Antigua Miraflores

The Hotel, Antigua Mirafores, has a kind of old colonial hacienda look to it, perhaps more accurately I might say, estancia, as it was probably not big enough to be considered a hacienda. Old it is, but it is in good shape and looks like it’s had a recent facelift. At the check-in desk I experience some more of the familiar communications problems that comes with trying to converse in Spanglish. The receptionist, who had ‘Anglicised’ herself to Tanya, seems to be saying that I am entitled to a complimentary aperitif upon arrival. After waiting for a short period, during which no such free drink materialises, I return to the front desk and query this. The woman at the desk (Tanya has disappeared out the back somewhere), explains to me that the complementary item refers to the fact that I have been given a larger room (larger than what I couldn’t be sure?). Not certain how one confuses an aperitif with a room upgrade?

Somewhat disappointed—the first time round in Lima I had been unhesitatingly and unambiguously offered a complimentary Pisco sour on I arrival at the Costa del Sol at Jorge Chávez—nonetheless I decide to head for the hotel bar anyway. I am warmly welcomed by the young Limanese bartender whose nombre is Juan José (‘JJ’ he proffers for guest convenience), he is one super–animated, wound-up dude. As we engage in light badinage, I’m trying to work him out, his exaggerated theatrical flourishes make me wonder if he’s a struggling actor making ends meet behind the bar. Later on when I get accustomed to him, I think the hyper-talking JJ is just sort of high.

As I sip my obligatory Pisco sour JJ (or Jota-Jota) is only too happy to tell me all about his hopes and aspirations to leave the provincial confines of Peru and escape to the US where the opportunities to succeed are plentiful (or so he believes). The longer we talk, the more I sense that the effusive JJ is on “something”. This becomes wholly apparent when he starts asking questions about my homeland while examining a map of New South Wales online. He asks where you find pot in my home state. I tell him about Nimbin, the weed-friendly town and marijuana capital of New South Wales…he is greatly interested. While I enjoy my second Pisco I let JJ play around with my iPad. “What are you googling?”, I ask JJ?”, “I’m looking for weed”, the answer comes. “I like weed”. My suspicions confirmed, the friendly if somewhat outrageously behaved JJ is one serious devotee of ganja weed.

Soon, other guests gravitate toward the bar. Everyone apart from me staying at the Hotel Antigua appear to be gringos, as the Latin Americans say. I get talking to a cashed-up elderly Florida retiree and his daughter/granddaughter? (euphemism?) who closely resembles a young and dry Shane Gould. The Floridians are followed slightly later by Judy and Stephen, a friendly couple of self-confessed vegetarians originally from New Jersey but now self-exiled to Las Vegas. I get on quite well with Judy and Stephen, and I find each of these Yanks amiable enough company, but I am struck by the strident tone of anti-Obamaism freely expressed by them and by the Florida retiree! I guess that I shouldn’t be too surprised given the widespread economic mire plaguing America in recent times but they are not holding back on their condemnation of the Democrat president.

Potent Pisco

I’m on to my third Pisco sour by now, and agree to go out for a meal with Jude and Steve, but suddenly as they toddle off to get ready for dinner, the full potency of the Pisco hits me! I’m not sure what JJ put in it, whatever it is, I’m sure its a double, it packs a real wallop, no question about it! My head feels very fuzzy indeed, and I spend several minutes in the bar washroom frantically splashing water on my face before I am anywhere near up to going out to eat with the Vegans. Next day one of the tour guides warns me the about the pitfalls of over-imbibing on Pisco (too late!!!).

Despite still feeling rather ‘Piscolated’ I stumble off with the two Yanks to the “eat street” strip at Avenida Diagonal for a pizza meal. Judy and Stephen, after slowly surveilling every pizza joint on the street, choose one (they all look the same to me). Now, I’m not normally the quickest person at choosing from the menu but compared to these two I am positively express lane! The Nevadans appear to be on a very tightly-budgeted holiday and give the menu an extrordinary degree of scrutiny (even scrutinising the blank obverse side of the menu, just in case there was hidden options). After ordering, I sit back, bemused, observing Judy and Stephen as they mull over the menu for, I’m not exaggerating, a full 15 minutes or more. The Vegas couple discuss the various permutations of mixing and matching different items whilst firing umpteen questions at the exceedingly patient waitress – the cost of various pizzas with or without certain variables, what combination of ingredients they can substitute for the carne ones that they don’t eat, and how much of the substitute vegetable items they are allowed for the same price!

JFK statue in his eponymous park

Finally they make a decision, and as we wait for the pizzas, I get another chapter of the Obama “No we won’t!” refrain from the “Lost Vegans”. Stephen, who up to that point I think the more reserved of the two, lets fly with a very impassioned denunciation of Obama as “illegitimate”, dredging up, much to my incredulity, the old conspiratorial theory “chestnut” that Barack is in fact (sic) foreign-born! Now, aside from the self-promoting Donald Trump and a hard core of Tea Party hacks, I didn’t think anyone in America was still peddling that hoary old tale … talk about Crank Yankers! But I guess, we are talking about America, so nothing really surprises. I certainly get a sense of the Right wing Republican backlash against Obama following the GFC from the sample of Americans I meet in Lima.

I get a sense that there’s something kinda obsessive “New Agey” naturopathic(?) about Judy and Stephen, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Stephen with his free-flowing, greying locks certainly looks the part of the ageing hippy. Interestingly, Judy tells me she’s a pop/rock music journalist, which I can’t easily imagine as she looks a bit light on hipness…can’t visualise her popping up as a character in, say, Almost Famous! Based entirely on an intuitive and non-scientific hunch I make an assumption that she is some sort of self-medicator.

Parque Kennedy Flea Markets

After the meal we wander across the Diagonal to the Parque Kennedy Night Markets, AKA Mercado de Pulgas, (the local flea markets) to look for bargains. These are pretty thin on the ground however as Miraflores is a quite upmarket part of Lima and the stallholders are fairly resistant to any attempts to haggle. The usual mix of decent and rubbishy things are on offer – silver jewelry, bracelets, earrings, trinkets, beads, garments, toy and puppet llamas, and some assorted oddities such as old Peruvian coins and rusty pieces of metal whose purpose I can’t fathom. Judy buys numerous junky items whilst Step and I stand around looking unimpressed with the merchandise on offer.

Dog park by day, cat haunt by night: This JFK park should really be called Parque El Gato y Perro…during the day every canine owner in town seemed to be exercising his or her dog in the park, now it is full of stray cats, everywhere we walk along each aisle of the stalls there are cats underfoot! By this time I have sobered up enough to make a rational decision, I finally spot something out-of-the-box that really captivates my eyes – a really gorgeous blue alpaca scarf with a bit of grey in it – I unhestitatingly buy it for a very reasonable 15 Nuevo Sols! As we walk back to the hotel I feel a tangible sense of relief that I have managed to salvage something out of the tatters of a misspent night with these two oddball gringos.

I breakfast with Stephen and Judy the next morning. Judy, confides that she is given to certain (unnamed) medical conditions and pulls out a multitude of different coloured pills and proceeds to progressively down each one with every separate morsel of breakfast. I think I just found the empirical evidence for my earlier assumption.

Judy’s mannerisms and eccentricities are beginning to look a bit like Yiddish theatricality, she displays an unnerving touch of the Bette Middlers bordering on Woody Allen paranoia in her loopy, over-the-top remonstrations about most things. Submitting her omelette to forensic scrutiny at the table, she loudly declares it devoid of cheese and after calling the waitress, aggressively defies her to identify any dairy products within the egg. When the girl tries to point out clear visual evidence of cheese on the plate, Judy summarily rebuffs the suggestion and insists that another, more cheesier omelette be fetched from the kitchen! While Judy waits and continues to complain about the ‘criminal’ withholding of cheese, her partner Stephen is obviously not so picky as he quickly wolfs down the rejected omelette. They then argue about their differing assessments of the offending omelette!

I am not disappointed when 9 o’clock ticks over and I have to take my leave of this whacky American couple. As I go upstairs to fetch my bag and camera for the Lima city tour, Judy’s attention turns quickly and seamlessly from me to the newly-arrived replacement omelette. I hear her say “Finally, some cheese!” her voice trailing away as I mount the staircase.