viente

Peru, last day.

Operation Counterfeit Money

Today we wake up late. We don't have much to do, so why hurry? Actually, we don't have anything to do. In bed I think about how there is nothing left here that I haven't done, nothing to do one last time. I'm seriously done.

We take steaming hot showers and pack up our room. We deposit our bags at the front desk and buy several churros apiece across the street for breakfast. MMMM. GREASE.

Here's the thing about the counterfeit money: Apparently, I have some. Two days ago, I reached into my money belt for my next hundred bill, and it ripped on its way out. It is important that I was taking the bill out of my money belt. I only keep a hundred Soles in my wallet at any given time, and when that is close to running out, I take out a big bill from the belt and use that. When I last went to the ATM, all the hundreds I got I put directly into my money belt. When I pulled out the ripped bill, whoever I was paying got a shocked look on their face and refused to take it, as if it were cursed. So it stayed in my wallet until now, when we had a chance to go to the bank and switch it. (Two days ago, when it ripped, it was Sunday and the banks were closed. Yesterday the banks weren't open before our flight to Lima, and we just didn't get around to going until today.)

So the first bank we try says that this bill is counterfeit. They show us the blue-light mark, the glittery dots, the invisible stripe -- all security measures that are LACKING in my bill. OK, but what do I do now? Well they say I have to go to the bank where I took out the money. Luckily, I have all my ATM receipts on me, so we push on to BCP. Where there is a huge line. Which we cut.

BCP tells me that there is no way that this bill came from a BCP ATM. They describe their security measures, that each ATM dribbles some invisible ink on their bills so that any bill in the country can be traced to a certain bank. We ask if it is POSSIBLE that whoever filled the ATMs was a "bad man" (we really use that term) and maybe put in counterfeit money. BCP says it is possible, but that no, it didn't happen. They think what happened is that I gave out my hundee to someone, asking for change, and the person took it, walked behind the counter, traded it with a fake hundred, and returned, saying they didn't have change. I argue that I got the money directly from the ATM and put it in my money belt, where it ripped.

Their final word is that if we want to make a claim, we have to talk face-to-face with the "boss" from the ATM BCP in Cuzco, where I got the money. But we are in Lima, we say, we are getting on a flight to USA tonight. We can't go back to Cuzco. This gets us nowhere. We plead with BCP to call the branch in Cuzco and report the counterfeit, maybe even ask if there have been any counterfeit complaints lately, JUST TO MAKE SURE. JUST TO CHECK. PLEASE.

Absolutely no can do. Apparently the two branches of the same bank cannot communicate with each other. There is no way the Lima BCP can make a phone call to the Cuzco BCP to see what's up. I cannot understand this logic, but I also cannot sit and argue all day long. I will have to make a complaint through WashMu (Best Bank Ever) when I get home.

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Last Day

We have our last lunch at the vegie place again. OBVIOUSLY I get Arroz de la Cubana. Wade is already sick of this dish and so he has another sandwhich. Sick of fried egg and fried banana and rice? What??? We've only had it for the past five days. In order to get REALLY sick of a dish, I need to eat it for two weeks. After Thailand, where I ate Pad Thai for lunch every day for a month, I couldn't go near noodles for about ten weeks. And then I could only stomach it a few times a year. Now I am back to normal, though, eating Thai about twice a month.

BACK TO PERU. We spent the afternoon walking sloooowly around the city, trying to figure out if there was anywhere we needed/wanted to go. We got some beads in one store (though not Peruvian in the slightest, they were super cheap), I interneted while Wade journaled and post-carded, and we wandered some more. We stepped into Metro, the ginormous supermarket, and bought some bread and chocolate for the plane. Wade bought some ugly, small Peruvian things to stuff into his friends' packs back at Outback. It's a thing they do, I don't know.

With six hours to go, we considered all the various means of getting to the airport that would take more time than a taxi: catching a bus, getting a collectivo, taking a taxi there and then back and then there again, walking.... At this point we thought we saw the president of Peru in his motorcade about to enter the Palace, and so we sat down on the steps of the Cathedral and waited. Nothing happened. The motorcade was just a group of fancy cars passing by. But we kept sitting and talked about our trip. It was really peaceful, sitting there with the cars going by, watching the pigeons circling the plaza, not having to mind our time. It was like wasting time, but in a really pleasant way.

Until this guy walks up to us and says he is practicing his English and would we mind if he sat down and talked to us for a while. Wade said OK, we had a bit of time before our plane took off. The Peruvian did most of the talking, asking us about American customs and American lingo, accents and proper grammar. I felt a bit intruded upon. It is one thing to walk up to a stranger in line for, say, some attraction, and talk to them about the attraction or their travels thus far. It's another thing to walk up to two people sitting in a public plaza in the middle of a conversation.

In any case, we finally excused ourselves to catch our plane, retrieved our luggage from the hostel, and caught a cab to the aeroporte.

Wade's plane leaves at nine-thirty. Mine leaves at one. Sadly, I was not able to check in until nine.

After Wade checks in, we sat upstairs not eating Pizza Hut or McDonalds (the first we had seen in this country) but instead munching on our Metro breads and chocolates, reminiscing about our trip. It was bittersweet. I was so ready to go home, so ready to fall into my own bed with my own sheets and my own blankets, but also sad to be leaving someone I shared every second with for the last three weeks.

We did goodbye at the airport tax booth.

As I walked downstairs, a small cry welled up inside me. I was caught by Hawaiin beekeeper Matt, who was returning home after seven months in Equador, Bolivia, and Peru. We talked for a while about this crazy country, until it was time for me to check in.

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Lucky

I still can't believe how lucky we have been on this trip, because the good fortune just keeps on coming. We got to the airport without a hitch. We checked in without problems -- we both had seats, our vegie meals were there, the works. Although I couldn't check in and go upstairs with Wade and wait, it worked out fine, us waiting together until he had to go, and really, I don't see that as a stroke of bad luck. I had to wait three more hours for my plane anyways.

I found a store that sold English books, and one jumped out at me with the cover and titles. That's how I am about books. If they don't grab me from the start, from first glance, I won't bit. And this one, a true tale of a Muslim woman from the West Bank set afire for "disgracing" the family -- this one did the trick. It was just the right amount of money, too, and after paying I had exactly twenty Soles left, two paper bills that could be changed over to dollars. Money changers don't like coins, so I didn't want to leave with a chunk of change jingling in my pockets. Now all I have left is twenty centimes, a sum I am prepared to swallow.

With my purchase, I earned fifteen free minutes of internet of a nifty laptop set up in the store. Anna had written me back with her new digits, so I was able to address my final postcard from Peru. Although there is no post from the departure lounge, the kind girl at the register offered to send it for me with their mail.

And now I have another two hours to eat the bread and apple juice and chocolate I brought along, I have time to capture these last thoughts, and I have time to start my new book. Or perhaps the Vanity Fair magazine I nabbed last night.

So God has been good to us in South America, real good. We've been healthy, we've stayed friends (no small feat when in such close quarters), we've always found food and shelter, nothing was stolen from us, transportation was always easily had. Perhaps it is me being so optomistic, rose-colored glasses, what have you, that I choose to see everything as positive while ignoring those details that could have cast a negative light on our days. But I really feel that we were watched over these past three weeks, taken care of, and for that, I feel incredibly thankful and Lucky. Baruch Hashem, as they say in the 'hood, Broochashem.