the feigned interest of someone who I'm sure wondered why she ever bothered to spend all those years in school studying for her masters. I totally felt like apologizing.

The information itself was really interesting but the wax exhibits resembled a second-rate version of a Ripleys exhibit. I figured Inquisition + Latin American museum = lots of fun! Alas, the joint was just good when it could have been really great. Apparently my mom told me that when she visited it many years back it was much more lurid and shocking. Which sort of made me pull a double-take and wonder why she wanted to return—with me in tow, no less. We chalked up the toning down thing to efforts to make it more family, or tourist, friendly. Which when you think about it, sort of defeats the purpose of having a museum on this in the first place.

Grabbing gore-hungry mom we then walked across the street to the heavily-guarded congress. Having seen the heavy artillery pulled out on occasion in Manhattan I wasn't too phased to see these guys planted all around the perimeter of the building. What was odd was the intensity of these soldiers. You could just tell these guys were a hair trigger away from spraying the street with an AK-47 if need be. Even hyper-alert is too mild a term to use here.

After the intense staredowns just walking past the building I was surprised to find out we could actually go inside for a guided tour. A quick flash of our IDs got us past the gate and a walk through a 15-year-old metal detector got us in. Just like that. One inside we were met by an affable young chap who clearly was a history buff in training. He knew the most arcane names and dates which, considering the Spanish custom of commonly using middle names, is no small feat. I easily pictured him getting picked on for being the first to name Ricardo Francisco Palma's mother's dog or something like that. His earnestness though was endearing. It was hard not to like the kid. He even volunteered to shoot photos at each room we stopped in. A personal tripod. I just hope he stays positive and doesn't run off to join some ad-hoc Woody Allen-led guerilla group when he realizes the true nature of Peruvian politics.

After the tour, we decided on something to eat and took a walk to a local tavern called Bar Cordano. Located right across from what was the train station building, Bar Cordano is one of those hundred year old places that my mom even remembered eating in her youth as well as her adulthood. Amazingly, it remained untouched. Including the waiter. The fellow was easily in his 70s and shuffled slowly along in the most casual manner. Unbeknownst to me I ordered the house specialty. A ham sandwich topped with shredded, pickled, red onion named Jamón al Dia (Ham of the Day). Needless to say it was incredible. Eschewing the traditional Cusqueño beer, I washed it down with an Inca Cola. The beer can wait.

Since we were so near the Plaza Mayor we hoofed it over there and just took in the grand space. Whenever one sees a photo of Lima, nine out of ten times this is the place you see. Between Macchu Picchu and this Plaza no place is more photographed. And rightly so. With parts dating back to the time of the Spanish conquest in the mid-1500's its stunning in both its impact and history.

So, naturally, this is where you'll find every tourist. And every person trying to separate said tourist from his cash. From going to seeing none to being inundated by them in the space of a few hours was a bit of a shock to say they least. It wasn't long before I found myself taking a photo in front of a stuffed Llama and a criollo dressed like a fake herder. When in Rome...

Actually, what got most of my attention in this part of town was the myriad of fast food and retail stores. All in that "almost-got-that-stateside-look-but-it-wouldn't-be-for-not-trying" look. Like the stores in Tokyo, I'm endlessly fascinated with seeing how other countries appropriate cultures. From the names down to the little figures that they use as corporate iconography. So while tourists were taking photos of ancient cathedrals I'm shooting fast food signs. I received more than my fare share of "loco tourista" looks.

One of the amazing things I witnessed was how much stuff can be piled onto movable carts. Why stop at a cart I figured...just make a suit with tons of clips and waddle down any thoroughfare. But these carts and small news kiosks are everywhere. Japan might have the vending machine thing down to every block but Peru has the flesh and blood equivalent. They even give directions. Although they do look at you funny when you ask for the price of a chocolate bar. No doubt they figure, whats with this cholo, doesn't he know this?

After correcting a quick misstep into a sex-themed shopping gallery we headed to the hip neighborhood, Barranco, to meet the rest of the family for some "anticuchos".

Now anticuchos are tradionally meat skewers made of beef heart. In fact my mom used to make them until I found out what they were and decided to pass on them ever since. Mom thankfully appeased the yanqui in me by making steak kabobs while she and dad continued with the original. To my relief I found that this place not only made original version but also chicken, fish, and veggie too I think. Again, no doubt to appease the tourists who flocked here by the dozens. I opted for chicken.

Well, after a beer and some nudging by my aunt, I was talked into trying a small piece of her heart kabob. I figured, heck, if I'm here I should at least give it a go. It was flavorful and had a strong taste. Much like I remembered eating when I was a kid. Mom wasn't impressed. She said these were older cows and that meant tougher meat. The NY cuts were decidedly softer. That was one bit of clearing up I really didn't need to know.

Dinner (and the day) ended with some sweet potato fritters in syrup called "picarones". Excellent way to close the night. That is, until I was approached by a guy in clown-y drag who acted goofy and then asked for change outside the restaurant. After giving him the patented NY-brush off, I was surprised to suddenly find my aunt swoop down and escort me away. When I asked her what was up she said she figured I needed help. I thanked her but reminded her that I failed to keep a clown with makeup and fake boobs away from me in Lima then by all rights I would most likely be dead in NY by now. Lower East Side, 1985, anyone?

More pix on this link! Last post updated with an additional photo link as well

Nowhere is my Home

Well, not really, but I thought it would be a pithy way to start out this blog entry. New York is obviously my home, and while I was born in New York City, I do have the cultural confusions and paradoxes visited upon most first generation immigrant kids. While my Peruvian parents did a pretty good job Americanizing me, after many years they suddenly had their "I should have had a V-8!" moment. That is, in their haste to integrate me, they had forgotten to teach me much about my heritage. Oops. However, repatriating me to traditional Peruvian ways was harder than they thought. Those awful Spanish cartoons had nothing on Speed Racer, The Impossibles and their ilk. Not only that, I didn't get the music, the culture seemed odd—but the food was good (although some dishes had me shaking my head in disbelief.)

Well, eventually mom and pop gave up and it was only my own unending curiosity that eventually led me back to discovering more about my past. It was a slow process that often confounded me as much as enlightened me. Eventually I reached the unescapable conclusion that I had to visit Peru. Still, I put it off. Eventually, after stalling for several years, a well-timed layoff finally gave me the chance to take the plunge.

This trip was also arranged as way to have my mom not just meet her family, but also work through the final arrangements of a real estate issue involving the family home. Talk about a great way to kill two condors with one stone.

Yes, after about 80 years, the ol' homestead was to be demolished in favor of a new apt building to be built in its place. My job, as Mr. Shutterbug was to document the place. Having never seen the place since I was a child, it seemed like a simple thing and enjoyable project.

Come trip day we arrived at the Lan Chile terminal and began the long wait associated with any sort of international travel nowadays. After the typical security dance ('I SAID take out EVERYTHING!') we were off, just 15 minutes behind our scheduled takeoff time of 11:45pm. Lan is pretty decent airline; clean, polite, reasonably together. Amongst Latin carriers this was akin to taking the Concorde. All was well. I was willing to overlook the hastily taped up tray in front of me in favor of getting fed twice on an overnight flight. I'm flexible.

Arriving in Lima at the break of dawn was an awe inspiring sight. Beautiful peaks gleamed like a Paul Abdul's chompers in the sunlight--only to quickly disappear as we descended into the Lima's well-known (to Peruvians at least) AM mist. After working my way past customs I approached the arrivals gate with pride. Mission completed. The Eagle has landed. Roll out the barrels..etc. Needless to say that feeling quickly vanished after I was approached by about a dozen ad-hoc taxi drivers shilling for fares.

Now Lima (as I'm sure most other Latin cities) has an interesting transport system. I say interesting because as it once was one of the birthplaces of human civilization, I do try to cut it some slack. (Doing brain surgery while the black death was clearing out Europe has to account for something.) Years of military rule, crushing thousand percent inflation, and then the inevitable graft have taken a huge toll on what could have easily been one of the most beautiful South American cities. In fact, Legoland is organized better. Lima's Infrastructure barely holds everything together and that is most evident in the transport system.

Cabs abound. However licensed cabs are but a small part of the picture. Literally anyone with a sign...is a cab driver. Which, as tourist, is convenient as any ride is within $2-6. No tip. However for the average Joe, thats highway robbery. The majority of the populace relies then on "combis" or the larger "micros" which at between .35 cents and 50 cents a trip is a damn good bargain. The catch is it takes hours. And with no predetermined stops along the route, its literally up to you to yell for a stop. I loved watching the "barkers" who hang out the open side door of the mini buses, yelling destinations, as the bus catapults through traffic. I don't find it too difficult to picture one of these hardy little Choo-Choo Charlies getting tossed out, hitting the floor, dusting himself off, and then continuing on his way. Travel writer Bill Bryson had a great description which fits amazingly well here. 'It feels like your inside an arcade game'

Anyway, back at the airport. Luckily my aunt secured a "real" cab earlier and was waiting. In the past tourists were victimized by unlicensed drivers who just drove them off to the end of a pier where their buddies were lurking, ready to make their wallets lighter. Thankfully, this has improved quite a bit, however, it was nice to have someone arrange this part of the journey for us.

The first moment I realized I was not in Kansas anymore was when the cab driver immediately asked me to lock the door and pull up my window. When he saw me taking photos as we drove out of the airport, he asked that I put the camera away until we're well clear of that area. Adding that snatch and runs were not out of the question. I thanked Mad Max with a handful of gruel and quickly stowed my camera away.

The ride to the family home in Lince was not too far away. Located right above the upper class area of San Isidro and Miraflores, it was once smack dab in the center of a middle class area. A class division that really no longer exists. The area by comparison was run down and but there were still pockets of small business and homeowners bravely holding on.

The family home was large as I last remembered it. Stately wood cornices, a garden, a yard, garage, things that any middle class home had. Built in the late 30's, early 40s, by my great uncle, the home was passed on to my mom's family of nine sisters and one brother (poor guy, huh?). In the prevailing years it was the home to a lot of get togethers, weddings, and just general living. However as the years went on and the house was ceded to the remaining relatives, issues arose on what should be done with the house. Some wanted to hold onto it, others wanted to sell it. But, short of taking a buzz saw and separating the place physically into chunks, nothing was ever settled on. Until now.

This was to be the house's last stand as it was to be razed in favor or an apt building where each relative could do as they wish with their stake.

My own memories of the house date back to when I Iast visited it as a child. My grandfather buying me Sublíme Peruvian chocolates, listening as he played music (he was a composer), and just amazed at the size of the house. Which to a kid was impressive. I had to see the house one more time before it was gone.

Upon arriving at the front, it looked just as I pictured it. Old, rickety, dusty, but still with a veneer of stateliness, that the surrounding newer homes did not seem to have. While some of the other homes resembled blocks stacked on top of each other, this place had a spirit. A look of a place where lives were well lived. This was a home...not just a place to sleep.

While I felt a sense of history as my mom and aunt pointed out the various spaces and what had happened here and there, I could not help but feel sad as well. I'm sure my mom must have felt that more intensely. It must have been a grand place in its day. Not even the termites which had bored huge holes in various areas outside could take that away,

After a quick go round we headed off for some food. Peruvian chicken of course! Opting to start with something semi familiar we headed to Pardos which is like the chain chicken master of Peru. But waaaay better than any chain. The West Village has an outlet...the first outside of Lima. I heartily recommend it. Tell them Jeff sent you.

While it was great to eat something familiar it was also nice to eat with four of my aunts. In a family of seven aunts (two passed away) and one uncle (in NYC), Having four of them sitting at one table is not something you tend to forget that quickly.

After the satisfying meal and another wacky taxi ride back to the old home, we met up with one of my cousins who had thoughtfully purchased tickets for a historic cemetery tour....at night.

The tour took place at Presbítero Maestro a famous cemetery where much of Peru's high ranking military dead as well as past presidents were buried. However, it also held the crypts of famous writers, poets, and even children of Japanese/Peruvian decent. But the biggest surprise was that my mom's uncle, who was the builder of the old home, was also interred there. However with the pitch darkness and no idea of where he was...we opted to skip the old guy. Sorry tío!

Getting to the cemetery was odd in that us ticket holders were neatly cued up to take a charted bus to the site. Why we didn't meet there I had no idea. Maybe to catch some pissed off spirits off-guard?

Once we took off, the old 50's bus amusingly cranked and wheezed its way through the city streets. The driver arm wresting the gear shifter all the way. After running a few red lights, were there. What was funny was that while this was a historic tour, there were a large percentage of HS age kids there. And not chaperoned mind you, but on their own accord. I highly suspected they saw the tour as a Skooby Doo adventure and jumped at the chance to give the girls some chills. Sure enough a short while into the tour I hear one chap trying to get his girl to walk down am unlit tomb area. The response was not only predictable, but universal: "Ayyy, noooo!"

The tour director was an amazing fellow. Not only did he have a through knowledge of the historical figures but, as the best guides can do, was able to make you relate to them. And let me tell you, there's nothing like hearing a tale of sadness, woe or bravado delivered in Spanish. His passion was also inflected with piousness and sincerity which even made the more religious of the attendees cross themselves and whisper "May god bless them". It was a stunning display of respect and love of a subject. Something Shaggy teasing the girls in the back missed out on. Doofus.

More pix here!