Landing

How do I start explaining the last 24-36 hours...completely and totally surreal.

On the last phone call from Miami, my brother gave us some advice that is meaning more and more to me every moment:

Keep your heads up and your hearts open.

I know somehow he was imagining how much this first day in Lima was going to try to break our spirits. We are in another world. One where everything, even the simplest tasks, can become a major, day-altering challenge.

We got off the plane at 4am, 6am Lima time, my body having no concept of time whatsoever. Exhausted from a grueling 3 flight red eye trip, customs was unexpectedly uneventful, and complication free, we managed to cart our luggage and head for our fist glimpse of Calloa.

On the way, the small peruvian man holding the sign: Teresa Schoeder met us and helped us out to the taxi van. We struggled to get things to fit, and after some wheelchair adjustments, we discover that our 'english speaking' cabby is not, in fact, english speaking, even a little bit.

And so began what would be the first of many encounters with a frustrating and aggravating and totally at times, morally defeating language barrier. We try to explain that we'd like to see where the clinic is on the way to the apartment where we will stay so we can try to get our bearings. Its too much confusion. We go to the apartment. But there's a problem, it won't be cleaned and ready for us until 7pm. There's another apartment where we can stay until then. Relief! sort of...we wind around looking for it, and finally, we set foot inside. The smell reminds me of Mexico- damp and always just a little bit funky.

It already seems like a lifetime since we said our goodbyes at PDX. We test the internet connection, and in a morale boosting burst of technological wonderment, we contact our loved ones eager to convey our well-being.

Contact. It feels SO good, even over the cold impartiality of hardware.

After a nap thats not nearly long enough, we need water and food. The last 'meal' was stale tasting Pizza Hut in the terminal at Miami International. Forever ago now as much as my stomach is concerned. Without leaving the bags, we've got to get supplies, and someone must stay with Teresa.

We met an english speaking custodian, Orlando, in the lobby, who kindly offered his help. He told us he could go with us to the Vivanda, the supermarket. My stomach pivots when Katrina announces she is resolved to going with him to get us lunch. She's only gone twenty or so minutes, but as Teresa and I sit quietly waiting, every second drags. Its the first time on this trip time has seemed at all sluggish.

VICTORY! She returns with water (con gas, claro!) Ritz, some cheese, bananas, oranges, and to the intense relief of my caffeine-lacking headache, Pepsi. We are saved.

The next expedition brings us the same driver from the airport, bet we've managed to work the phone card, and procured what we hope will actually be an english speaking interpreter. His name is Lino, and he is an absolute miracle. While his english is not strong by any means, we know enough between the three of us to get us to the location of Manos Que Curan (the clinic), after, of course, a few more obstacles. I'm convinced navigating the streets of Miraflores is a hazard to one's health.

Once there we recieved some disheartening news, in front of a strange grey building set behing a car dealership on a busy Miraflores street, we learn that Dr. Laura is not in today, but that she will be there tomorow at 3pm. At least we know where the clinic is. In theory anyways. The driver takes us next to what I can only imagine as the Peruvian version of Best Buy and Lino helps us purchase a 'transformador' for Katrina's laptop so we don't fry our only means of communication to the outside world. We're also still hungry.

The restraunt that is easy to get to and on the way back to the apartment is, of course, McDonalds. We never eat there in the states, but leave it to three american girls to experience their fist South American meal from underneath the golden arches. Trust me, the irony is not lost on us.

The drive takes us two hours all told. Its $40 American. 120 soles. After the cabby leaves, Lino gives us his number and tells us he'll drive us anywhere for half that.

Back in the apartment, we strategize ways to test the transformer- we're not 100% sure we've purchased the right one. Enter the communication barrier once again, even with Lino and his big heart. With a lack of disposable appliances to test on, we phone Kelcy. He's a good freind from home and he's spent a lot of time in Peru. Actually reaching his ringtone after the flurry of pitchy spanish accents is yet another small sort of triumph. He affirms the voltage, and we charge the laptop.

Its almost time to make the move to what will hopefully be our accomodations for the week. We've packed up and gotten Teresa a shower, an activity Katrina and I are both incredibly anxious to be able to indulge in ourselves.

I'm on edge about bringing us and all of our belongings out into the dark of Miraflores, but a familiar cabby has shown up, i recognize him from earlier today somehow, and we're on our way. Its another expensive cab ride, but we arrive. There's a bubbly peruvian woman who takes us through the apartment, and then mentions the deposit. This is the first we've heard of it. $250 American. Cash only. Of course. We don't have it.

After I speak with someone on the phone who commands at least a few words of english, she arranges for us to drop it off tomorow with the door man 'Hugo,' and by her sign language, I assume he will have a mustache.

Finally having showered and sitting down to relax, Katrina has connected with her Mom, who we all adore, through Skype and it visibly bolsters morale. Later on, she videoconferences Kelcy and Josh back home, and it helps us beyond measure after such a trying day to see freindly faces who understand. Its going to be a good night's sleep. Finally.