When you’re in a place like Cusco, the simple life is reserved for the Argi’s and other nomadic hippie circles that populate the continent.
The wallet was open. It was time for fresh scarves and new acquaintances. A play by play won’t suit the narration of two weeks of lavish existence.
I played the vegan for the first few days. It was needed.
If you look past the politics, the food is scrumptious. Though, a particular vegan hub didn’t do itself any favours…
The walls were covered with such antagonising catch phrases like “Animals do speak, just not the same language as you.”
… My eyes were stinging.
Considering where learning Spanish is on my estimation of priorities- adopting cowish, chickenese or speaking the poetry of dolphin is not of interest i.e. Fuck yourselves.
We did not fit. We stuck out. Either considered too fat to be vegan body builders or to obnoxious to be tender. Purely for reaction, we dropped the “M” bomb (meat) inside the restaurant almost as much as we dropped the “C” bomb in regular settings.
Nutrition accounted for; I was back to old habits.
That scene between McBride and Franco in “This Is The End”…
Dancing like a fiend on the bar, mimicking the dropping of loads, like a dump truck, all over the establishment. If you were in the bar at the time and didn’t get the joke, you were considered dull and unfit for conversation. Some were considered of the ilk, anyway.
There were many a character in that bar. The girls were plentiful and varied. Of the guys-mostly-would be womanizers. Get your end off while abroad; I get it.
But these were the kind of cunt that brands stamps on girls after night time familiarities, and proceed to plant seeds in other pots, the following morning. If your gonna play; play by the rules.
This one potato figured, cherub faced Scott became so riled over debate of lawful propriety, that he couldn’t even speak or look to that of which was once his, once lost.
The property in question was about the resolve to go along with her life-naturally.
About the intense mornings after; the constant reshuffling of persons, from their respectable or regrettable root-ins n outs, to their assigned bunks (rooms/streets away), left little sleep to speak of.
Due to the heaviness of the hangover, story-time, between friends, wasn’t tackled until about midday to 1pm. “Story-time” was special.
Most days-the stories had spread from Peruvian hostel security; to bilingual volunteers; to close mates, eventuating in the savoury narrations trickling through the entire Cusco hostel community, well before story-time.
Though, ‘twas always a treat to hear a participants spin on the previous nights proceedings. Not that you’d learn anything new from their particular version. After all-it was bunk-love. If security failed-seven guests, in proximity of the active bunk had personally heard, divulged and spread all privacies-with enthusiasm.
Why was story-time special?
It was because story-time, in itself, was a bonding experience.
… And a person had the right to divulge their own tale… Even if it was old news.
The afternoons were a haze of procrastination. The odd political rally or protest buzzed past the hostel windows- only a highlight to the guests visiting on a short-term (1-2 night) basis. It was clockwork to the rest of us.
After sampling all the delicious food and after purchasing all the pretty scarves… After nearly two weeks… I was done.
Money was wasted, spent or lost.
Whichever way, the Facebook friend base was increased and my life is richer for it.
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