Peru Stories
I almost forgot to write what I'm doing.
I’ve been in bed for most of the day. I’m in a hostel bedroom in Arequipa Peru. I hear a Chicuango Thrush outside the window.
I think I ate parasites in a pueblito restaurant, after hiking out of Colca Canyon, the third deepest canyon on earth. We started the trek at 4:40 am. We were supposed to start at 4:30 but I was ten minutes late, probably because I ate half a milligram of xanax the night before. I woke up feeling like I was in a womb. Then I felt angry. Then I was walking up a up a mountain for 3.5 hours, getting increasingly pissed off.
Finally, we made it to a little town with a restaurant with a buffet. I sampled every food the buffet had to offer. Including the fish, which tasted like fish. The electricity went out in the restaurant.
Four hours later we were bumping along a bumpy road back to the highland city of Arequipa. Thats when waves of abdominal pain began. Four days later it’s now.
I almost forgot to write what I’m doing, but
suggested I read Vonnegut. After nine hours of lying on my face today, I opened my phone and read a Vonnegut sample which reminded me to say what I’m doing.This morning I ordered “granola bowl” at the next-door cafe. I was thinking yogurt could fix me. There was more granola than yogurt. Hence the name, granola bowl, I suppose. The yogurt was loaded with honey, sweeteners, or both. There were also blueberries, strawberries, raisins, and sweetened granola.
I forgot that parasites eat sugar.
I ate my six or seven sugars while on a curiosity call with a Lebanese man who lives in the Netherlands but is in Sri Lanka right now. He read my Tesla investment essay and wanted to talk to the man behind the pen. He sounds nervous, which is funny. I’m a lost boy in Peru who’s never held a job for more than 4 months. His name is Hani, he worked in corporate consulting for ten years. He quit his job for freelancing. He’s considering writing and posting on Substack.
“I’m not sure I have anything to say that other people will think is important enough. That’s my mental block,” Hani tells me.
He’s consulting the Peruvian parasite boy.
“That’s one of the excuses that resistance comes up with,” I tell him. “When I started writing on Substack I posted some okay stuff, but mostly dog shit. Then I got better at writing.” I’m still not great.
He asks if I still have any Tesla shares. We talk about that for a minute.
“I saved for ten years to buy a house in Lebanon,” he tells me, “then the currency in Lebanon collapsed and my savings disappeared 97%.”
My mouth falls open.
“But that’s okay,” he says. He’s calm and confident. Almost jovial.
“For you to even have that perspective is amazing. That’s what you should write about.”
“I never thought of that.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it.”
“What are you doing now?” he asks.
“Right now I’m eating my breakfast,” I say.
“I mean for work.”
“I’m editing my first book, then starting another book, and doing a podcast when I get back to America.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. If I get an hour of work done today, that will be a success.
I walk back to the hostel and fall face-first into the bed, completely exhausted from the yogurt excursion.
I’ve known for some time now that life is about not spiking blood sugar. I spiked it.
I go to the hostel kitchen and eat rice with coconut milk. It makes me feel better for ten minutes. Then I’m face down again. I cancel my haircut appointment, for the second time. The barber is done with me. But I don’t cancel my dental appointment. I text the dentist on WhatsApp to get the address. He’s a friend of a vax-free expat couple I met through a Facebook group.
Yesterday, I texted the dentist a photo of my chipped front tooth.
“Could you fix this?”
“Hi Duncan’s friend. Of course. Let mi check my schedule. For your appointment,”
“How much?”
“90 soles”
25 dollars.
“Do you have a website with reviews?”
“Website: no
Reviews: 23 years of dentistry”
It’s time to do this dental appointment. I go to an ATM to get cash. I’m sure it’s cash only. I text him “estoy aqui.”
“Ring the bell,” he texts back. The gate unlocks and a small Peruvian girl lets me into the building. They are all small.
I meet the dentist, sit and he looks at the broken tooth.
“Ok. Let’s do this,” he says.
“Todo bien?” I ask. “This is easy?”
He explains what he will do in sort-of good English.
I listen to Bible verses while he works his Peruvian dental magic.
The whole thing takes around 40 minutes. I hand him 100 soles. He goes upstairs then comes back a ten. He asks about how I ended up in this city in Peru. I explained that my roommate recommended I come here. I’m very appreciative of his work. So much so that I’m happy to do small talk.
I walk outside into the sunshine. It’s the best I’ve felt all day. I decided to walk the route back to the hostel, despite the scar tissues in my hip rubbing me the wrong way. My stomach feels weird. I feel like crying.
I get back and eat more coconut milk rice. I’m all out, so I cook more rice. The internet said to eat a rice diet post food poisoning. I want to go home to my local yogurt.
I’m face down again. There were very few thoughts for a few hours. Maybe I was meditating.
I text the Peruvian actress I’ve been dating. Last night we ate crème brûlée, tiramisu and drank red wine. Then we did romantic touching things. Then, I got excited and worked on my manuscript late into the night.
Now I’m in bed. I hope my parasites enjoyed all the sweet treats. They’re not getting any more.
All it took was a few pages of Vonnegut and nighttime to get me going again.
All my vices are almost dead and I don’t want to get up to charge them.
Three days of no carbs. I might be ok. Cold shower for the hip, no food for the parasites.
It’s after midnight.
Back to Vonnegut
Before I read another word of Slaughterhouse-Five, I fell asleep. It’s nine hours later and I’m by the pool, fasting in the sun. Reflecting on the creme brulee date with Alejandra — my Peruvian actress. She has the American dream. I told her America is not exactly like the movies. I told her how many people are on drugs.
“I hear that when people have a problem they go to a psychiatrist,” she said. “Psychiatrist, right? And the psychiatrist gives them pills?”
“Yes.”
“But that does not solve the problem.”
“Correct.”
“How many people take the pills?”
“For psychiatric medication, the estimate is 20-25%. That’s a lot.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“That does not include people self-prescribing. That doesn’t include alcohol, marijuana, tobacco, and the other stuff. And that stuff, ya know, affects your brain.”
I told her that to fix my tooth with my American dentist would cost $485.
“That’s too much!” she said.
“Still want to go to America?”
“Better go to the dentist before going to America.”
“And the doctor too.”
I feed her a spoonful of tiramisu.
“How is everything?” asks Henry, the British-Peruvian waiter who I know pretty well after five visits.
“El mejor en el mundo,” I say. The best in the world.
They laugh at my gringo espanol. I love it.
I’m crashing at this point. Nonetheless, I want to carry Alejandra.
“Can I can carry you?” I start laughing.
“What?” she says in her cute British-esque accent.
“Can I lift you up?”
“What?”
I go for it.
“No, I’m too fat!” She screams.
I scoop her up and carry her for a block. She is a model, a good one. She has a photoshoot tomorrow.
I set her down.
“How was it?”
“Like floating in the clouds.”
“You said I’m too fat.” I laugh, “Soy fuerte.” I remind her and myself.
Okay screw it, here’s another story. It’s about my first date with Alejandra. I’m not allowed to tell you about the second date.
Dios Mio Dating
I’m feeling tired of Peru. It’s loud. The service sucks. People can’t understand me. Like everywhere else, most of the people are fat, ugly, dumb, or all of the above. Good people though.
I’ve been getting headaches just about every night. I smoke a cigarette to try to help. It doesn’t.
I matched with a Peruvian actress on Bumble. She says she’s in a Netflix movie. I doubt it.
“She’s probably a person in the back,” I say to my friend.
I look up the film. She’s a main character.
I say to her what I always say to dating app matches in South America. It goes well, of course.
I look at her photos again. Seems too good to be true.
Nevertheless, I invite her, twice, to meet for Thai food. She doesn’t seem into it, so I switch to meeting for dessert.
At 5:34 pm she said, “At what time is good for you?”
At 5:41 I replied, “7:30 at Aleiana Brunch”
At 6:34, less than an hour before the meetup time, she accepts with “Of course”.
I’m surprised. At this point, I don’t feel like going, but what the hell, it’s a Netflix actress.
I arrive at the dessert cafe at exactly 7:30. This is the American way. Peruvian culture is to be late. The average lateness of my dates is 20 minutes. I sit on my phone at the cafe table.
A worker comes up to me and says “Digame,” which means “Tell me.”
“I’m waiting for someone,” I say.
He stares at me like a deer in headlights, because I am speaking English.
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“En el futuro,” I say.
“No,” he says. He doesn’t understand.
I sigh.
“Cinco minutos,” I say.
“Ok.” He walks away. I open Kindle. 35 minutes passes.
I’m concerned about this girl. My messages are not delivering to her WhatsApp. I walk out to the sidewalk. A few more minutes pass. It’s time to leave. I press send on a third and final message.
I hope you're alright. I'm going to leave now. Text me if you want to come hang out at Selina.
As I put my phone back in my pocket, someone grabs me, like a hug from the side.
It’s the girl. I can hardly believe it. I start laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
She is very apologetic and a bit frazzled. She tells me a crazy story about traffic and the bus driver getting in a fight with a passenger.
My roommate back home is from Peru. He told me about the stories South Americans tell after they arrive late.
Nonetheless, she is the person in the photos. I get pecan pie and she gets limoncello cake.
I told her I was reading while I waited. I asked her about the books she has read. I told her about the books that inspired me to be a writer.
“How old are you?” She asks.
“25,” I say. “26 in three months.”
“Oh.”
“And how old are you?”
“What?”
“Cuantos años tienes tu?”
“21.”
My mouth falls open.
“What? How old did you think?”
“You seem more like 24.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not the way you look, it’s the way you are.”
“I understand.”
She asks about my writing.
“I’ve been enjoying making YouTube videos,” I say. “Some of my videos are getting a lot of views.”
“Voy a ver,” she says. I will see.
“If you’re going to watch my YouTube channel then I’m going to watch your movie.”
She smiles. She likes that.
“I like your ring,” I say.
“What?”
I touch her hand.
“I like your ring.”
She smiles again. “Thank you.”
I help her finish her limoncello cake.
We talk for a solid 45 minutes with our legs touching under the table.
She tells me about her dilemma. She wants to continue her acting career but her parents want her to work as an engineer.
The conversation comes to a natural conclusion.
“Listo?” I ask.
She’s surprised by my Spanish.
“Sí.”
We walk around the plaza, arm in arm.
There happens to be a rooftop lookout right near the cafe — would ya look at that?
We look out over the plaza and admire the cathedral. She tells me we can go into the tower of the cathedral and ring the bell. I would be down.
We stand close. We turn and face each other. You can guess what happens next.
The rooftop place is owned by a restaurant and I suppose we need to buy something because a waitress is handing me a menu, between the kissing.
We sit and order drinks. She gets mango juice and I get anis tea.
“Have you been to America?” I ask.
“Not yet,” says Alejandra.
I tell her about America. I show her my photography in the mountains.
“Maybe I can visit you in America?” she says.
“Yeah, for sure.”
Alejandra’s father calls.
“Hola papa…” She talks in a way that I can’t understand. She tells me about moving back from Panama to her parent's house. That’s always difficult. She needs to go home soon. There’s been more than enough talking.
“Let’s go take a photo,” I say.
We return to kissing.
We walk through the city and find a new place to kiss.
“I think,”
We kiss.
“I will see you again,” I say.
She gets in her taxi.
That was one of the most epic first dates of my life. If she was arrived ten seconds later it wouldn't have happened.
The following day, my friend emailed me: “Remember the hot/crazy graph!”
I texted Alejandra. “Thinking about you. Are you available to hang out tomorrow night?”
No response. So it goes. I’ll follow up again. Two follow-ups. Two chances.
She didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would ghost after such an experience. Then again, remember the hot-crazy matrix.
The thing with America is, when the girl ghosts, which they often do, you feel like you’re fucked, because it will be months before there’s another half-decent relationship opportunity.
Things are different in South America.
There’s a long queue. So long that I have a spreadsheet going.
Have a blessed day.
And if you’re single, get the fuck out of America.
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This was a ride. Such wonderful storytelling.