I’ve been asking myself a certain question for the past few days: Is there a tapeworm living in my stomach? The reason I’ve been asking this question is even though my diet has been considerably better since leaving Mexico (i.e. not binge drinking and ice cream), I’ve still felt bloated most of the time. In fact, until about four minutes ago, I’ve felt bloated pretty much ALL of the time. And I know you probably didn’t wake up this morning and think, “I want to know about Mark’s bloating situation,” but it’s something that must be talked about.
I’ve already settled into a routine in Lima. I do the following things: Get up, rate Instagram ads, go to Cosmo Beans, write, drink coffee, eat Cosmo Bean’s crappy food, come back to my house, teach English classes, rate Instagram ads, and then make my way to El Pan de la Chola, Lima’s premiere cafe for people with tons of money who cannot live without things like almond croissants and “extracts.” Here I drink an americano and generally, from caffeine overload, slip into a state of quiet madness. I scribble in my journal. I fashion exclamation points and haphazard parentheses. I look around at the other customers, one of whom yesterday was a guy with a hairless dog who kept putting his paws on the table (the man, not the dog). The dog was adorable, but the guy less so. The situation was less than hygienic, but I’m by no means a health inspector.
After El Pan de la Chola I usually take a walk around the beautiful neighborhood of Miraflores. Yesterday was no exception. First I walked down Avenida José Pardo, home of such places as the Hilton DoubleTree and the Brazilian embassy, and then walked along the waterfront. The waterfront is Lima’s best feature. It’s essentially a many-mile park on a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, with palm trees, walking paths, and a touch of salt in the air. There are also exercise stations located about every 500 meters, and my new routine (as of yesterday), is to do as many pull-ups as I can at each station. So far, my record is three (give or take). But I have no doubt soon I’ll be doing many more, possibly to the point where I draw crowds. My goal is 50 perfect pull-ups (going almost all the way down but not quite, out of respect for my elbows). When I’m able to do this I have no doubt the stars will align and we’ll experience some kind of astrological event not seen previously in our lifetimes or the lifetimes of our ancestors. Orion might do a pull-up hanging from Cassiopeia.
Yesterday, after the pull-ups (grunting, nostrils flared), I made my way back to Magdalena del Mar on foot (foot). It was about four kilometers. I didn’t really want to walk, but didn’t see much other option since the buses were crowded. As far as I know, Lima doesn’t have a metro. It appears there’s one under construction. But as far as a working metro, one you can actually ride on that takes you from place to place and doesn’t just exist as a fantasy inside human brains, Lima doesn’t have one. But I could be wrong. I’m rarely wrong, but I could be.
When I got back to Magdalena del Mar I headed directly for Santa Rosa, the pastry shop of yesteryear, as my host described it, actually using the word in Spanish for “yesteryear.” The greatest thing about Santa Rosa is that the display case is about five and a half feet high and all the women working there are about four and a half feet high. This means that when you order something you sort of see their faces behind the counter, and then a hand reaches up and puts your arroz con leche on the counter, takes your money, and then reaches back up and deposits your change.
Yesterday I sat there, devouring my crema voleteada, which is essentially flan, in fact it’s flan in every way in that it looks like flan, tastes like flan, feels like flan when you pick it up and mash it together with your finger and smear it on your forehead, but isn’t flan. Or at least it isn’t called flan. I’d like to know what would happen if I went to Santa Rosa today and ordered “flan.” Would they give me crema voleteada? Would they make me leave? I intend to find out.
After Santa Rosa I noticed a health food store next door I’d seen before but never gone in because it doesn’t have a sign and I was a little worried it might just be someone’s house. But it was indeed a health food store, complete with organic vegetables and things like maca powder. I must have had a wild look in my eye, because the girl at the counter asked “Can I help you?” as if implying something psychiatric. I said, “No, thank you” and continued to browse, since browsing is one of my strong suits. And then I walked back to my house, where I rated more Instagram ads before going out to dinner.
And that’s my little Lima life.