Paul Collins plays the Garden..no, not that one.

Today started much like most of my days did in Tokyo, at least this time around. Nestled within a layered futon floor mattress. As I slowly opened my eyes, my foot nudged the plastic hot water bottle (yutampo) thoughtfully provided the evening prior by Enocky's wife Junko. Kind woman that Junko. Still, even though I had that injection-molded sensory experience, something felt off. Pretty common I reasoned. Frequent flyers will be the first to tell you its always hard to believe you're halfway around the world those first few days.

That was quickly changed though when I went downstairs and heard the television on. Rapid fire announcers and high-pitched voices were pouring out like a sieve from the living room. Enocky greeted me and I asked him if all TV personalities spoke like this in real life. Thankfully he said no, the "act" was purely for television. He further elucidated saying they acted was this way because people expected all their TV hosts to act this way. I was about halfway though an "ahhh..." when I stopped short. If I was old TV comedian, Danny Thomas, I would have finished this phrase with a spit take. The culture: 100% Japanese...the reaction: 100% American.

As Jackie and the Cedrics were slated to play tonight, I left Mr. Enomoto to practice and went back upstairs after breakfast. It was cold, but quiet, outside the Enocky compound. The sun was shining bright so I took quick advantage of that by opening the shades. I noticed while the area is packed with many homes, I rarely, if ever, saw people going in and out of them. Something that I found common in Japan. I did stop staring outside though, lest someone think of me as a local chikan looking for a show. This IS Japan you know. I had all the information I needed. Much like yesterday, temperatures hovered steadily in the mid-40s (leaving me puzzled as to how I originally thought I was getting a break from the NY weather.)

Around 3pm or so the Rockin' one and I split for tonights venue, Garden, located practically around the corner from Shelter in the same hip area known as Shimokitazawa. We maneuvered Enocky's little bread box in and out of downtown traffic, all the while listening to a CD of vintage sixties Japanese pop. As we drove past futuristic skyscrapers and weaved our way around fashionable teens shopping in Shimokitazawa, it struck me as incredibly amusing what walking anachronisms we were. More so after we parked and walked past clothing stores blasting classic American rock out of expensive sidewalk speakers. I mean, even Prince would make more sense.

As we walked in nothing much was going on. A few club staffers ran around doing staffer stuff but other than that...zilch. Although it was obvious at the start that Garden, unlike Shelter, was a beast of an entirely different color. The club was large, and wide, and even had a proper dressing room. Nice. It reminded me of any small- to medium size music venue in, say, Long Island. All the horsepower minus the grit. It would be interesting to see a show here.

I was relieved to see that they would be erecting a small barrier between the stage and the crowd this time. That meant that I'd have a small, yet usable, crawlspace to move around in. True, it was about 2 feet wide...but hey, it was SOMETHING. After the Shelter experience, it makes getting a wider variety of shots a helluva lot easier.

Enocky's bandmates showed up soon afterwards. Rockin' Jelly Bean [aka RJB], bass player for the Cedrics and underground artist extraordinaire, and Jackie T-Bird the little drummer boy himself. After hugs and well wishes wee passed around it was time for preparation. Jackie started tuning his snare as Paul and co started their soundcheck.

The band ran through a few of their songs and, knowing that this show was to be recorded, made sure everything was as perfect as possible. The large stage was nice, but it did bring problems along with it. Mainly the multitude of lights. However, after a few adjustments by the lighting crew all was set to go. The girl responsible for the lights even went up to a surprised Paul afterwards and apologized for any inconvenience.

After the set, Paul hightailed it to a local record store performance/autograph session. Luckily, the store, Disc Union, was only a few blocks away. With Enocky's acoustic in hand, Paul ran through an abbreviated set and graciously thanked his fans for giving him the opportunity of playing in their country. Afterwards, the crowd of mostly younger fans, lined up happily to have their Nerves, Beat, solo records signed by someone who I'm sure they never expected to see, let alone play, in their lifetime.

Especially endearing was a young female fan who had happened to see Paul in the California leg of his tour, a few months earlier. And here she was again, back home this time, eagerly waiting to say hi again. Wearing an Exploited-styled hairstyle, on first look I never would never have guessed she enjoyed the dulcet tones of power pop. But, unlike, say, New York or London, fashion and music in Japan are not mutually exclusive to one other. At least in the underground circles. Quite refreshing I must say.

Back inside the club, Jackie and the Cedrics were getting ready to hit the stage. RJB, Jackie and Enocky all joked around while changing into their trademark forest green tuxedo lounge suits. A well-wisher even stopped by and gave RJB a T-shirt signed by a video starlet which he was only to happy to proudly show off to everyone. Even Paul's bandmates were impressed.

Having last seen them perform the previous time I was in Japan, I was certainly looking forward to a not just a good show but a great one to photograph. Channeling surf tunes via the 60s Eleki-Guitar stylings of Terry Terauchi, the Cedrics always put on an enormously fun show. RJB jumping around, Jackie pounding away and Enocky just blowing everyone away with his mastery of instrumental tunes, theres always something going on to force a smile on even the grimmest of faces.

Having been around since the early 90s, the band are sort of the respected father figures of the 60s beat scene in Tokyo. Nevertheless, they launch themselves off speakers and jump around like over-stimulated kids. And they're amazingly great people on top of that. If they ever come to NYC (and I hear there is something in the works) run, run, run to catch these guys. Just buy me a beer later...or better yet, buy THEM a beer.

After the Cedrics, the crowd was sufficiently amped up to see the headliners. With a days worth of rest, Paul and co. put on a strong set. Cranking up the intensity level a few more notches since the previous evening. The space between the stage proved to be extremely useful....except that I realized halfway through the set that if I stayed in one place too long I started to cramp up! Sucks to get old. While the chest-high barricade helped me, unfortunately it also lessened the chance of the crowd reaching out to egg on the band. A point quickly remedied though as the Paul, bass player Tim Buechler and lead guitarist Tim Schwieger each took turns breaching the divide and interacting with the crowd.

The high point was, as in last nights set, when the band launched into The Beat's classic "I Wanna Be With a Rock & Roll Girl". Using the time-honored tactic of getting smiling, happy, dancing female fans onstage, the group had the whole place bopping along in no time. Amusingly bass play Tim was even able to get überfan mohawk girl to play as well.

Just prior to the end of the set, Paul started telling the crowd about how happy he was to finally be able to come to Japan. However, realizing that he might not be understood, he asked Junichi Noro to jump onstage and translate. As I'm watching from the wings thinking about my next shot, all of a sudden I see Paul motioning me to come over. With Junichi in one arm, and me in the other, he then goes on to tell the whole story of how we got him there. Let me tell you, despite having been on stage before, being the object of scrutiny has never been one of my life goals. Still, it was a really a super nice gesture and something that I'll hold onto to for quite a while.

As the crowd filed out at the end of the show I looked around for Enocky or RJB. It turned out that, since Rockin' Jelly Bean lived in Osaka, he also needed a place to crash. And that place was, you got it, the same room I was using at Enocky's. Yes, sleepover at the Rockin' one's home. LOL. I got dibs on the good futon....and hands off my yutampo.

Having found the guys, it was time to hit the road. After a few warm goodbyes to my Tokyo pals in attendance, we piled into Enocky's bumper car and headed off. I had a Osaka-bound Shinkansen waiting for me at an ungodly hour tomorrow. God, do bands do this all the time?

A few more photos here!

Gimme Shelter

At around 4PM we arrived at the steps leading to the underground "live-house" known as Shelter. Located in the basement of a modern office building, its really easy to miss. In fact, when I first was here a couple of years ago, I must have walked past it about three times before I realized the basement steps were NOT for maintenance but for people entering the club.

Amusingly, the sign for the club is just a little larger than the size of a blackboard you might have on your fridge. Drawn by hand for each show, and lit by a small bulb its not really meant for promoting its location. But, then again, thats part of the charm of it. You sort of have to know something is happening here. Not the type of place to get stragglers. A real throwback to the once-upon-a-time when clubs in Manhattan operated on similar low-key principles.

Shelter itself is a great place. Its an intimate room (sort of the size of Maxwells, except sideways) has an outstanding sound system, and has a real fantastic vibe. About the biggest downsides are the odd layout (once the place is filled you're there to stay) and the fact that Japanese bars/clubs still allow smoking indoors.

Inside we all exchanged greetings and I reunited again with Daddy-O-Nov who along with Erostica boutique owner Junichi, arranged both Paul's tour and the A-Bones previous jaunt a couple of years ago. Both guys are huge longtime fans and supporters of pop punk and garage music in Tokyo....and swell fellows to boot.

As this was Paul's premiere in Japan, there was a larger group than usual hanging out prior to soundcheck. As soon as the guys stepped onto the unlit stage, a quick look around revealed various members of The Tweezers (ex-Teengenerate), The Playmates and The Cokes chatting amongst themselves. Yet, as soon as Paul & co. launched into a tune, all socializing quickly stopped and gazes were fixed intently on the stage.

After soundcheck, dinner was at local Chinese restaurant that was near the venue. It truly was a funny pick by our guests, given that we were in Japan. But, it was cheap, nearby, and delicious...so who could argue with that? It reminded me of Nagoya a couple of years ago with the A-Bones, where after the gig, a Chinese restaurant was the only place we could find that was open. Which in turn led to an indelible memory of A-Bones' guitarist Bruce Bennett and Rockin' Jelly Bean (from Jackie and the Cedrics) singing the Gigantor theme to the puzzlement of the restaurant staff.

Heading back, the gig had already started with the openers, The Cokes, taking the stage. Like much of Japan's young bands, this one was well-rehearsed with a very competent set of tunes. While they were certainly good, what created the most curious anticipation for me were the following two groups, The Tweezers and The Playmates.

The Tweezers were one of the power pop bands that were formed from the ashes of Teengenerate. The other being The Raydios. The only constant in both, guitar player Fifi, also owns a local rock bar/hangout in Shimokitazawa called Poor Cow that has an amazing collection of rock and punk posters and ephemera lining the walls. To say he's a busy guy is to put it mildly. The band put on a powerful show and it was obvious they do have a strong following. As one of my Tokyo pals put it, "they're the band most of the young kids are into." All-in-all a very enjoyable set.

The Playmates. What can I say about them? A incredibly melodic group that straddles the line between killer guitar-driven power pop and quiet, yet still hummable melodies. Having heard a few disks by these guys I was more than eager to hear if they could pull off their complex mix of melodies and backing vocals in a live setting. Which, despite the fact that are a three-piece, they were able to do with what seemed like little effort. Truly an amazing, amazing band.

By this time the crowd was starting to get a little fiesty up front and soon after I got my Playmates shots I headed to the backstage area and got the one photo perk that traveling overseas affords one....stage access. A boon when things start getting a little too intense up front.

Paul and band hit the stage shorty after and kicked off the set with the Nerves' "Paper Dolls". Seeing them play with an intense determination, it was amazing to compare them to the fellows I saw before at the restaurant. A little jet-lagged but nevertheless still in good spirits. The band ran through Nerves, Beat and solo Collins material one after one until literally everything you expected to hear was covered. Compared to the sets played locally, Japan got what seemed like a little longer set. And rightfully so. I mean, when will they around these parts again? Next month?

After most of the crowd left, a small welcoming party was set up with free beer, but having a heavy schedule ahead, I split early and caught a ride back to Enockys pad. Hangovers and shooting in a crowded club are NOT a good combination. Apparently we weren't the only ones to feel that way as we passed a tired, but content Paul waiting for his ride as we exited the club.

Onto night two!

Back to the Future

Well, when I went to see the legendary Paul Collins Beat sometime last spring, I have to admit I was somewhat curious. Here we had an amazing songwriter who had sort of laid low after the end of his most recognized period in the late 70s/early 80s. Sure he put out an occasional release but as common with very talented people he explored various styles since. So when I had heard from a friend that he had recently put on a stellar show, showcasing his early more poppier material, I knew I had to check him out.

The subsequent performance at Southpaw in Park Slope, Brooklyn was quite a revelation. Not only did he do his most famous material, but also delivered them in a gruffer, yet still, an authentic, and passionate way. It was like someone had awoken him Rumplestilskin-like from under a stage or something, and reminded him that he had to play a gig that night.

After the show I spoke to Paul. Long story short, a kernel of a crazy idea in my head at that time actually led to having Paul and my Japan promoter pal reach an agreement for a small Japanese tour. Within a short while, dates were set, posters made (by the great Rockin' Jelly Bean) and much to Paul's delight, he was set for his first-ever tour of Japan. Something which he mentioned he had always dreamed of doing but was never able to find a way to set up.

Naturally, since I got the ball rolling, my J-pals asked if I was coming along. But, having been unemployed for about a year at that point, the opportunities seemed slim at best. It was tough to croak out a "ummmm, we'll see".

That was about 7 months ago. And now I find myself sitting on a 777 heading to Tokyo's Haneda airport chomping on a somewhat passable tuna sandwich. In the space of those few months, the stars, planets, auras, whatever you want to call 'em,conspired with each in order to make this far-fetched dream come true. Nutted by reality indeed.

Luckily, Rockin' Enocky, of the very cool combo Jackie and the Cedrics, had graciously offered to put me up should I ever return to visit. So, as I stepped off the plane in Tokyo the first thing I scanned for in the assembled folks waiting at the other side of customs, was his distinctive pair of specs.

Enocky was as charming and funny as I remembered him. A very mild and unassuming figure that belies his mastery of the guitar. A man certainly at home with his music, and now, with his just-as-charming wife Junko. We easily fell into a conversation of music, guitars, and the Cedrics, on our ride back to his home.

As we wound through the small streets near his home, I was once again amazed how people, cars, and bikes all co-existed on a road the width of my living room in Astoria. Enocky's car helped. It was the Japanese version of an regular van 'cept with a snub nose and compacted about 3/4 in all directions. Like a rolling Richard Scarry vehicle.

While it was wonderful to see Enocky and meet Junko, what I was really looking forward to was crashing. I was previously told I was getting an entire room and futon to myself, which I found beyond ideal. After years of passing out on my wooden living room floor, having an actual cushion was almost like being spoiled (and yes, I do have proper bed, thank you very much.)

After a good nights rest. I awoke to find the Enomotos in the kitchen. Enocky mentioned that he was going to lend Paul his acoustic for an in-store appearance the following day. So naturally he was in the middle of putting said guitar though its paces. Making sure that everything—the tuning, the tone, the weight—was all befitting a man of Paul's pedigree. All while their finch, Pio-chan, merrily tweeted away in the background. Sometimes even perching on Enocky's head. Talk about a Kodak moment.

After successfully maneuvering the Japanese shower "room", I headed out with the Rockin' one, guitar in hand, for a short walk and then meet up with the band at their soundcheck at Shelter.

Enocky's neighborhood was much like many in Japan, narrow streets with mixtures of mom and pop businesses side by side with more recent arrivals like restaurants, and fast food joints. In fact, I was fooled by one restaurant which had an "antique" look to it. Only to find out that it was new and made to LOOK old. Silly tourist is me.

The area had a nice older feel to it though. It was obvious that this wasn't a "hip" area but one that had withstood the trends throughout the years, only to grudgingly accept one or two.

A real interesting spot we came across originally looked like a pool. Enocky explained that this was one of the last areas in Tokyo that provided fishing for anyone who needed to unwind. For a price of course. He added that it was not uncommon to see businessmen in full suits sitting quietly with a pole in their hand. No doubt wishing their "satcho" would become the next over-work casualty.

While we had originally scheduled to meet the others at Shelter at 4PM, the cold weather made us decide to put the kabosh on the strollin' and high tail it to Shimokitazawa.

Once there, we decide to kill some more time at the local record store, Disk Union. DU is one of the largest "chains" in Japan but unlike, say, HMV, the late-Virgin or Tower, they actually seem to care about what they stocked. Used records and DVDs sat comfortably alongside new items. Some larger stores in Shinjuku and such even had entire floors based on specific genres. The one we were at in Shinokitazawa was formidable.

I mean, lookee what I found. The NY garage fans will know this one. 400yen ($4.80) a bargain. Sorry Bobby, Frank and Tony...

OK, Mr Enocky, lets head to Shelter....

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!