13 April 2007

the flavor north

We noticed some differences in the cuisine when we went north.

In Chiclayo and Trujillo, the ceviche is simple–salt, lime, aji, onions–which produces a clean, pure taste. The texture, flavor, and freshness of the fish stand out. In Lima, the ceviche is more spiced; in addition to the above, cooks add a combination of garlic, ginger, celery, and cilantro.

Though, northerners sometimes make a creamy sauce from aji, eggs, and oil and pour it over the ceviche. It has a creamy, tangy flavor which should appeal to mayonnaise fans. (I'm not a mayonnaise fan.)

What surprised us most was the causa. Causa is a mashed potato dish that comes with chicken, fish, or vegetables. We were accustomed to causa Limeña, a somewhat sculpted affair: mashed potatoes in the shape of a rectangle, circle, ball, triangle, fish with filling in the middle. I've even seen it served like sushi rolls.

Causa Norteña is an entirely different matter. Underneath heaping portions of onions and aji is an entire fish (bones, head, and all). And under the fish is mashed potatoes, which is savory though somewhat soupy, unlike the grainy and tart Limeña version.









One final note, I found the best mandarins in Trujillo: seedless, easy to peel, fragrant, sweet, tangy, juicy. When I went back to find the fruit stand to buy more, the lady disappeared and I thought that perhaps it was a dream. But I looked down and saw the peels I still held in my hands, waking me, mocking me. Would it have been better to have tasted and lost than to never have tasted at all?

12 April 2007

drive me crazy

So the light changed and the little green man indicated that it was my turn to go. A woman in a car tried to make a right turn and honked her horn at me. To add insult to injury, she motioned with her index and middle fingers (like the V for victory sign) to her eyes, gesturing that I should watch where I was going. The light was green! I was walking straight!! She was turning!!! In a car!!!! I thought I was going to explode!!!!!

11 April 2007

honey honey bee

At a honey stand in a market in Trujillo. I thought bees only liked flowers.

10 April 2007

chiclayo & trujillo

In planning Mimi's itinerary, we decided to travel up Peru's coast to Chiclayo and Trujillo to visit pre-Inca ruins in preparation for the Inca sites in Cusco and Machu Picchu. Happily Carlos had four days off of work for Holy Week.

We took a bus for the 12-hour ride to Chiclayo. The bus we took was no Greyhound. We enjoyed first-class service with large comfortable, reclining chairs and a pretty attendant who hosted a bingo game. It wasn't perfect because, frankly, I thought playing bingo on a bus was weird, the food was terrible, and the beverages were unimaginative–sweet soda, sweet coffee, and sweet tea. However, most importantly, the bus was on time and we arrived safely.

I admit, I was very excited to go on this trip. I love love LOVE! pre-Inca art, particularly art by the Moche. And Chiclayo and Trujillo are abound with their remnants. So, as soon as we stepped off the bus, we headed to Lambayeque, a town 10 km north of Chiclayo, to visit the Museo de Tumbes Reales.

The Museo de Tumbes Reales displays treasures recovered from the royal tombs of two kings from the Moche culture. It is one of the most impressive museums I have visited, not just for its treasures but also for its design, display, and descriptions. The museum itself is built in the form of a pyramid. Replicas of tombs, skeletons and all, are placed inside the museum in locations that correspond to their actual locations in the real royal tomb. There is also a room with life-sized characters from the royal court–king, guards, warriors, wives, children, servants, and dog. Residents from the Chiclayo area were carefully chosen to serve as models and artisans created all the costumes and props using local cotton, wood, and metals.

After two hours, we headed to Túcume, a town 20 km north of Lambayeque. We checked into our hotel, Los Horcones, which is located in the backyard of the Túcume ruins. Los Horcones is a beautiful space. The owner is an architect and designed the rooms himself. We played on the hammocks, strolled the grounds, picked guava (looks like a gigantic green bean with sweet white pulp), and gazed at the Milky Way at night.

















Los Horcones left an impression on me in other ways too. The next morning, I wore shorts to breakfast. Vicious mosquitoes attacked me and in less than 15 minutes I counted 30 bites. It turned out that I was allergic to their venom. The following day all the bites swelled into quarter and half-dollar sized bumps. Now the itchiness and swelling have subsided, but I am left with what look like jumbo hickeys on my legs.

After breakfast, we visited the Túcume ruins, which are a complex of 26 pyramids. The pyramids come in two sizes: big and bigger. This picture shows the Huaca Larga (long pyramid) on the right, another pyramid in the distance, and the Lambayeque Valley (and of course Mimi). Huaca Larga measures 700 meters (2,300 feet) and is the longest adobe structure found to date.

Because the pyramids are constructed from adobe, they looked like mountains that have melted. The Lambayeque culture built Túcume after they mysteriously fled and abandoned another city. Túcume was a sacred ceremonial, burial, and healing site. There is evidence that the Chimú, who conquered the Lambayeque, and Inca, who conquered the Chimú, used Túcume too. However, when the Spaniards arrived, they renamed the complex "Purgatorio" and claimed that it was the gateway to purgatory.

We fled purgatory shortly before noon, ate lunch, and made our way back to Chiclayo to take a bus to Trujillo. The three hour ride down the dessert coast littered with garbage, sand, villages, and ruins was uneventful; we slept through most of it. When we arrived in Trujillo, it was already dark. We ate at a cafe recommended by our guidebook. The food was absolutely awful. Mimi ordered a chicken sandwich and they presented her with a grilled chicken platter. I am sure that if we had sampled the sand on the highway to Trujillo, it would have had more flavor than the chicken, and better texture.

Our hostel was in Huanchaco, a beach town 15 km north of Trujillo. The hostel was guarded by the fattest dog I have ever seen. Yes, she is hairy. But underneath all that hair is fat. Mimi slept in a regular room and Carlos and I rented a tent and reposed in a small camping area. Next time, we plan to bring our own tent and camp on the beach, just a hop and a skip away.

Like Chiclayo, Trujillo is rich with pre-Inca ruins and we were poor on time. After an unsatisfactory breakfast at the hostel, I felt like I had woken up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag and was irritable. (We were the only customers and waited 25 minutes for three cooks to prepare scrambled eggs, coffee, and untoasted bread.)

However, once we arrived in Chan Chan, my exasperation evaporated like humidity in dessert. Chan Chan is an expansive complex of palaces built by the Chimú. (Think of the Chimú as the middle child: Moche, Chimú, Inca.)

Each palace had ceremonial spaces, living quarters, and commerce areas. The Chimú did not have doors or stairs. Instead, they had open portals and ramps. Rooms in the palace connected to each other through a labryinth-like system of long hallways. The layout of the Tschudi Palace, the most well-preserved and restored palace, reminded me a lot of the Forbidden City in Bei Jing. The Tschudi Palace, with 11 major rooms is not even the largest of the palaces. The smallest palace in Chan Chan has eight rooms and the largest has about 30 rooms. So, just imagine a city of Forbidden Cities.

After the death of a Chimú king, his palace was converted into a mausoleum. The mummified body of the king along with human and animal sacrifices, food, ceramics, gold, and other necessities for the afterlife were sealed in the palace, and the succeeding king built, lived, and governed in a new palace.

Chan Chan is so big that it would take a day to visit all the ruined palaces. We had to press on. A taxi dropped us off at the Plaza de Armas in Trujillo. There is a big fountain with a skinny naked man statue on top. Our guidebook suggested that his face resembled Simón Bolívar, the great South American liberator; I thought the man carried the expression of someone who had to pee badly. After a visit to the church and drinks at the fancy Libertador Hotel, we ate ceviche at the nearby Plaza de Recreo.

It had started to drizzle when we arrived at Huaca de la Luna, a Moche ruin 10 km south of Trujillo. Huaca de la Luna contains beautifully painted murals. The Moche worshiped the moon and considered the sun a secondary diety. Because the Moche lived close to the sea and the moon controlled the tides, the moon was important in their lives. Living in the dessert heat, they did not consider a hot sun exactly a boon. For this reason, the Huaca de la Luna was used for religious ceremonies while the nearby Huaca del Sol was an administrative space.
We went back to Trujillo and happened upon an Easter Parade, of sorts. It was Good Friday and the locals were bearing an idol of the dead Jesus through the streets of Trujillo. It was creepy and fascinating.

We followed the crowd for two blocks then ducked into Café El Museo for delicious hot chocolate. The classy and cozy cafe had a wooden bar, antique cash register, leather benches.






Above it is a toy museum, Museo de los Jugetes, with playthings that span time and distance from Western toy cars, teddy bears, and train sets to pre-Inca dolls.

Mimi was tired and went back to the hostel in Huanchaco. I was still hungry so Carlos and I went to a pizza joint recommended by a friend. We ordered pizza with salty anchovies and drank sangria while we waited for our food. Then, we returned to the hostel too. That night, like the night before, we fell asleep to the roar of the ocean.

Bright and early next morning, we exited our hostel, crossed the street, and hit the beach. The water was frigid and the waves were rough and tall–perfect for surfing. We didn't have time for surfing (there were more old things to see) but Carlos managed to get out to sea by signing up for a 10 minute ride on a reed boat. The boats are called Caballitos de Tortora; tortora is the name of the tall reed that grows in the valley.

The locals are trying to promote tourism in Huachaco. Fisherman head out to sea before dawn to catch fish. In the late morning, they mend their boats on the beach and offer rides to tourists to supplement their income. At s/ 5 per ride, it's a pretty good earning; but with so many competing ride-givers, the fishermen don't end up making much. (So they say!)

Our last day in Trujillo and there was one last, must-see museum I wanted to visit: Museo Cassinelli. Located in the basement of a gas station, it contains the largest collection of ceramics in northern Peru. The priceless ceramics were stacked on wooden shelves, protected from inquiring fingers and greedy thieves by wire netting.

Our guide explained the different styles of ceramics: Moche ceramics were sculpted or painted. They came in human, animal, and vegetable shapes, and some depicted diseases like leprosy, cleft lip, amputation, and conjoined twins. Nasca (southern culture contemporary with the Moche in the north) ceramics were painted in many different colors. Etc.

There was a collection of erotic pieces too. Our guide made a point to emphasize that the erotic ceramics were not intended as pornography. They were fertility symbols. (Imagine a Moche man waiting for the arrival of his monthly subscription of ceramics wrapped in brown paper. Well, that didn't happen.)

The erotic collection depicted heterosexual, homosexual, and animal sex, along with plenty of attention-grabbing phalli (apparently, brides drank from those on their wedding night). Sexually transmitted diseases were also represented; there was a vessel showing a man with a rash on his bum and a woman holding her nose to the smelly infection. I asked our guide how homosexual sex is a symbol of fertility when men can't conceive. He explained that conception wasn't important; the sex act was the point.

The end. My desire to behold pre-Inca art had been satisfied. Thoroughly. With the images from the Cassinelli collection vividly imprinted in my memory, like the sharp scent of sweet mandarins, I am happy as a goat.

(oh, right, and I hope my traveling companions had a good time too.)

09 April 2007

natural gas taxi

I just returned from a four-day trip to northern Peru and I have many things to report. But, first things first...

Last night, I rode in a station wagon style taxi with a gas tank stored in the trunk. Carlos had told me, just earlier the same day, that because the price of oil is so expensive in Peru, taxi drivers use natural gas to fuel their cars. I was intrigued and voluntarily made conversation with a stranger.

The taxi driver explained that a tank of natural gas can fuel a car for about 200 km (124 miles) and cost about s/ 22 ($7); to go the same distance by using regular oil, it would cost about s/ 60 ($19). That makes oil almost three times more expensive than natural gas.

Our driver drives about 300 km each day, seven days a week. Over the course of a year, he saves about s/ 20,805 ($6,605) by using natural gas. Apparently, natural gas is also cleaner for the environment.

When I think of natural gas, my mind immediately jumps to gas stoves. Our driver explained that it wasn't the case. The natural gas used for cars is very different from the gas used for cooking. There is a pipeline connecting the source of the gas to the gas station. At the station, a special machine is used to deliver pressurized gas into the car.

I don't know how safe it is having pressurized gas in a moving vehicle, especially in Lima where the traffic is relentless and the driving is aggressive and unpredictable, but having mini explosions in your engine (which is how oil-fueled cars work) seems equally dangerous to imagine.

Two things struck me when I spoke to the driver. One is how hard he works. He drives 16 hours each day, seven days a week. On and off, driving a taxi has been his career for 34 years. Though he rarely gets to spend time with this family, which includes a wife and three sons (three tigers he calls them for their ravenous appetite), he works hard in order to support them. (He jokes that each night he returns home, it's like being in a stickup. He holds up his hands as his wife frisks him for his earnings. And if the money doesn't leave him, then his woman will.)

The second thing is that developing affordable, renewable alternative fuels makes sense economically and environmentally. The Incas worshipped the sun–the ultimate renewable and free fuel. Therefore, as I am scribbling this post, I am puzzled at the notion of an energy crisis. It seems to me this is more a crisis of will. The sun is still shining and is not going away for another few billion years.

08 April 2007

easter on the plaza

Our bus from Trujillo pulled into the Lima station at 7 a.m. We were exhausted from the 8-hour ride. Even so, time was precious. Mimi, Carlos's mom, is visiting Peru. We wanted to show her all the important sites and decided on the Plaza de Armas.

(Lima, contrary to its reputation, has many hidden and exposed gems. It is worth visiting Lima for a few days if only to have room in your tummy to try all the fantastic food and first-rate restaurants.)

We took a bus from Miraflores to Central Lima and walked to the Plaza de Armas. Central Lima is dirty, crowded, and noisy. The major throughway, Abancay, is filled with black exhaust from taxis, jitneys, and buses. Rude, ear-piercing honks penetrate the airspace. Oblivious tourists and plodding pedestrians clog the sidewalks. Lights seem to take forever to change.

The stroll to the Plaza de Armas took us past majestic edifices that recalled Lima's past stature as the capital of South America. (Well, sort of. Lima was the center of colonial Spain's South American export ventures, mostly in pillaged gold and other cultural artifacts.) Underneath the grime and past the emaciated beggars, I imagined that Lima's past splendor could be today's reality. Oh well.

Once we reached the Plaza, the din from Abancay died and the air was filled with the soothing murmur of lovers, click of cameras, and woosh of car tires. The Cathedral of Lima was closed, on Easter Sunday of all days, but the small adjacent chapel was open for services.

We admired the intricately carved balconies and exquisite facades of the church and presidential palace. Though, according to the Lonely Planet guidebook, not one original building remains in the Plaza de Armas from its initial founding due to successive earthquakes.

It was already 3 p.m. before we stopped to eat lunch. We started with pisco sours and causa limeña (mashed potatoes layered with crab meat and avocado in this case, but can be filled with chicken, vegetables, fish, or shrimp). I ordered ravioli, Mimi tried lomito with anticucho sauce (filet cut with beef heart sauce), Bello got a pork thing, and Carlos chose the classic lomo saltado (filet cubes sautéed with onions and tomatoes and served with rice and french fries).


By the time we returned to the Plaza, a crowd had gathered in front of the presidential palace. Inside the gates, a navy band played traditional Peruvian ditties. Eventually, they came out of the gates, marched across the Plaza, lined up in front of the Cathedral, and played for another half hour while uniformed men with rifles joined them and did fancy things with their feet and rifles.

We went home after that.

03 April 2007

pachacamac

Mimi, Carlos's mom, is visiting Peru. Today, we toured Pachacamac, an important ruin just south of Lima.

Pachacamac was like the oracle at Delphi. Important figures from different cultures over the centuries came to Pachacamac to make offerings, seek advice, and consult the future. It was one of most sacred religious site for pre-Inca as well as Inca kings.


When Pizarro captured and ransomed Atahualpa, the king of the Incas, gold pieces from Pachacamac were melted and delivered to the Spaniards stationed in Cajamarca. Upon receiving the gold, which filled many rooms, the Spaniards killed Atahualpa. (On a side note, the Spanish king was furious at Pizarro for ordering the death of Atahualpa. Charles V believed that only a king had the authority to execute another king.)

When Pizarro learned where the gold had come from, he immediately rode for Pachacamac. He arrived three weeks later and made his way to the main temple. Pizarro found the oracle (a carved totem pole) in a small room and was decidedly unimpressed, calling the room moldy and the stick ugly.

hairless dog

This is a Peruvian hairless dog. It is hairless except for a tuft on the head and tail. The breed is officially recognized by major kennel clubs.

At Pachacamac, at least two viringos, as they are sometimes called, resided at the ruins. This one followed us on our tour. Generally, she didn't like to standstill for photos but craved getting petted. I touched one while I was in Cusco and was turned off because that doggy felt oily. Perhaps it is the hot dessert air, but this dog didn't feel yucky.

01 April 2007

care package

Mimi, Carlos's mom, arrived today. With her is a care package from my dad. I had requested instant noodles (the next best thing to homemade noodle soup) and a peanut cocktail (a Shanghai specialty made from peanuts fried and mixed with seaweed).

I expected some packages of my favorite brands of instant noodles and a small jar of peanuts. Instead, my dad had packed a case full of instant noodles (he loves the stuff too) and a gigantic jar of peanuts that I don't think I will be able to finish by myself in my lifetime. He also included a small container of white pepper. I am somewhat overwhelmed and very amused. It is just like my dad to send me a year's worth of supplies when I have only a bit over a month left in Lima.

30 March 2007

more martina

She is so fuzzy. I can't stand it!








29 March 2007

pink grapefruit

The sunset today. I felt an urge to daub it with butter, sprinkle it with brown sugar, and broil it for 10 minutes until warm and the sugar slightly caramelized.

28 March 2007

aji de gallina

This is Jovana. She is 20 years old and lives in Carabayllo. Jovana has kindly agreed to be my chef-guru and will teach me to make all sorts of yummy traditional Peruvian dishes. (Carlos arranged the lessons in preparation for our imminent departure; when we leave Peru, we want to be sufficiently stocked with recipes to reproduce the fantastic meals that we've enjoyed here.) Today's lesson is ají de gallina.

Oh, and this is Martina. She belongs to the family, is incredibly soft, and has the cutest teeth. I am already in love with her, but she is only allowing me to touch her because she thinks I'm going to give her more lettuce. Back to ají de gallina...

Ají de gallina, simply stated, is chicken in a cream sauce. Shredded boiled chicken is drowned in a creamy sauce made from ají amarillo, stale bread, soda crackers, and milk. Here's how:

Stage One: Boil Everything

1. In a pot, boil potatoes with their skins on until cooked. Peel and slice in half just before serving.

2. Remove the skin from the chicken and cut into hand-sized pieces. In a second pot, add a lot of salt and boil the chicken until cooked yet still tender. Fish out the chicken and allow it to cool on a plate. Reserve the stock.

3. Remove the seeds and veins from the ají and rinse. In a third pot, boil the ají until the color changes into a paler shade of orange, about 10 minutes.

Stage Two: Soak and Blend Everything

4. Roughly chop the ají and place in a blender. Add chicken stock to the same level as the ají and blend well. Pour out the mixture and set aside.


5. Soak stale bread and soda crackers in equal parts evaporated milk and chicken stock. After 10 minutes of soaking, blend the concoction and set aside.

Stage Three: Put It Together

6. Shred the chicken by hand and set aside.

7. In a big pot, sauté diced onions in oil until translucent. Add the ají mixture and shredded chicken and simmer together for a few minutes. Add the bread-crackers-milk mixture, turn down the heat, and cook for another few minutes.

8. Plate with rice, lettuce, potato, ají de gallina, and olive.

Variations

I suppose any favorite pepper can substitute for ají amarillo, though no other pepper can truly duplicate the ají's unique combination of sweet and tangy. Though we haven't tried this yet, but I imagine that soy milk could be an apt alternative to evaporated milk, particularly for the lactose intolerant. And, of course, there's always fake chicken meat and vegetable stock for those seeking a vegetarian option. I haven't been able to confirm this, but I swear I've tasted peanuts in some versions of the recipe; you can probably add the peanuts at step 4 above.

A note about the ají. Even though the pepper is very spicy with its seeds and veins, the traditional version of this dish is deliberately not spicy. However, if there are no Peruvians around (not that Peruvians don't like spicy, they just don't make ají de gallina spicy), you could leave some veins intact to add a nice kick to the dish.

I am incredibly grateful to have been welcomed into Jovana's home and taught how to cook. For me, this was a privilege and a rare experience. It was also an experience that I actively pursued and could walk away from.

The fact is, the cooking conditions at the house were far from ideal. There was no running water to wash hands, equipment, and food. I was horrified that we used the same chopping board and knife to prepare meat and vegetables, without a thorough washing in between. While I was able to rinse my hands in a bowl, I was only going through the motions of food safety because there was no bacteria killing soap or alcohol available.

In a recent lecture by Dave Gordon on the human right to health, he mentioned the inverse care law, a term coined in the 1970s by a Welsh doctor. The inverse care law describes "the general observation that the availability of good medical care tends to vary inversely with the needs of the population served. This means the poorest tend to get the worst care and the least of it." This law, I can see, also applies to preventing illness. Those with the least means to afford and gain access to quality healthcare tend to live in conditions with the greatest exposure to catching and suffering from illness.

I just don't see why people like me should be able to use gallons of fresh running water to flush a toilet while people like Jovana can't have fresh running water to wash food. In a 1995 report by the World Health Organization, they argued that the greatest killer in the world and the greatest cause of ill-health in the world is poverty. Indeed, "7 out of 10 childhood deaths in developing countries can be attributed to five causes or combination of them: pneumonia, diarrhea, measles, malaria, and malnutrition... All these conditions can be treated for...less than a dollar."

The right to clean water is a right to life. If I think about it in these terms, then it is plain to me that I have not earned more of a right to life than Jovana. Then why is it that things are the way they are?

13 March 2007

housemate hostilities

I confess: I have hate in my heart for Humo, the dog I live with.

Last Sunday, Carlos made a beautiful sandwich with serrano ham, salami, smoked goat cheese, and sliced tomato, and Humo ate it.

We left the sandwich unguarded for two minutes, during which time he sneaked into my room and finished with it. But he didn't just gorge the sandwich wholesale. Nope, he carefully picked off the serrano ham, leaving the bread, tomatoes, cheese, and salami.

If this was his first and only offense, then I might have sighed and moved on. But tension between us had been mounting for weeks. Eating my food was the last straw. His incessant and insane barking at dogs who dare to walk on any street within his view, his daily intrusions into my room to patrol for whoknowswhat, his eating and making a general mess of discarded tissue paper in my trash receptacle, his high-pitched yelps whenever anyone rings the doorbell (leaving one unable to hear the visitor on the intercom), his aggressive grumblings whenever anyone attempts to leave the apartment — I'm fed up.

Agreed, he is one cute miniature schnauzer. But I have developed repugnance for cute miniature schnauzers (and quickly spreading to dogs of all breeds).

I have been giving Humo the silent treatment, which probably makes me feel worse than him. I hope we will settle our disagreement soon. After all, I am not a child and he is only a dog.

26 February 2007

label me

Labels are annoying. They have a way of defining you that is trite and limiting. For example, when people ask me where I am from, the answer they're looking for is not New Jersey. They want to know if I am Korean or Japanese. When I reply that I am Chinese, they give a knowing nod and say, "Oh really?!" But what does it mean to be Chinese? Obviously, I am not the Chinese from China in their imaginations, but that's not important because a Chinese is a Chinese above all else, whatever that means.

Sometimes, labels can be useful. For example, recently I discovered that I am a flexitarian. All of my life when people ask me about my food preferences I feel compelled to explain that while I love vegetables and eat and cook mostly vegetables I am an omnivore. But that is a mouthful. Finally, I have my own label. Like vegetarians, pescatarians, lacto-ovo vegetarians, I-eat-chicken vegetarians, I-eat-chicken-fish-eggs-dairy vegetarians, the-only-animals-I-eat-have-two-feet-or-less vegetarians, and vegans, I have a word to describe me (at least my food preferences anyway).

Having a label this time feels good. It feels like there may be a colony of like-minded flexitarians in the universe. That I am not alone. I may not be unique, but now I am legitimate.

23 February 2007

girly man

Riding in a bus today, my attention alighted on the back of a young man's left earlobe. He wore an earring. If he and his stud had been facing me, his face and jewel would have seemed patches of color, wallpaper on a bus. But because he had been facing away, I saw it. The earring back was silver and dainty, its two ends curling c0yly. I thought the whole business girly.

Pirates don't look girly, from the front or back. Maybe it is because the earrings they sport are hoop-shaped. Just as they don't use pretty ribbons to tie their wooden legs on, they don't need backs to keep their earrings in.

The young man was also wearing a ring. It was a brass band with carvings on it. Visualize this ring as if it had a big fat diamond or emerald or ruby protruding from it and you will understand my feeling toward the earring back.

To speak a Romance language compels one to make decisions about, or be reminded of, what is masculine and what is feminine. In a Romance language, there are no queer nouns, no sliding scales, no spectrum of beings.

Though now it is normal, even hip and sometimes uber manly, for a heterosexual man to wear earrings, to me, in my Spanish-speaking frame of mind, I was looking at a transvestite.

12 February 2007

my favorite weed

ten thousand honey
suckles suggest sweet summer's
secret solitude

09 February 2007

torta, salt and sweet

My sometimes fantasy is to open a cafe. I would serve torta and gazpacho, in summer. I would serve celery and potato soup and garnish it with watercress and lump crab, on request. Maybe I shall serve sandwiches; I would need to find a fine bakery. Definitely chocolate chip cookies. And hot chocolate with cinnamon and cloves.

07 February 2007

tempest in a teapot

I ran out of things to say. I tired of my own voice, in my head, my own words, on my screen. I found my days ordinary, my thoughts ordinary, my words ordinary. Me ordinary.

The end of December, all of January, and the beginning of February have not been ordinary: I applied to two post-graduate programs, past time with friends from New York, visited Cusco and Machu Picchu, slept with a kitten, fell sick twice, left Perú, gazed at Betelgeuse at 4,400 meters (2.7 miles) above sea level, hitchhiked to the beach with a middle-class Chilean family, and cooked gazpacho.

Yet, I am all a tempest in teapot. The source of my solitary steaming storm is secret. To me too.

One symptom is that I have lost my appetite, but not my hunger. I no longer delight in food: tonight I hunted at two supermarkets and four restaurants and caught two pieces of plain crusty bread for dinner. I experience intense cravings for specific foods: scalding spicy tofu in a black stone bowl garnished with raw egg and scallions, salted raw crab with bright orange roe with leftover rice that is reheated with boiling water, creamy saag paneer with glutinous naan brushed with nutty canary ghee, sour and spicy tom yum with straw rice noodles and julienne bamboo, stir fried peanuts and seaweed with salt and sugar and beer, silver noodles with prawn and star anise in a clay pot, and everything my mom and my dad cook.

I love cooking. I miss someone cooking for me.

I love Peruvian cuisine. I hate Peruvian-Chinese food. I yearn for wantons in soup, their thin slippery skin sliding around my tongue, and the burst of flavor from the dainty ball of perfectly seasoned, perfectly textured filling in the center. Peruvian wantons, whose skin is as thick as lasagna layers and filled with SPAM-textured mystery meat, are spirit crushers. Or fried wantons. Here, they are deep fried sheets of dough; it is as if you were served two slices of bread for a sandwich. Ja gao is a steamed dumpling made with rice flour filled with chunks of jumbo shrimp. In New York, they glisten like pink opals; in Peru, they resemble burst pimples.

I love writing. I hate writing.

I will try, though.
For you.
For me.
Not to appease appetite, but to sate hunger.

12 January 2007

taxi? taxi!

Taxi?
Taxi? Taxi? Where are you going?
Taxitaxitaxitaxitaxi?

I flew into Lima from Cusco this morning and "taxi" was the greeting I received from the throng of well-wishers at the airport. Well-wishers I call them because they were concerned for my safety. It turned out that they were not offering me a ride at grossly inflated prices, they were offering security services reasonably just prices. Apparently, taking a taxi from the street (of all places!) was dangerous.

One of the airport personnel actually followed me out of the building, into the parking lot, and begged me to take a taxi from the badge-wearing driver fast at his heels. While the airport worker was saying to me, "Please, Miss, take a taxi here. Don't take one from the street," the taxi driver was shouting, "Fifty soles. Thirty. Twenty-five. Twenty-five soles."

I could look on the bright side of things and interpret this scene to mean, "Welcome to Lima. It is very dangerous here." Or, I could be a Schopenhauer and understand it as, "Welcome to Lima. Give me your money."

I thanked them, headed out of the airport, and hopped into a combi. Before I got on the combi, however, another taxi driver warned me that the ride would take at least 2 hours. The combi ride cost s/ 1.50 and lasted 45 minutes, about 5 to 10 minutes longer than a direct taxi, though I had to walk an additional 7 minutes from the bus stop to my apartment.

Lima! Home sweet home. Despite the clammy humidity, grimy streets, and menacing chauffeurs, I am happy to be back, because of the ceviche, because it is by the sea, and because I know how to get home for s/ 1.50 instead of s/ 50.

21 December 2006

familiar faces

Friends from the States arrived in Lima last night. Carlos and I meet them at their hotel at midnight, toured their apartment for a room, had a drink, and parted at 2. Already we're adjusting them to the party schedule in Perú.