Day 2—Friday, July 22—Cuzco→Ollantaytambo

view near albergue
Originally uploaded by rswells.

I got up and ate some breakfast with Adam and the American volunteers around 9.00 and then spent most of the morning huffing and puffing around the city center. Cuzco’s an awfully charming place and reminded me quite a bit of Granada, what with it’s cathedrals, narrow streets, and surrounding mountains. The plan was to get up early early the next morning in order to take a train up to Machu Picchu. Carlota, however, told me that I didn’t have to go the “rich gringo” way, but that I could get there quicker and cheaper if I did it the local way; this meant taking a taxi from Cuzco to Ollantaytambo and then a train from Ollanta to Aguas Calientes (the base city, so to speak, for MP) that evening. I took her up on the idea and got myself a shotgun seat in a station wagon taxi headed towards Ollanta. I was facing a serious time crunch with respect to arriving in Ollanta in time to catch the last train, which led the driver to drive like a speedfreak amongst the countless curves through the mountainous highways. At one point, we picked up a middle-aged couple, squeezing four people into the back. I happened to make eye contact with one of the other two; his eyes told me, “Lucky bastard.” Within five minutes, the woman said, “You’re driving too fast, amigo,” so he slowed down for a few twists and turns, but then resumed his ways, which led the woman to let loose the lord’s name. When she and her man got out of the taxi, she said she had never been so scared.

After about an hour and a half of the deathdrive, we reached Ollanta. A great mass throbbed in front of the gates that led to the trains. Much like my taxi driver, I quickly darted my way through the slightly treacherous environment and safely made it to the ticket counter. When the man told me that the last train was full and that I’d have to wait until tomorrow to catch one, I almost let loose a tear. Slowly walking back up the cobblestone road to town with my head held low, I found a hotel for my night’s sleep and then a restaurant for my dinner. At the small spot with rather swpartan décor, I took a seat upstairs. Four Germans sat across the room and a youngish American couple at the table next to mine. The young Americans quickly made fun of the Germans without them realizing it. Once the Germans left, I vacillated on what to order: either pancakes in honor of Huacachina and Jon Snyder or pizza in order to continue a long-standing and much-storied personal tradition. In the end, I went for some chicken kabobs instead. Once the other Americans’ food arrived, the girl started slurping her soup. This then turned into some sort of joke between them, as they tried to outsplurp each other amidst other forms of lovey dovey that included bad jokes and mild slaps to the face. Meanwhile, I, tried to focus on my Cortázar short story and my food. Upon paying their check, the young man approached me, asking me where I was from. Various origins instantaneously flashed through my mind, but I decided to tell the truth: “I’m from Kansas.” The dude then apologized and justified their actions by explaining to me that they thought I was French.

Back at the hotel, the doorman asks me when I’ll be up the next morning fro breakfast. The conversation—translated by me—went more or less as follows:
-What time do you plan to eat breakfast tomorrow morning?
-6am.
-6am?
-6am. I’m going to Machu Picchu.
-Ok, but most of the other groups are going to eat around 7.30 or 8.00—Why don’t you join them?
-But then in wouldn’t get to see as much…You just don’t want to get up early, do you?
-How about if you go get your ticket first and then come back and eat breakfast?

My bathroom came with ventilation, but I kept it closed while I bathed myself that night, singing “Satellite of Love” in the shower.