Airline lessons and arrival in Lima

I am, once again, sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Unfortunately, Buddha is not in front of me this time, though a small version of him hangs around my neck. Instead, I am in the Miami airport—not exactly a refuge of tranquility and comfort.  But I’m talking to Mom, who is, on the phone.  She’s just back from Mexico, and I’m en route to Peru.  (Yes, I am my mother’s daughter).  We’re discussing Thanksgiving plans, and how I might get from New Orleans to Kenya that Sunday.  Not a bad conundrum to have, despite its logistical complications.

Half way through a sentence, I look up into the crowd of waiting passengers and see a character from my past.  It’s Liz Carty, my first boss at Oxfam America when I began interning in their DC office.  She was witness to the beginning of my development career.  I had not seen her in over five years (though she kindly participated in my background check during my transition to State).  Minutes later, we are hugging, realizing we’re on the same plane (I’m in 10C, Liz in 11G, a mere row apart). As prophesied in every intern’s going away card, our paths have indeed crossed again: “Best of luck in your next venture, and I hope our paths cross again.”  Thank you, fate.

It turns out that American Airlines has also given 10C to a lovely passenger, and to clear up the mistake, they give her 11E—next to Liz.  Lovely passenger #1 agrees to switch places, and presto-chango, Liz and I have four hours to catch up on five years.  A gentle lesson that even airlines’ all-too-frequent mistakes can create harmony.  *I’m not a big fan of the airline industry overall, so this is a significant lesson for me.  

We arrive in Peru around 9pm, scratch our ambitious plans to visit the Plaza Mayor, and head for our respective hotels, promising to meet up the next day for touristic adventures.

Twenty-five minutes pass in the taxi on the way to Miraflores, a charming neighborhood on the ocean.  First impressions at night are always a bit tainted, but I am struck by the juxtaposition of bright lights with the repressive gray haze that covers everything.  I’m not sure what’s worse: the light pollution (reminiscent of Vegas) or air pollution.  I hope that sunlight lifts the shroud covering the city tomorrow. 

The radio is playing popular 80s ballads.  I wonder if my driver is catering to my presumed American taste, or if this music really is part of the culture here.  "Quien son los mejores cantantes en Peru? O lo mas popular?" I ask him.  After a pause and brief exchange, we agree that Mana is a great band. (They’re Mexican.) 

I’ve already used more Spanish in the last four hours than I have in the previous four months.  If it’s like riding a bike, I’m glad I have a day by myself to use training wheels.  Monday morning it will be government officials and CEOs, and the gringa mistakes just won’t do.