Make 'em say Ugggghhhhh

Probably a lot of things have happened since I last settled into an internet cafe to inform my tiny -- sounds better to say exclusive -- universe of readers. Hello again.

My final month in Peru found me switching back to checklist-traveler mode, ever-weary from an excess of night-bus cityhopping and Cuzco barhopping. Kibblets joined my great friend Blanca and me in Cuzco to complete an international supertrio of awesomeness. In 10 days we visited Machu Picchu and El Lago de Titicaca, nightstalked Cuzco's party strips exploiting our gringoness for pocketfuls of slips redeemable for "tragos gratis." We admired terrain and architecture. I passed on my addiction to Lomo Saltado. Images and moments were branded into memory.

• A traditionally-dressed middle-aged woman statued in the middle of a busy park, her colorful, ankle-length cloth-wrap nearly kissing the concrete, her punishable-in-public crime camouflaged by the section of sidewalk still darkened from a recent washing.
• A young girl defecating in a shallow gutter just outside a market entrance, a gutter that separates two ever-busy lanes of foot-traffic.
• Geometrically-challenged travelers on long-distance buses straining to stuff impossibly large packages and boxes and bags into already-overstuffed, to-the-eye obviously too-tiny spaces.
• The Juliaca, Peru mecca of cultured citizens: Licoreria Marihuana
• A lomo saltado dinner with a sides of "Why can't I look away?" and "This is a little uncomfortable," thanks to the mother in a family with whom Kerry and I were sharing a table at our packed-to-capacity Chifa joint.  "Hey, that's a big plate of Lomo.  And, whoa, one huge fuckin' titty."  Um, gross.

Especially memorable were a few actual meals.  First at the gringo-infrequented Cuzco eatery La Chamba, where hunks of animal that h'or d'oeuvre the portions you'd confront in any 60oz Texas Steakhouse Challenge run for less than $5.  The lechon, a juicy, fully-chicharróned baby pig accompanied by two papas del horno and one humita, was a portion that could feed two of me.  In other words, you and your extended family.   My blood-grease content hovered at triple-bypass for a few days after devouring my deliciously butchered piglet, thanks to slabs of fat as thick as thumbs that I couldn't leave on the plate.  Departing I a glance into the kitchen turned into a gaze, arrested by the pink and white kaleidoscope of muscle and fat.   Half-animal slabs were hung from hooks or spread across surfaces under the glistening blades of diligently hacking women.

I returned to Arequipa para despedirme a mis amigos.  And Blanca's family treated me to an essential traditional meal I'd theretofore avoided, Cuy.  Guinea pig.  Pet.  There's nothing like sitting down at a table and finding a dehaired pet stretched across your plate, oven-crisped legs in rigor mortis, long-teeth frozen in "Oh, shit.  They just snapped my neck!" paralysis.  And all I thought at every nibble: Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm.  Picking bits of meat and tendon from my teeth hours later, I couldn't stop thinking, "I've never liked pets.  But maybe I wouldn't mind porking up a few fat dogs or cats..."

Lima was fun again, spending my days with Cuzco-encountered friends Lizabel y Karla.  We ate chifa and perfectly-sculpted pay de limón, and consumed a season of Grey's Anatomy.

Yeah, I know.

Now I've been home for a few weeks.  Thanksgiving brought me home a month earlier than I'd originally planned, and now I'm billions of brain-cells nearer to constant gape-faced drooling.  As if Bell's Two Hearted Ale isn't self-murder motivation on its own, I hang with a crew of alcoholics.  Though I can't say chancing upon a Facebook message I'd mailed the late-night prior in a blackout haze wasn't hilarious reward enough to help me overlook the pulsing, pincushion's-worth of inner-skull needles and juicy stomach that characterized yesterday's 24 hours of hangover.

Well, let's say 12 -- it was probably noon before I sobered up.

(And you want photos, eh?  Then click here.)