When the Power's Out...

A flash of green, a burst of pink, and a slow hiss of blue dropped over Miraflores. Somewhere an anonymous substation failed spectacularly, throwing its own funeral pyre into the evening sky, leaving only the yellow glow of the city over town. Sitting at my desk, the lights flickered briefly and fizzled. I went up to the roof: San Isidro's lights spilled over the huaca to the north, but my town sat quiet, the few warning lights on distant high-rises blinking slowly.

I thought I had plans tonight, but plans can change.

Thirty-six hours before, I wake up to a commotion coming from the bathroom; never a good sign. Twelve hours before that, Diego's friends held a massive party on our roof for some one's birthday, inviting many swarthy Peruvians and their tight-jeaned girls to mingle aimlessly through the night. The Americans had already failed in going to Oktoberfest in San Borjas - sponsored by Cusquena, no German beers allowed - and were huddled in a corner of our terrace. Instead of meeting new people, Alexander White and I plot the old music switcheroo, replacing the constant stream of lackluster reggaeton with something, anything, that isn't reggaeton. I choose American hip-hop, thinking it will go down smoothly. Alexander chooses two songs that seem to work, then switches to "Sittin' on the Dock of a Bay"; the Peruvians revolt - as they should - and bring back the Atrevetetetetete....
The next morning, our house is a mess. Everything's scuffed and dirty, plastic cups and cigarettes litter our roof, and Diego has placed two phone books on the toilet as a warning. The commotion I only half-heard through my bedroom door seems to have past; I don't ask about the toilet.

By mid-afternoon, curiosity kills this cat. I lift up the phone books to see...a rat? Beady eyes blinking, a small rat shivers in our toilet bowl. Jeff, Alex, and I organize a plan - I will reach in an grab the poor little guy, Alex will take the rat in a bag across the street to the park and release him. Jeff, not known for his love of animals, will document. The results speak for themselves: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NI2p3sUIjYQ

We gave him some bread and sent him on his way.

Eight hours before the blackout, my parents landed in Lima. The City of Kings is only a stop-over on the way to Cusco for them, but they took advantage of 'their man in Peru.' Seeing them here was strangely familiar; since this is Parents Weekend time anyway, why shouldn't they be here? Other than giving them churros and showing them to the Inca market, nothing much happened during the day. We planned dinner at 8.

After the blackout, I wondered what became of Jeff Warren, a man determined to design his own cake. I later found out he was locked in the shop. The cake emerged unharmed.
A buzzing brought Miraflores down, and a buzzing lifted her back up. With the power restored, I met my parents at the upscale Huaca Pucllana Restuarant, a four-star Peruvian moderne set amongst the flood-lit huaca ruins. The eight of us (my parents, their friends, my coworkers, and me) split some of the finest food I've had in Lima, perhaps ever. Appetizers of Parmesan scallops, beef hearts (anticuchos) yucca frita and ceviche; main courses of lomo saltado, seco, aji de gallina, and baby goat. In total we ran up a bill "something less than 1000 soles" which is a tremendous amount of a money for a young man spending less than 700 a month. Nevertheless, dinner for eight (plus wine) at the nicest restaurant in New York or LA would be several thousand dollars, not anything close to a 1000 soles. Apparently the high-end market in Lima just plateaus; even the rich have their limits.

After cake back at my house, I wished my parents well on their way to Machu Pichu. It's nice to see a friendly face and hear a friendly voice, even for a little bit.

In others news, I made this lampshade:

Ciao, Independencia / I Want a Love I Can See

No one is optimistic these days, not in the boundless possibilities of the past, not about that future, not about ourselves. Where are the fights to fight? The thousand little challenges of a life worth living? We're a generation like a car pushed downhill; all spinning wheels, stuck in neutral, a driverless car with nowhere to go.

Five months ago, I wore a tie, tucked in my shirt, and got a $140,000 diploma in front of a couple hundred generally disinterested people. Today, I stood on the roof after scraping paint off a door and drank a two dollar beer because we had no water. My diploma collected dust in a closet six thousand miles away. I scraped that door another hour and tossed the bottle in a box with the others.

I'm optimistic these days, in the potential of tomorrow, in my surroundings, in myself. Why shouldn't I be? After weeks of being stuck in a sixth floor closet, we've relocated to a ramshackle house two blocks (and two worlds) away. Suffice to say, I'm now an intercontinental playboy from the wild west, an all-singing all-dancing cavalcade of scuffed shoes and lowdown blues. Let me take you on a brief tour:

Our colonial staircase, very classy.
The Evita Balcony, where I sip my drinks in the afternoon. Don't cry for me, Lima Peru.The office, with Diego #2 working. My computer is camped here indefinitely.My room. Not pictured: large closet, red door.
Like most bachelors straight out of college, we have a music parlor in our home. The upright piano was surprisingly easy to move. The organ is a new acquisition. Also note the suspiciously Buttery-like kitchen arrangement. As best I know, it is an exact copy of the JE Buttery. Our roof terrace after a BBQ for Canadian Thanksgiving. Not pictured: future steamroom.
Our view from the roof, the huaca across the street. The huaca is a giant pre-Incan temple complex in various states of disrepair. Jeff took the tour and said there are a bunch of mummies in the little holes of the huaca, so it's probably haunted too. Not many Limenos care much about the huaca, which is strange, considering if Cahokia was in the middle of Manhattan, Mick Jagger would probably buy it.
Future site of my room, to be built. ETA: Now.
Also, since I know longer live at the intersection of Chiclayo and Independencia, I had to change the name of my blog to the name of my favorite sandwich. What could go wrong?