Slept in until 9 today. Luxury! Had breakfast in the hostel then headed out to wander some of the other spots on our tourist ticket and to book a bus ticket to Lake Titicaca.

The sun was blazing this morning so I bundled up a little to preserve my already scorched skin. After some initial confusion, we eventually located a bus station, roughly in the direction of the airport. Weaver figures out a reasonably good deal after Mark and I push him to find a bus where we can all sit up top in the front seat (supposedly better leg room). Thirty-five soles each from Cusco to Copacabana (about $10).

After paying for our bus ticket (for an overnight bus leaving Cusco at 10 PM), we visited some big statue, a mummy museum, and an art museum. I’m not super enthralled by any of this, but it’s nice to stretch my legs and see some slightly less touristy areas of the city.

Lunch was a fish restaurant, Los Abanicos, where I ordered the “meal of the day” (soup, eggrolly thing, and chicken with rice) for four soles). Four soles! This still amazes me. $1.30 American. And it was excellent.

We then walked back roughly to the vicinity of our hostel and killed a couple of hours playing cards and eating ice cream at a cafe. Weaver wanted to check out a traditional Incan dance presentation before dinner so Mark and I tag along even though nearly of us has any interest in this whatsoever. The dance is okay, but we sneak off during an intermission to go get some food.

It turns out to be one of the best meals of the trip. A narrow two-story pseudo-Italian restaurant just down the street from the Incan dancing. Quechen music playing, all wood decor, great food, lots of laughter. Mark and Weaver each drink wine while I chug a liter of lemonade. Everyone is mellow. Mark and Weaver decide to split a roasted guinea pig, which I gladly choose not to partake in due to its freakish appearance (though I did have one bite, kind of beefy I guess). They both feigned enthusiasm initially, but in the end agreed never to order than again. My curry lamb was excellent.

After dinner we caught a cab to the bus station and boarded a gigantic pink Pony Express tour bus for the overnight trip South. Our bus lurched out of the station and for the first half hour repeatedly stopped to pick up seemingly random passengers around Cusco. Passengers who disappeared into some windowless section of the bus. Our driver nudged the struggling bus up and down a few hills, all the while neglecting to turn on his headlights.

It all was a little bizarre and more than a little disconcerting. It also certainly didn’t help anyone’s confidence in our safety when i read aloud from Weaver’s Lonely Planet book that night trips between Puno and Cusco should be avoided due to frequent highway robberies and how Pony Express (the only agency named negatively) in particular had a high incidence of accidents in recent years. Then the rain started and I decided it was best to just try to fall asleep.

Another bright and early wake-up. By 5:45 AM, I’m showered , dressed, packed, and enjoying a continental breakfast of bread, warm banana smoothie, and hot tea, courtesy of our host Jose.

At 6 AM we meet our Machu Picchu tour guide near the town center and catch a tourist bus up the hillside. Switching back and forth, skirting steep dropoffs. The weather is unfolding perfectly. Mostly blue skies, bright sun, a few wispy clouds.

We arrive at the entrance to Machu Picchu and our guide starts to slowly do a head count in shaky English. I’m extremely impatient at this point. The impatience largly pushed by the perfect weather and that feeling that I’m missing my chance to snap a few pictures before the real tourist crunch comes ruching in. So, I bolt before I even a hear a single word of Machu Picchu interpretation, telling Weaver and Mark that I’ll catch up with them in a bit. Well, it turns out that after the first five minutes I didn’t see them again for the rest of the day.

Really, it was a very pleasant way to experience the ruins though. Scampering around on my own. Never having to wait for anyone or come to a group consensus on which direction to head next. I had numerous moments of complete solitude, which, to me, is a far better way to soak in the feel of a place anyway.

I started off by racing up to the sun gate high above Machu Picchu, then explored briefly down the Incan trail to a second sun gate. All by myself, watching the shadows shift across the ruins as the sun came up. Everything beautiful and peaceful.

Then spent to rest of the morning wandering the more popular areas of the ruins, catching bits and pieces of other tours, and trying not to get too sunburned.

Huayna Picchu was closed to trail repair which was a bit of a bummer. Overheard a couple of British girls having this conversation while I was staring up at Huayna.

Fucking hell. If I had to walk that far to church. I’d be anti-religious. Seems a bit sill to me really. (pause) I feel the need to worship today. I think I’ll go for a five hour trek, then throw myself on nettles.

I found this amusing.

In the afternoon I started to climb the actual peak of Machu Picchu, but stalled out about halfway up due to lack of food, lack of water, and lack of sunscreen. Probably could’ve used some advance planning on that one. I stumbled my way back down to the main ruins, caught another bus back to town and waited for Weaver and Mark to show up, which they did about forty-five minutes later.

We all showered up at the hostal, then had dinner with a quite gregarious English-speaking Mexican guy who Weaver invited over. Played some more rummy. Shared a few pisco sours and nearly missed our train ride back to Cusco due to not paying any attention to the time. Thankfully our departure time was delayed because of a landslide over the tracks somewhere down the line.

On the ride back we’re all exhausted and not looking forward to four hours of knocking knees, but the time passes fairly quickly.

In Cusco, we catch a Taxi in the rain back to Wasichay Hostal and crash for the night.

At 5 AM we’re up and packing. Even after eight solid hours of sleep it’s a struggle to get out of bed and I wake with a splitting headache. I shower while Weaver and Mark roll out of bed and throw on some random clothes. At 5:45 we pay our night’s bill and Weaver argues with the girl at the desk when she initially refuses one of his beatup $10 bills. We catch a cab to the Cusco train station and board the backpacker train, sitting near another American group in their twenties. Pleasantries are exchanged, then we mostly just sit back and did our own thing.

The train starts up through the hills surrounding Cusco, switching back and forth past trash-covered slopes, barking dogs, and waving kids. The city from above seems a little less magical today than it did yesterday as viewed from the ruins and Mark makes a comment about how close together everything is. I do like the all white statue of the Virgin Mary, though, presiding grandly over the city high on a peak.

We head further into the country side. There is still trash and still dogs and kids chasing the train but they are much more spread apart now. I wave to a boy in bright orange pants. He waves back, but then flips his hand over and gives the finger to the rest of the train. He is smiling though, so I figure someone must have played a terrible joke on him at some point.

Lush greenness is everywhere. So are colorful wildflowers and rocky cliffs. Whizzing by too quickly for catch clearly on camera. We drop further and further into the valley following the curve of a very brown river, eventually crossing it on a narrow bridge. Clouds appear and seem to hang just over our heads. It rains, then stops, then rains again.

The rocky cliffs get closer and closer, until they are close enough that I could reach my hand out of the window and touch stone and plant if I chose to. We plow through several tunnels and past the occasional village where locals carrying goods along the tracks press up against the rock to avoid getting run over.

Our fellow American travelers sleep while we read books and Weaver whips out stories about Incan culture. And I’m glad to have intelligent companions to spend this trip with.

We cross another bridge and it strikes me just how far away from home I really am. There really aren’t any shortcuts back at this point.

When we arrive in Aguas Calientes we’re met by our Adelas Hostel host who leads us to our lodging. We seem to have upgrading somewhat from our Cusco accommodations. Bigger room, nicer bathroom, building overlooking a roaring river.

The noise from the river is especially pleasing. It reminds me of sleeping near the Nile in Uganda and always makes for a great sleeping environment.

After settling in we stop for lunch at the restaurant next door and enjoy a beautifully prepared three course meal on a balcony overlooking the river. Everyone’s mood seems light and good during the meal and a couple of free pisco sours contribute as well.

In the afternoon, in spite of a light rain, we head out to climb Putucussi, a peak with supposed views of Machu Picchu across the valley. Aguas Calientes is a tiny town and the trailhead is easy to find by following some railroad tracks to a set of stone stairs at the base of the climb.

Less than half an hour into the hike I’m already soaked with sweat from the inside and soaked with rain from the outside. It’s okay though because the adventure is good and the views are spectacular.

We scramble up rocks and wooden ladders, over mud puddles, and through dangling vegetation. It’s exhausting work but everuone seems to feel significantly better prepared for the altitude than yesterday. I’m a little worried about the rain destroying my camera so I try to avoid taking too many pictures when the rain is hitting the hardest.

As we reach the peak, graciously, the rain pauses for about half an hour, giving us time to catch a spectacular sight of Machu Picchu through swirling and lifting clouds. Watching the clouds rise, I’m happy to be alone on top of this particular peak, able to silently soak in the scenery, rather than a part of the tourist brigade across from me.

After snapping some pictures, we head back down on the same path we came up on. The clouds open up and the rain pours. We all soaked from head to toe by the time we reach our hostel back in town.

After showers, a couple of Cusquena beers each while playing cards, and dry clothes we get dinner at a restaurant with an unfortunate selection of pelts on the wall. Mark and I conclude that the skins most likely are from raccoon, cat, and dog. And after getting our lackluster meal, we wish we had seen the pelts before decided to eat at this spot. I can’t stop laughing about the wall decor throughout the meal and the rest of the evening.

We all crash pretty early tonight in preparation for our early assault on Machu Picchu tomorrow.

Once inside Jorge Chavez International Aeropeurto we were one of the first few people to grab our bags from the carousel and zipped through immigration without a second glance. The plan for today was to sleep in the airport until our 6:05 am Cusco flight, but we quickly discovered that there really weren’t too many available sleeping areas to be had. We couldn’t get to the domestic departure terminal (with its relatively nice padded chairs) until we checked in at the TACA counter and the counter didn’t open until at least 4 am we were told.

After walking outside and being met with a barrage of taxi drivers hawking their rides we eventually wandered upstairs to a food court where Mark bought an orange juice from McDonalds and I polished off my box of Wheat Thins while we watched a cleaning crew mop and buff the tiled floor and discussed what exactly we were going to do until “morning.” I brushed my teeth (wondering about the water quality) and freshened up as they say at a bathroom sink. We talked a little more and eventually I just lay down on the tile in the food court, clutching a luggage strap in one hand and using the other hand to support my face from the grime. Fell asleep fitfully for an hour or two.

Anytime I sleep in airports or other public places I’m reminded of a sleeping trick my dad told me about way back when. Basically if you’re in a situation where you don’t want to fall asleep too long or too deeply, hold a pen in your hand as you drift off. Inevitably as your body relaxes into sleep mode the hand will unfurl, allowing said pen to drop to the floor, ideally bouncing off with just enough noise to rouse you from a quick cat nap. Brilliant. I guess this doesn’t have anything to do with our current trip since I didn’t use that trick, but something I thought about.

At 4 AM we wandered down to the TACA counter where we discovered Weaver (who Mark and I were meeting from Ecuador) already in line to check in. Evidently, he had been in Lima since 8 PM yesterday and had slept behind some benches on the first floor. Weaver speaks Spanish like a native and was instantly helpful while we talked with the ticket agent. It was good to see him again and we exchanged travel stories while heading for the terminal.

Near the terminal we bumped into some sort of “Airport Fee” window where we were charged $6.05 extra to fly on our domestic flight. I guess everything airline related is taxed here. I would assume there will be some sort of similar fee to return to Lima. I already know there is a $30 fee to fly out of the country on our way back to the US. I suppose we have the same in the States, just a little more hidden.

That said, this all does seem a little more organized than other third world airports I’ve passed through, though probably just as arbitrary. I remember being in Burundi or Rwanda (Burundi I think) and being informed by some uniformed official that there was some sort of departure fee of $10, but somehow I just walked past the person taking the money. Or maybe there wasn’t any person at all.

Waiting in the terminal, I people watched, wrote in my journal, and read my book. It was somehow comforting every time I noticed a new English-speaking couple or group. A little taste of the familiar. A little feeling of if I ran into some sort of trouble there was another person I could explain it to.

When I watch Weaver interact in Spanish without a hitch or watch myself shrug at someone who just hit me with a stream of Spanish, I’m struck by how important it is to know a foreign language or two. If I had to I think I could get by without too many problems in a French-speaking country with a modicum of practice, but here I’m hopeless. And that’s more than a little frustrating. It’s frustrating to lose those safe lines of communication.

More and more I’m discovering that the travel I like best is travel that takes me on an adventure but leaves me with a tether of American life to keep handy. How very unworldly of me. But true. You just get used to the conveniences.

When it’s time to board our flight to Cusco, we all piled into a bus that zipped us across the tarmac to our waiting plane. Once on board we were informed that our flight would be delayed at least thirty minutes due to weather conditions in Cusco. After thirty minutes passed that announcement was essentially repeated. At this point I fell asleep in my luxurious exit window seat. Sleeping deeply and comfortably away from the cold tile of the airport. Waking only when the plane started to pull onto the runway.

I forced myself awake, not wanting to miss the aerial scenery, and then squinty-eyed, watched our distance above the hills extend. The plane bobbed a little while punching through the cloud cover, but then smoothed out nicely at 37,000 feet. I dozed in and out, then woke for good during our descent.

The view above Cusco was lovely. Thick green peaks broken up by white building with clay roof tops. Some yellow flowers or plants spelled out a giant number four on the side of one of the slopes and formed the shape of a giant flower nearby. I don’t know what that was all above, but interesting nonetheless.

We bounced a little on the landing and braked hard on a narrow runway before taxiing up to a tiny airport. Out luggage arrived in short order, scrolling in on a baggage carousel being serenaded by a presumably Peruvian band (who were also hawking their CD for $10 a piece).

Outside of te airport we settled on a $3 taxi ride to the Plaza de Armas. Weaver chatted up the driver and explained the type of lodging we were looking for. Our driver of course had just the thing. He took us to a sort of tucked away hostel near the plaza where we agreed to pay $7/night each and were greeted with Coca tea and an offer to help us plan (for a fee, naturally) our activities while in Cusco

We dropped our bags in our top floor room (three beds, mostly clean with a sort of broken down bathroom), then walked around the touristy area of Cusco, snapping pictures and avoiding shoe-shiners.

Lunch for me was grilled alpaca and an Inca Kola. When in Rome…

After lunch and a bit of a confused search for the bus station we all got on a collectivo and rode toward Pisac. Pretty miserable ride for me. Combination of a packed bus, being far too warm, standing and swaying, and I would assume the altitude. Felt like I was going to pass out about five minutes into the ride and I started pouring sweat. I’ve had this feeling on a couple of other occasions, so I knew I’d feel better once the freakish sweat cooled me down and I got a little blood back to my head, but still awful in the moment nonetheless.

About halfway to Pisac, we hopped off of the bus, into the country side and hiked around a variety of ruins in the hills. The ruins were small, but it felt good just to walk around (and up) and to get the blood flowing back to it’s rightful locations again.

And yes, for the most part they really do just let you walk all over the ruins.

We spent several hours walking between different ruin sites before deciding to walk back to Cusco via what looked like a fairy direct line straight down the hill side. Cutting across the switch backs of the road and accidentally stumbling through a backyard or two we eventually made our way back roughly near the plaza, located our hostel and crashed in the room for the night. Well, I guess I should say that I crashed. Weaver and Mark went out for pizza that turned out to be pizza without the tomato sauce (a recurring unfortunate food choice) while I slept.

Today started auspiciously enough at 3 am to the sound of three thoroughly happy dogs digging through my packed luggage and extracting from my backpack the contents of two full bags of beef jerky. Mary alerted me to this as I grunted incoherently from the bed and fell back into my stupor.

At 5:45 though I pulled myself out of bed, tossed my baggage in the trunk of Mary’s car, hugged my furry children goodbye, and set out. Mary dropped me off at Mark’s house, where I caught a ride with him to his Aunt’s house in Canton, and we together rode to Detroit from there.

Pretty uneventful first couple of hours. Before even hitting Lansing I already had twinges of missing my family. Ten days is a heck of a long time! I worry more about the dogs than Mary. Ok, that sounds wrong, but let me explain. Mary, I can at least check in with and let her know that I love her and am fine and will be home soon. The dogs on the other hand will just be confused and sad until they forget about me.

In Detroit we were a couple of hours early for our departure, so I spent the time riding back and forth on moving sidewalk, smelling cologne in duty-free shops, and chomping on gummy bears.

Every time I travel I’m always struck by how big and interesting the world is. There are so many beautiful people. And so many strange ones. People are moving and going about their lives, bumping into each other and responding with either kindness or ambivalence. Everyone in airports has that weird combination of “beaten-down, haven’t slept/ate well all day” and “oh, hey, my life is okay since I seem to be moving around to interesting places” look about them.

I like DTW because it’s familiar to me. I like how it’s generally clean and orderly. I know my way around. I know most people there speak English. I like knowing that if I really had to I could catch some other means of transportation and still be home in a couple of hours.

Our flight left on time, packed to the gills. My “exit seat” was lies, all lies. Really this exit row row only had two true exit seats (the window seats), the others had the exact same leg room as every other seat on the plane. My aisle seat was decidedly not near a window. From now on I’ll chose the window seat regardless of position in the plane.

After my three hours of sleep last night, I repeatedly slumped in my seat while trying to read or watch the in-fight movie (Family Stone). Not for lack of interesting reading material though. I brought along Through Painted Deserts (click the link to check out a few exerpts), which, at least if the first few chapters are any indication, is a great read, perfectly matching the casual observational style of writing that I like with a clear appreciation for the joy of travel. The author argues heartily for the need to travel, to leave, and this just adds to my good feelings about this mini adventure.

Our descent into Houston was a bumpy one, with some exciting pitches and drops, enough to make my stomach turn a few times.

Compared to DTW, Houston’s George Bush International seems to be a bit of a dive. Floors are dirtier, bathrooms smellier, and the air in general just feels thicker to me. Has that slightly fetid muggy caribean air weightiness to it. Though I suppose it could just be circumstancial due to the overcast weather today.

We had a about a two hour layover in GBI which I spent recharging my iPod, reading, and watching airplanes.

After boarding the connecting flight to Lima, Peru, I finally had my first real feelings of truly going somewhere, of actually being pointed in toward a destination, rather than bouncing from one transit point to the next. The discussions on board between passengers centered around what everyone was planning on doing/seeing in Peru. First time? How long? Etc. Definitely a greater sense of anticipation in the air.

I don’t remember much from the Houston to Lima flight. Had a window seat with a wall to lean against. Had a blanket. Had a fluffy pillow. Had a four hour nap.

I do remember in short order figuring out (and being nicely proud of myself) who the Federal Air Marshall on board was. Well-dressed, tan, last guy on the plane. He took a picture of the full plane as he walked down the aisle. Also noticed him earlier in the day chatting up one of the security guards.

In flight movies were “Walk the Line” and some western movie with Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster. I caught about twenty minutes of each. The Mel Gibson movie cut out right before its ending as our plane descended. I’ll never know if he got his money back.

Also caught a brilliant red sunset glowing through the clouds on the horizon. It seems to maintain its intensity and red richness forever. Probably had to do with our SE bearing. Racing the sun.

Everyone in the back of the plane clapped when we landed in Peru. I don’t know if I slept through some crazy turbulence or if they were just happy to be at their destination. Either way it was a pretty robust show of enthusiasm at midnight after a six-hour international flight.