Leave Dulles 5:45 AM. Arrive in Lima 4:30 PM
Stay at Nobility Grand Hotel
Sean booked Paracas & Huacachina Day Trip. Pick up at 5:30AM in Miraflores
Depart Lima 3:55 PM. Arrive in Cusco 5:25 PM
Stay at Hotel Amerinka
Train to Aguas Calientes. Depart Cusco at 12:30. Arrive in Aguas Calientes at 5 PM
Stay at Gringo Bills
Bus from Aguas Calientes. Departs 9:30 AM
Machu Pichu entry tickets 10AM.
Return Train to Cusco. Departs 2:55 PM. Arrive in Cusco 7PM
Day in Cusco
Rainbow Mountain. Depart Cusco at 3AM
Salt Mines and ATV tour to Moray. 6:30AM - 1PM
Dinner at Chicha
Depart Cusco 12:15 PM. Arrive in Lima 1:45 PM Dpeart Lima 5:35 PM. Arrive in Dulles 4:25 AM (Feb 1st)
The plane touched down in Lima just after 4:30, the kind of late afternoon where the heat still clings to everything—83°F and glowing. Even the air outside the airport felt like an invitation: warm, loud, a little chaotic, but pulsing with possibility. We exchanged cash under fluorescent lights, already fumbling through our first small act of adaptation.
There was a bus into the city, but it only ran once an hour. Instead of waiting, we chose an Uber—our first tiny leap of trust in a place we didn’t yet understand. The ride became its own introduction to Lima: traffic that looked wild at first glance, with tight merges and unprotected left turns, but underneath it all a rhythm we could sense even if we couldn’t yet read it. Lanes, lights, police—order woven into the apparent disorder.
Sun guards hung from taxi windshields like homemade armor against the relentless brightness. Palm trees lined the coastal highway, swaying above people playing soccer, paragliding off cliffs, wandering toward a carnival. It all felt strangely familiar, like Southern California seen through a new lens—recognizable, but humming with a different energy. Even the dogs seemed part of the city’s personality; we passed vet clinics, golden retrievers, a doodle or two, each one trotting confidently through its own version of Lima.
Our group scattered across different hotels—Eric in room 611, us in 506, Sean a mile away at the Aloft. Someone mentioned there was both a Nobility Hotel and a Grand Nobility Hotel, which felt like a metaphor for travel itself: two similar paths, each promising something slightly different. Hopefully the misfortunate mix up wouldn’t be a portent of things to come.
Dinner at Tanta became our first real moment of discovery. The cebiche (Spanish spelling) arrived bright and sharp, the peppers so fiery they made us laugh through the burn. The “sweet” potato tasted like a potato and a mango had decided to collaborate. Then came the anticuchos de corazón—beef hearts, tender as filet mignon and seasoned so perfectly it made us question every assumption we’d ever had about organ meat. Two pisco sours hit harder than expected, probably because we’d barely eaten all day, but they softened the edges of the evening in a way that felt earned.
Over the meal, we learned more about David—how he’d left Oracle three years ago and now worked in IT support for POS systems. Travel has a way of opening people up, and even small details felt like part of the unfolding story.
A stop at a supermercado reminded us that not everything abroad is cheaper; the prices were surprisingly American. Between Sarah and me, our Spanish was passable enough to navigate the aisles and the cashier’s quick questions. On the drive back, we learned there is a metro in Lima—it just doesn’t go to the airport, another small puzzle piece in understanding how this city moves.
Back in the room, the AC hummed reassuringly. I filled a water bottle from the sink and dropped in an Aquatab, curious to see how this experiment would go. It felt like a fitting end to the day: a small act of trust, a willingness to try something new, a reminder that discovery isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just choosing to believe that the water will be fine in the morning
We woke at 4:30 AM to a warm, sleepy 76°F, the kind of heat that settles into your skin before you’re fully conscious. I still felt the echo of last night’s pisco sours—dry mouth, a faint throb behind the eyes—so I took two aspirin and hoped the day would be gentler than the morning suggested.
The city was quiet as we drove to the Aloft, only six minutes away. A police checkpoint stopped us briefly, the officer checking our driver’s ID with a formality that felt both routine and reassuring. Then we were back on the road, heading toward Paracas on a three‑hour bus ride that traced the coastline again, but this time the scenery shifted. The smog thickened. The landscape turned barren, all dirt hills and almost no trees, as if the earth had been stripped down to its bones.
By the time we reached Paracas at 9:30, the air smelled of salt and wind. We boarded the boat around 10, the breeze sharp enough to sting and the spray cold against our faces. Out on the water, the world felt bigger, older. The Candelabra geoglyph rose from the hillside—185 meters tall, carved deeper than the Nazca lines, some parts a full meter deep. No one knows who made it or how. Three centimeters of sediment equals two centuries, they told us, and suddenly time felt like something you could measure with your fingertips.
We passed Humboldt penguins, tiny, dignified, but vulnerable creatures that can live 15 to 20 years, and sea lions lounging on white‑stained rocks. The whiteness, of course, was guano. Three to five soles per kilo, not cheap. The babies we saw were probably three weeks old, blinking at the world with the kind of innocence that makes you pause.
Back on land, we boarded the bus again at 12:30 and headed to a vineyard for lunch. Culturpisco served chicha morada that tasted like warm spice and earth—juice‑like, not very sweet, with a hint of nutmeg. The chicken and rice were dry, but the fries were salted just right. The toilet paper lived in a dispenser by the sink, a detail Sean discovered too late. We sampled wines: semi‑dry that started sweet and ended bitter, like a metaphor for half of all marriages; a borgoña with fruity, date‑and‑apricot notes; pisco at 42%; and a crema de coco that I was holding when a bird chose me as its target, thankfully missing both my phone and my shot.
Another 35 minutes brought us to Huacachina, the desert oasis. We climbed the sand dunes to our buggy, the heat radiating through our shoes. The first round of dune‑buggying was ten minutes of pure adrenaline—drops, turns, the engine roaring like it had something to prove. We were on the edge of death, quite literally. We stopped for photos around 4:45, stood around in the wind until 5:12, then tore off again. I lost my hat. We nearly collided with another group. It all felt like part of the desert’s initiation ritual.
Sandboarding began next. Each hill grew steeper, more intimidating. The final one was so tall that the person halfway down disappeared from view. Sean carved the sand like a skier. Sarah tried a few snowboard‑style runs. David, who had never snowboarded before, surprised everyone with two minor wipeouts and a lot of natural balance. The girls consistently went farther than the guys, which felt right.
We raced across the desert to catch the sunset at 6:10. The sky softened, though the clouds didn’t scatter the light the way I’d hoped. Still, there was something grounding about standing there, sand in our shoes, wind in our ears, watching the sun drop behind dunes that had existed long before us and would outlast us by millennia.
One more stomach‑churning buggy ride—another hat lost—brought us back to town by 6:47. We grabbed beers, boarded the bus at 7:10, and Sol passed around canchita, salty popcorn that tasted like comfort after a long day. Bryan drove us through the dark desert, and by 11:37 we were back at the Aloft, dusty, tired, and quietly changed.
The desert has a way of stripping things down—noise, assumptions, even the idea of what a day should look like. By the time we reached the hotel, I felt like I’d learned something subtle but real: discovery isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a penguin on a rock, a lost hat, a dune you can’t see the bottom of, or a handful of popcorn shared in the dark.
We woke around 8:45 to a warm 77°F, the kind of coastal heat that already felt like it belonged to a different chapter. Breakfast with Eric in the hotel lobby was simple but grounding—eggs, pork, fresh watermelon, and a sweet, fruity bread truffle that tasted like someone had tried to capture sunshine in dough, but came up a little bit short. By 10:10 we were at the beach again, climbing stairs in heavy humidity. A few surfers carved slow arcs across the waves, and Eric and my girlfriend got splashed when they tried to touch the water, laughing like kids who hadn’t yet realized the day was about to shift dramatically.
Sunday in Lima felt muted. Many shops were closed, but the American brands stood out like familiar signposts—Chili’s, TGI Fridays, Papa Johns, Domino’s, KFC, Pizza Hut, Little Caesars, Starbucks. A reminder that globalization has a way of following you, even when you’re trying to step outside your own world.
We checked out at noon and ended up eating at TGI Fridays in the airport. Standard American fare, but the drinks were more adventurous: raspberry pisco sour, a red wine cocktail, and my frozen passion fruit jumbo margarita that tasted like vacation in a glass. Eric and I drifted into a conversation about the state of America—how messy it feels, how uncertain—and the idea of buying a gun came up in that half serious, half resigned way that says more about the times than the people saying it.
Sean’s flight left 30 minutes before ours. At the gate, they checked our bag even though it didn’t seem necessary. On the plane, we watched the new Naked Gun movie, laughing more than we expected. It felt good to be suspended between places, between altitudes, between versions of ourselves.
Cusco greeted us at 5:25 with thin air and aggressive taxi drivers. After a moment of confusion, we secured an Uber and the contrast was immediate: cool air, quiet streets, no honking. Gas was $3.96 per gallon—another small detail in a day full of them.
The Amerinka Hotel felt like a gentle landing. Coca tea waited in the lobby, and I briefly forgot my passport at the front desk, a reminder that altitude affects more than lungs. Our room had three beds and a view of Cusco’s rooftops, but no air conditioning and thin insulation. At 11,200 feet, the city holds only about 70% of the oxygen at sea level. The temperature swings between 45 and 70°F, and you can feel the altitude in every breath.
We walked to the Pariwana hostel to meet Sean, Sarah, and David. Foosball matches turned into small victories and louder laughter. Upstairs at the bar, Eric started explaining work to Sarah, which edged into uncomfortable territory. I ordered a pisco punch; the others had beers. My girlfriend stuck to water—she was starting to feel the altitude. David and I talked music—Tool, Metallica, Judas Priest—finding common ground in distortion and rhythm. We left just before bingo at 7.
Dinner was at a kebab place a few blocks away. The kebab itself was good, but they were out of beef, water, and salsa. Sarah ordered a warm pisco tea that Sean said tasted like mulled wine. My girlfriend began shivering, the kind of cold that comes from inside rather than outside.
We headed back early. On the walk, we passed a boy—maybe five or six—standing between parked cars, peeing in the roadway with the casual confidence of someone who hasn’t yet learned embarrassment. Moments later, rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady by 9:45. Back in the room, my girlfriend threw up. She’d started Diamox that morning, and the altitude was making itself known.
Cusco felt different from Lima in every way—quieter, older, thinner, more demanding. But there was something exhilarating about it too. A sense that the journey was shifting from the expected to the unknown, and that discovery sometimes begins with discomfort, with breathlessness, with the body reminding you that you’ve stepped into a place that asks more of you.
The altitude made itself known long before sunrise. I woke at 2:45 AM, restless and overheated beneath the thick blankets that had felt so comforting the night before. Whether it was the elevation or the remnants of alcohol, my sleep came in fragments. I drifted off again only to be woken at 5:20 by a blade of sunlight pouring through the bathroom window, landing directly on my bed like a spotlight. By 6:10, with the room sitting at a crisp 50°F, I finally gave up on sleep altogether.
Breakfast at the hotel was modest—fruit, bread, and a single omelet—but enough to get us moving. My girlfriend and I walked to the main plaza, settling on a bench to watch the city wake up. Vendors approached us one after another, each offering something different; paintings, bus tours, scarfs, massages, each carrying the same hopeful persistence. It was a reminder that tourism isn’t just an industry here; it’s a lifeline.
We wandered to the famous twelve angled stone, its basalt surface cool and impossibly precise. Standing in front of it, you can feel the weight of centuries pressing quietly against the present. From there, we ducked into a souvenir shop and picked up pisco, a hat, and shirts that mimicked the Adidas logo but read “alpaca”—a perfect blend of humor and local pride.
A quick stop for water led us to the San Pedro Market, where the air smelled of fruit, spices, and warm earth. We bought chocolate and shared a fresh strawberry mango orange juice for three dollars, a small miracle in a cup. Then came the walk to the train station, a bit chaotic as we searched for the entrance among crowds and signs that didn’t quite match our expectations.
At 12:25, we left Cusco in a van. The first stretch of road was rough, rattling us awake, but it smoothed out as we reached the main highway. Vendors lined the roadside, their stalls overflowing with fruit—mangoes, bananas, watermelon—everything in season, everything bright. Others sold enormous circular breads that looked almost ceremonial in size.
We reached Ollantaytambo at 2:18 and grabbed a quick assortment of empanadas, donuts, and Red Bull before boarding the train at 3:30. While we waited, a group of Chinese tourists stood directly on the tracks taking photos, unbothered by the approaching trains.
The ride to Aguascalientes covered 27 miles but felt like a journey into another world. Farmland gave way to dense jungle, the vegetation thickening as the mountains closed in. A raging river ran beside us the entire way, carving its own story through the valley. We passed ancient terraces and stone structures half claimed by moss. I snapped a picture of a curly, twisted tree (Agave) that looked like it had grown according to its own private logic. The train staff served water, which felt like a bold choice given the turbulence.
Aguas Calientes greeted us with warmth and color—bars, restaurants, and the cozy familiarity of Gringo Bill’s. We met up just before six and headed to a tourist restaurant. Three of us ordered alpaca; Eric went for guinea pig, which arrived whole, head and teeth intact, staring up from the plate. He said it tasted like a hard to eat chicken wing. My alpaca was fine but overcooked, more novelty than revelation. The pisco sours were twenty soles and blended into something closer to a pisco colada.
Sean and Sarah joined us for a drink before heading off to their upscale stay at the Inkaterra Machu Picchu Pueblo Hotel. Over dinner, I learned that David plays in a band and works IT support at a print shop, though he’s hoping to find something better when he gets home. Travel has a way of making people talk about their lives with more honesty, as if distance loosens the knots.
Back at the room, we showered and flipped through Spanish dubbed reruns of CSI, Charmed, and I Dream of Jeannie. The rain held off all day, a small blessing. By 10:30, exhaustion finally won out.
Tomorrow would bring Machu Picchu, but even without it, the day felt like a series of thresholds crossed—altitude to valley, valley to jungle, curiosity to understanding. Each step carried us deeper into Peru, and deeper into the version of ourselves that had come here to be changed.
My birthday began in the thin, cold air of Aguascalientes. We woke at 6:40 to 39°F, though the room itself felt surprisingly comfortable. I’d stirred a few times during the night, but the sleep I did get was deep, wrapped in the steady percussion of rain on the tin roof. The jungle had its own soundtrack—birds calling across the darkness, water sliding off leaves, the soft hum of a place that had existed long before us.
Breakfast was simple—fruit, bread, eggs, fresh juice—and somehow perfect for a morning that felt like a threshold. Even the detail that the toilets flushed counterclockwise felt like a small reminder that I was far from home, in a place where the world spun just a little differently.
We reached the entrance to Machu Picchu at 9:50 and got inside around 10:15. The road up the mountain, which the internet had made sound terrifying, turned out to be far gentler than expected. Twelve dollars suddenly felt like a bargain for being carried so quickly into the clouds.
Inside, the scale of the place hit slowly, like a truth you have to grow into. The foundations—six to nine feet deep—were engineered with drainage systems that still function centuries later. Our guide explained that the Inca buried their dead in the fetal position so they could be reborn. That detail stayed with me. There was something fitting about hearing it on my birthday, standing in a place built by people who believed endings were beginnings in disguise.
We hiked the nearby Waynapicchu, ascended 800+ feet of slick steep stairs accompanied by a steel cable in parts, and reached the top at 11:38, the ruins unfolding beneath us like a memory the earth had chosen to keep. By 12:22 we were back at the gate, legs tired, hearts full, and opted for the bus down.
Lunch was at a small restaurant—empanadas, pesto pasta, a wheat beer. The pesto tasted impossibly fresh, bright with microgreens. It felt good to sit, to eat, to let the morning settle into something I could hold onto.
The train left at 3:01. Rain tapped against the windows as the others debated politics, drifting from hopelessness to the newest discovered element to the greatest living scientist. I played card games on my phone, half listening, half watching the jungle blur past. At one point we stopped for fifteen minutes to let a party train pass—live band, people dancing, the whole thing so joyful it felt like a celebration we were witnessing from the outside. It made us late, but I didn’t mind.
We nearly got off at the wrong station and had to ride another twenty minutes. Along the way, we saw those wild cliffside pods where people can stay—tiny capsules bolted to sheer rock faces. They looked like something out of a dream or a dare.
A larger tour bus carried us the rest of the way. Two hours later, rain began again as we met up for dinner at the hostel. Los Toldos Chicken was packed, but they squeezed us into a table near the back, close enough to hear the rhythmic pounding of chicken being tenderized. We ordered a whole chicken, a mountain of fries, a skewer sampler, ravioli that my girlfriend said tasted fishy, and my dish—grilled chicken cutlets over pesto spaghetti called A Chicken on Its Nest. The food was good, the conversation easy. Sean declared that every landmass is an island, which led to a surprisingly long debate about what continent New Zealand belongs to.
After dinner, we returned to the Pariwana hostel. Those of us without wristbands slipped in behind Sarah just in time—security stopped Sean and David moments later. Upstairs, the third floor pulsed with salsa music and bodies moving in tight circles. We grabbed beers and drifted toward the pool table, which turned out to be the worst one any of us had ever seen. The cues had no tips—one had a screw sticking out of the top—the pockets were tiny, and the felt was so loose it rippled like fabric in the wind. I was ahead for a while, but eventually Eric and I just aimed for the eight ball. When I sank it, we called it a win.
Sean and David started their game after us and were still playing when we left around 11:05. On the walk back, we passed the “good money store”—the one missing the R in “Peru.” I practiced the phrases I’d picked up: Es toda—that’s all. Listo—okay.
It wasn’t the kind of birthday marked by candles or cake, but it felt like something better: a day spent climbing into the sky, learning how ancient people understood life and rebirth, sharing food and laughter with friends, and ending the night with bad pool and good beer. A day that felt, in its own quiet way, like a beginning.
The environment seemed determined to wake me long before I was ready. A cat meowed outside for a solid ten minutes, and then came the “fireworks”—sharp cracks at 7:00, 7:52, 8:00, and 8:40. Whether they were actual fireworks or just Cusco being Cusco, I couldn’t tell. Either way, we didn’t manage to get moving until about 9:30.
The sky was cloudy, but the air mild enough for short sleeves. We tried to get breakfast at the crepe place next to Pariwana, only to learn they didn’t open until 3 PM. So we wandered the block until we found another spot. My girlfriend ordered a bubble waffle; I went for a crepe. Both arrived smothered in Nutella, bananas, and strawberries—decadent enough to feel like vacation. The hot chocolates came out after we’d already finished eating, barely sweet at all, more like warm cocoa water than dessert.
Then came a less glamorous moment of the day: I had to take a massive poop, the kind that tests the limits of plumbing. I clogged the toilet and spent the next several hours flushing, waiting, flushing again. It finally cleared around 5:30. Travel isn’t always majestic ruins and sweeping vistas—sometimes it’s you versus a stubborn toilet in a foreign country.
We found the location for our cooking class and then visited the Choco Museo. It was playful and charming—chocolate in every shape imaginable, rich dark samples, and a small window into the factory where everything smelled like roasted cacao and sugar.
At 2 PM, the cooking class began, and it was like being hit with a firehose of culinary knowledge. We learned about fruits—papaya that needs help from other flavors, gooseberries that taste like fruity tomatoes, star fruit more acidic than its Asian cousins, cherimoya that tastes like a piña colada, pepino that’s like a cantaloupe pear. Passion fruit varieties ranged from fuzzy and mild to sweet enough to give you diarrhea if you ate four.
There were potatoes—3,500 varieties in Peru alone and corn that needs to be boiled with sugar to mimic the more American tasting variety. Chicha morada made from purple corn water, pineapple skins, cinnamon, lime, and sugar. Turns out Quinoa is very difficult to harvest and hence the high price tag. Maybe one day I’ll try to make “quinoatto”, risotto but with quinoa.
Then came the chilis: yellow ones at 5/10 heat, dehydrated ones you boil six or seven times to tame, the 10/10 hot peppers that become aji paste, and the infamous “monkey’s penis” chili—tiny, vicious, 15/10 on the heat scale.
We learned the secrets of ceviche: use white fish, never salmon; don’t press the key lime or you’ll bring in bitterness; don’t salt until after the lime bath or you’ll clog the pores of the fish; add evaporated milk to create leche de tigre, tiger’s milk. Pisco came next—grapes fermented for two weeks, distilled until they reach 40% alcohol. Only eight grape varieties can be called pisco. Quebranta, the workhorse. Italia, the aromatic beauty.
Finally, we cooked lomo saltado. A massive wok, a massive flame, and at one point a burst of fire when we added pisco. My girlfriend and I absolutely crushed it. We plated the dish on a bowl so large it looked like something you’d feed a Great Dane, with rice and fries stacked like Lincoln logs.
Fernando, our instructor, turned out to be a metalhead—Ozzy, Pantera, Animal, Metallica. It made perfect sense. He offered us a shot if we left a review. I left a raving review, and negotiated 2 shots instead.
Around 6, Eric stopped by for Pepto and Imodium, blaming last night’s skewers. We swung by the hostel at 6:15 for a pisco‑sprite—surprisingly good, the pisco still shining through—before heading across the street for Chifa, Peru’s Chinese fusion cuisine. We ordered pork, duck, crispy rolls, all drenched in sweet and sour sauce. The waiter punctuated every order with a brisk “listo,” like a verbal checkmark. Everything was tasty, and the whole meal came to about $80.
Back in the room, we showered and packed up for the early adventure waiting for us tomorrow. It wasn’t a dramatic day, but it was full of small, vivid discoveries—the kind that make a place feel lived‑in rather than just visited.
The alarm went off at 2:05 AM, though it felt like the rain had been awake long before we were. It hammered the roof in steady sheets as we got ready in the dark, layering clothes and rubbing sleep from our eyes. By 3:25 we were in the van with our guide, Flor, and our driver, Rebaldo. Within minutes he was running red lights—mostly pedestrian crossings—but still, it set the tone for a morning that felt slightly unhinged.
The road wound through the mountains in tight, nauseating curves. Dehydration didn’t help. Every so often, rocks littered the road from small landslides, but oncoming buses flashed their headlights to warn us, a quiet system of mountain courtesy. We stopped for a buffet breakfast where hot dogs were inexplicably the main protein, then continued climbing.
As we ascended, a thin layer of snow began to appear—first dusting the grass, then thickening into slush. The road narrowed, guardrails disappeared, and the drops beside us grew steeper. It was easily the most precarious road we’d driven on. At 6:55, the van got stuck in the snow. Slush piled under the tires, the engine whined, and for a moment the mountain felt like it was telling us no.
Eventually, the van lurched free and made it to the top, only to turn around almost immediately. The weather was too unstable, the visibility too poor. The sun peeked out after an hour, giving us a brief surge of optimism, but the clouds swallowed it again. Even if we’d made the hike, the view would have been a wash.
We started walking back down the hill until the van could reach us, getting picked up around 8:25. An ambulance stopped briefly, the crew speaking rapid Spanish we couldn’t follow, though they didn’t seem to be in any particular rush. The snow eased, then returned, then eased again. When we first climbed back into the van, it smelled like exhaust was leaking into the cabin, but the smell faded as we descended.
By 9:45 we were back at the restaurant from earlier, the morning feeling strangely long and short at the same time. At 11:14 we stopped at a lake with a Christ statue overlooking it, snow‑capped mountains rising behind—though clouds hid most of the peaks. The church beside it had a brilliant gold altar, but we didn’t go inside. Another lake followed, the largest in Cusco, but no one seemed particularly moved. The failed attempt at Rainbow Mountain hung over the group like a shared exhale.
On the drive back, the Swedish, British, and American guys chatted about soccer and dinosaurs, their voices drifting in and out as the rest of the van slowly succumbed to sleep. Only my girlfriend and I stayed awake, watching the rain streak across the windows. We reached Cusco around 12:45. It was still raining.
We all collapsed into bed for a nap. Sometime around 2:15, the rain stopped. By 4, we finally got up, played a few games on my phone, and headed to Beer O’Clock at 6:25. I mixed pisco into a blue Powerade—an improvised cocktail born of necessity—while Sarah and Eric discussed how promotions work in government. Sarah’s degrees—pharmaceutical science, public health, veterinary—made her perspective feel like a whole other world.
Sean and David grabbed street food, so the rest of us went across the street for pizza at 7:58. Eric ordered a red wine so cloudy it looked like it had secrets. The sausage and jalapeño pizza hit harder than expected, creeping up with heat that built slowly. I struggled through it with only one water.
Afterward, we exchanged some money, bought another water, and headed back to the room. Loud music thumped from somewhere nearby, threatening to keep us up, but after a day like this, sleep felt inevitable.
Rainbow Mountain didn’t reveal itself to us—not today. But there was something humbling in that. Some places don’t bend to your plans. Some days aren’t about the view at the top but about the road, the weather, the people in the van, and the quiet acceptance that discovery doesn’t always look the way you expect.
We woke at 5:30 to a chilly 44°F, the kind of cold that makes you move slowly at first. By 6:25 we were on the street, waiting for our pickup. The morning felt muted, still waking up. On the way out of Cusco, we stopped for gas—$4.33 a gallon—and watched the driver fill an extra five‑gallon canister before tossing it into the back of the van. I tried not to think too hard about whether it was sealed.
Andy, our guide, greeted us with the easy confidence of someone who knows the Sacred Valley like a second skin. By 8 AM we reached the salt mines—5,000 terraced pools cascading down the hillside like a patchwork of mirrors. Flake salt, pink salt, brown salt. The brown wasn’t for eating, Andy said, only for local use. Two families controlled the entire operation, a legacy older than most countries. Rainy season brought more brown; dry season brought white. Ten days to form a layer, ten more to form the next. Each pool harvested once a month. The water feeding them was three times saltier than the sea.
We wandered the terraces for half an hour, the air sharp with minerals, the pools glowing in muted shades of cream and rose. Then we headed toward the ATVs, stopping at a small store along the way to sample chocolate and salt. I bought a few things, salt, chocolate, an empanada.
At 9:30 we reached the ATV garage. By 9:48 we were roaring down dirt paths, the engines buzzing beneath us. The ride to the Moray terraces took us through rolling fields and open sky. At 10:30 we arrived at the Moray terrace. An ancient agricultural laboratory 3,500 meters up, where there could be a 15°C difference between the top and bottom of the circular terraces. The air felt thinner, the sun sharper. We explored for about 35 minutes and tried chicharrones de alpaca, which had the chewy texture of a chicken gizzard and a faintly fishy taste.
The ride back took a different route—muddy farm roads, small towns, and the Sacred Valley stretching green and wide. Farmers sprayed their fields, and at one point a massive agricultural drone lifted off beside us like some futuristic condor. I hit 51 kph at one point, wind tearing at my jacket. We passed pigs, dogs, sheep, cows—domestic life unfolding against ancient mountains.
After 45 minutes of riding, we returned to Andy’s base. Rain found us on the drive back to Cusco—first a light drizzle, then a burst, then nothing by the time we reached the city at 1 PM. The weather here changes moods faster than people do.
We bought candies from a street vendor—rum, sesame, caramel—for 20 centavos each. Cusco was bright and warm, around 75°F, and the streets pulsed with life. Vendors pushed wheelbarrows full of watermelon, passion fruit, oranges. We grabbed churros for one sol and wandered as I sampled candies, trying to decide what to bring back for coworkers. Eventually I settled on La Ibérica chocolates from a supermarket.
At the hostel bar, Sarah signed up for beer pong, and we had our last beers served by Sam before heading to dinner at Chicha at 7:30. The restaurant felt refined—incense burning, a candle glowing as we entered. We ordered grande pisco sours, each one frothy with what had to be a dozen egg whites. Mine was even larger, a birthday nod.
Starters arrived: two kinds of tacos, cuy, potatoes, ceviche. The cuy melted in your mouth, rich and tender. The ceviche was bright and perfect. The taco Eric and I shared was good but overwhelmed by mustard, and the potato dish didn’t leave much of an impression.
For mains, three ordered crispy pork, two chose lamb and squash ravioli, and I had tortellini—likely filled with potato—drenched in a decadent butter sauce. Then came a surprise dessert for my birthday, complete with singing in both English and Spanish. The ice cream was cold, creamy, and exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
Sean ordered another round of pisco sours for the four hombres, which pushed us all past the point of moderation. Conversation drifted from politics to comedians to Sean’s pitch for moving to Norway in 2027. The night ended with another small birthday dessert and a final round of singing.
It was a day full of salt, sun, speed, flavors, and laughter—a day that felt overflowing in every direction. A day where Peru showed us its abundance, and we tried our best to take it all in.
I woke around 5:30, the lingering alcohol from the night before nudging me awake before the sun. Outside, it was 53°F and cloudy, the kind of morning that usually promises an uneventful travel day. But travel has its own sense of humor.
Our flight out of Cusco was cancelled and pushed six hours later, which would have unraveled the rest of our itinerary. We scrambled, searching for anything that could still get us home, and finally found a flight from Cusco to Bogotá that might—might—keep us on track. With that small victory secured, we spent the morning eating empanadas and ducking into an Irish pub for a drink, trying to pretend the day wasn’t already slipping sideways.
At the airport around noon, we wrestled with the boarding pass kiosks until they finally cooperated. To reach the lounge, we entered through the domestic terminal, unsure whether we’d be able to exit again. The lounge itself was a small oasis—potato chips, chicken salad croissants, water, alcohol, soft chairs. For a moment, it felt like the day might right itself.
Then the board flashed another delay.
There was no exit from the lounge area, so we had to return through security. The guards escorted us out, and I’m fairly certain the first set got a mild reprimand for letting us wander in the wrong direction. We made it to the international terminal easily enough, only to learn our Bogotá flight was delayed three more hours, well four actually. At that point, even if our original itinerary had held, we probably wouldn’t have made the connection.
A heavy tailwind and hailstorm in La Paz had shut down the airport for 45 minutes, rippling delays across the region. They handed out lomo saltado and water, but it felt more like a gesture than a solution. The Avianca rep cycled through dismissive, then helpful, then hopeless, telling us we’d have to sort things out in Bogotá.
We finally boarded around 8:45, lifting off at 9:50. I watched a Hugh Jackman movie about a superintendent embezzling school funds—one of those films that’s oddly compelling at altitude. The moon was bright enough to illuminate the ground below, and distant thunder lit up the clouds like brief, silent fireworks.
We landed in Bogotá at 12:40 and stepped onto the tarmac into the cool night. A security checkpoint forced us to chug our water bottles. Most of the airport was shut down at that hour, but it was still a marked improvement over Cusco. We searched for an Avianca agent but found none, so we huddled outside the Copa lounge and booked another Avianca flight that would get us home around 1:15 PM. We weren’t alone—people heading to England, Denver, and who knows where else were stranded too.
With new boarding passes in hand, we marched into the El Dorado Lounge and grabbed beers just before the bar closed at 2 AM. The food was mediocre, but at that hour, anything warm felt like a blessing. The lounge was packed, so at 3:30 we migrated to the Copa Club and found seats in the movie‑theater‑style room. We managed a surprisingly decent 90‑minute nap before grabbing more food and heading to our gate.
At boarding, the Avianca agent randomly selected Eric for additional screening “per the policy of the United States government.” Travel has a way of humbling everyone equally.
We left Bogotá at 8:41, the temperature a mild 62°F. I watched the first five episodes of Severance while eating a chicken‑ham‑cheese sandwich, letting the surreal corporate dystopia distract me from the long night behind us.
We landed at Dulles at 1:25 PM to a brutal feels‑like 9°F. The cold hit like a slap after days of Peruvian warmth. Customs was mercifully quick. The walk to Eric’s car was frigid, the kind of cold that makes your breath feel sharp. At his place, we had to shovel out my truck a bit, but it could have been far worse.
By 3:35 PM, we were finally back at My girlfriend’s. The trip had ended—not with a dramatic final moment, but with the quiet relief of stepping through a familiar door after days of uncertainty.
Travel doesn’t always give you the ending you expect. Sometimes it gives you delays, detours, and long nights in unfamiliar airports. But even then, there’s something to be found—patience, resilience, the strange camaraderie of stranded travelers, and the soft landing of home after the world has stretched you a little wider.