humid hostel hymns and the ceviche conspiracy

i’ve been sweating through this linen shirt for three days straight because apparently 21°C with 94% humidity turns this city into a lukewarm soup bowl. just checked my phone and it’s 20.94°C but feels like 21.54°C-hope you like breathing through a damp washcloth. my hostel’s fan sounds like a helicopter piloted by bees, but hey, it’s $7 a night and the Wi-Fi password is ‘iloveperu2024’ which feels oddly specific.

someone told me the bartender here moonlights as a salsa instructor, but all i’ve seen him do is spill pisco sours on the sticky keyboard he uses to play shakira covers. also heard the cafe next door waters down their coffee, which tracks because i’ve been chugging it like a dehydrated camel and still feel nothing. if you get antsy, huaraz and paracas are a bumpy bus ride away-bring dramamine and a sense of humor.

stumbled into a market yesterday where a woman yelled at me for smelling the mangoes instead of buying them. ‘tourists,’ she muttered, like i couldn’t hear her. (fair.)

the guy at the bus terminal insisted the ‘scenic route’ was better, which i now realize just means ‘we’ll drive past 17 identical llama souvenir shops.’ check the tripadvisor horror stories for proof. anyway, there’s a hole-in-the-wall spot two blocks east that does fried plantains for 3 soles-cash only, no eye contact.

wish me luck, i’m about to haggle for a poncho.

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