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
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