When I went to NZ on my last trip, I was at a conference at the FABULOUS Te Papa museum in FABULOUS Wellington. Being part of the conference gave us the chance to go behind the scenes and explore the museum storage and to talk to the curators and exhibit designers.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: if I could live on a hope and a prayer, I’d go to work in a museum and be the happiest little thing EVER.

So those tours at Te Papa were too perfect for me—especially the one on Maori taonga (treasures), which was a highlight. We got to see a lot of cloaks, masks, weapons, icons, etc etc etc—the stuff the average person doesn’t get to see on exhibit—and all of this relates to Peru.

Really.

Fast forward to Peru: When we drove from the airport to our hotel, we drove right past a huaca—just blocks from our hotel! “Huaca” is the Quechuan (Peruvian Native American) word for “something revered”, usually used for a monument (as it was in this case). And in New Zealand, the “waka” is a canoe, and what brought the Maori people to Aotearoa from Polynesia.

Like so:

Displayed here, this waka seems like a monument, aka “a huaca”. And as it happens, the two words, “huaca” and “waka” are basically pronounced alike.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But then there’s this:

At Huaca Huallamarca (the huaca we had driven past heading into San Isidro), Marcella and I visited the on-site museum and found a relic taken out of the huaca when it was excavated:

the pattern on this woven mat reminds me of stuff like this:

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Maori art. Of which I saw lots in the behind-the-scenes tour at Te Papa in New Zealand.

Do you see it, too, or am I over-thinking?

It made me think about Pacific exploration and connections—I see them, or I think I see them, but Marcella and the half-Kiwi, half-British tourist who joined our conversation in the museum both said “no, it’s a basic design and that’s why you see it here and in New Zealand. It’s just a repetition of a simple pattern.”

Kill-joys.

But let’s begin at the beginning… there was this huaca first: Huaca Huallamarca, which I didn’t photograph in its entirety. Oops:

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But I did get bits and pieces! Here’s the view from the top, down into what’s been excavated:

We wondered what this was all about—how does what looks like a bunch of mud endure for centuries?

I just don’t get it. Do you?

And as we peered down at the mud construction, I said, “that looks like a bone. I think it’s a bone.” Marcella said, “no, probably just some garbage.” Max said, “no, that looks like a bone to me, too.” And you?

And as we stood at the top of an historic monument, in the lovely San Isidro district of Lima, I looked up and said, “one day, I will live there.”

penthouse = awesome.

Then I could look out and see the huaca every day, and its hanging flowers and San Pedro cacti…

(San Pedro is the tall guy in back. I didn’t know it when I took this picture, but there are cults devoted to the ingestion of San Pedro in a boiled, tea form. It makes you puke, think you’re going to die, and then challenge all spheres of consciousness. That’s a story for another day, though…)

And also from my penthouse, we could see star trees!

And then Max, Marcella and I set off walking for Huaca Pucllana, the BIG huaca (and, coincidentally where M and I had our dinner reservations that night—seems that there’s a nice resto attached to the ruins. Cool!)

We got there at 4.51, after a series of wrong directions, and found ourselves at a gate with a man who wasn’t going to let us in, because the huaca *closes* at 5pm.

So Max decided to scam them, sort of. Here, he’s explaining his cunning plan to Marcella…

It went like this: He explained to the guards that I’m the “most important” researcher of Incan History in the United States (!!). We gave the guard my card. He kept it, but he didn’t let us in. He sent us to another gate. I think it would have worked better if I didn’t look like I was 20-something, you know?

Long story short: they never let us in, in spite of Max’s best efforts. The best we ever got was a view from the outside:

Well, in daylight, anyway… because M and I were going to be back that night. Huzzah! Defeated, we left, and walked back to the “roundabout of joy and American chains”, where Max left us and Marcella and I had Pinkberry, before walking to the hotel for a little relax, refresh, and return to the Huaca for dinner.

WOW. If you go to Lima, EAT AT HUACA PUCLLANA.

And so was the view from our bench… to the right in that lower picture are doors leading to a veranda that overlooks the ruins, all lit up at night, and ALL rented out by Coca Cola, so we were inside. Now, I don’t know how normal this is, but most hotels we went in Peru offered us a free drink. Because we made our reservation at Huaca Pucllana from our hotel, *that* got us a free drink… our first Pisco Sours!

Pretty, but the best one, we agreed, was the one at Indio Feliz in Aguas Calientes…

And then… dinnertime! We ordered an appetiser—a sort of salsa with an “empanada verde” or something of the sort… I don’t know what it was, but it was vegetarian and a fabulous GREEN!

Unfortunately, the lovely green colour was obtained with liberal use of cilantro, which gives me (at best) an instant headache, and (at worst) occasional respiratory issues. So I have to go easy on it… BUT! Thanks to this appie, the allergic kid now knows what ceviche is all about—Marcella tells me that the “salsa” to the left in that above photo tastes “just like ceviche”. And Ceviche tastes a lot of cilantro. And after this, I no longer felt like I was missing anything in Peruvian cuisine, given my fishy inabilities…

Don’t get me wrong—I thoroughly enjoyed the few bites of this I had, in spite of the cilantro. This was one mighty fine restaurant…

For the mains, Marcella got the ceviche, and I got a braised beef with mushrooms (REAL MUSHROOMS!!! I’ve missed you!!) on cheesy polenta. Delicious, but I barely ate half of it:

(please note, again, the GIANT CORN in Marcella’s ceviche)

And then we went out to hit the ruins at night… now, for comparison, this is by day:

and by night:

Way cooler, I know!

Well, it was until we overheard a man telling some people how these weren’t “real ruins”, but had in fact been “recreated to capture the essence of the huaca”. Great. The guy was an academic—I felt inclined to believe him, but the academic in me doubts until I can see the sources, myself.

So: from huaca to waka to huaca, and GREAT FOOD to boot. I love you, Lima… one more Peru post, then RIO, then my LAST WEEK IN BRAZIL!!! (where does time go?!?)

Oh! So behind! It’s Labour Day (in North America) today, and that means it’s my FIRST NON-BACK-TO-SCHOOL Labour Day ever!! I’m actually feeling just fine, no non-school anxiety (though check out last year’s shout-out to my “real New Year’s”!) but I am a little antsy to have a project—like I’m supposed to have a project in September, you know?

I’m also being VOLDEMORTED within an inch of my life: 2,107 new comments since I was actually *in* Lima on 24 September. My clicking finger is exhausted! Delete, delete, DELETE!

So: a happy thought now… and it’s called Lima. Lima was such a pleasant surprise! You might have read Moby Dick once upon a time, in which case you read Ishmael describing it as “the strangest, saddest city thou can’st see”, and that has a lot to do with the fact that it makes Vancouver / Seattle look sunny and bright. Lima has a dense cloud cover for about 10 months of the year, including when we were there. Marcella hated that about it, but I thought it was peaceful. Lima looked like what I expected South America to look like, but also VERY American. They accept US dollars as much as Peruvian Nuevos Soles, and as we drove to our hotel, we went down a street that was literally chain resto after chain resto: Chili’s, KFC, Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, Outback, etc etc etc. Also Pinkberry, which we went to (for my first Pinkberry visit ever!) after an epic walk in search of Huacas (if that makes no sense, see my next post). It was good.

Our hotel was in San Isidro (WAY better than Miraflores, if you ever go…), and we arrived just between lunch and dinner, hungry. The 5-hour flight from SP was without food (except peanuts)—on an international flight! Also: no in-flight entertainment, and we were in front of the emergency exit… so we couldn’t recline our seats. At all. Slightly hellish, I have to say…

Anyway: we needed nuevos soles (i.e., cash) and food, in that order, so the hotel referred us to the mall one block over, and made us reservations for that evening at a place Marcella had heard was “quite nice”. But first: lunch! My debit card worked, Marcella’s didn’t (ever—weird), and with cash in hand, we then found local food. Home-cooked food. Fresh food. And… because I’m kinda losing my mind about lacking protein options, I’ve started eating chicken again, occasionally.

I don’t want to talk about it.

So I’ve prepared the ground: mall, local, hole-in-the-wall, Peru. And now, the food pictures!

South America seems to be a hotbed of different regional soft drinks. In Brazil, it’s Guaraná. I’m not too psyched about it. Hence my silence on the issue… but also because it looks like ginger ale. If it was like INCA KOLA, I DEFINITELY WOULD HAVE MENTIONED IT!

Behold!

This is not a test! Don’t adjust your monitor! This fabulousness tasted like yellow freezies from my youth (though a Canadian woman I talked to at Machu Picchu called it “banana-flavoured”, which is maybe more meaningful)… and Marcella was brave enough to drink it.

And the results:

Drunk as a skunk.

Not really, but the misty rain-ish had given her a touch of unkemptedness that I’d rather attribute to the insanity of Inca Kola. The stuff is EVERYWHERE in Peru. Awesome.

But because it was a local resto, along with my water and Marcella’s Inca Kola, we were also brought a nice glass of… who knows what? We thought the waitress maybe said “chichi moreno”… it was purple. It was luke warm. It was sweet. It tastes like… a cinnamon-y, fruit-y… mulled something.

Turns out it’s Chicha Morada, a purple corn drink made from boiling purple corn with quince, pineapple, cloves and cinnamon.

And now that I’ve tried it once, I guess that’s me, done with the Chicha Morada. Anyone else tried it? Better still, anyone else LIKED it?

Our meals were made fresh—Marcella got the “Milanese”, and I got… the “Light” lunch.

Hers:

and mine:

If you can, check out the size of the MONSTER CORN KERNELS on my plate! And if you’re wondering the difference between Milanese and Light, M got rice and fries, and I got a big-ass salad.

My salad was JUST what the doctor ordered (literally!) and Marcella was impressed by the rice—which, coming from a Brazilian is high praise.

The aftermath:

so, obviously it was good.

All the food, and all those drinks… for about CAN$16.

With that, if the bright yellow soft drink hadn’t been sign enough, it was clear we weren’t in Brazil anymore.

Stay tuned for how accidental tourism led to possibly the best dinner of the whole trip!

Woah. Day 25. Time flies. Or, o tempo voa. It’s actually almost a month, and I wrote this post Friday—but a weekend in Campos didn’t leave *any* time for the interweb. Unexpected, and awesome. So let’s go…

Ladies, let’s talk about FAT.

I don’t mean mono-, poly-, sat, or trans, but corporeal.

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As I learned adjectives last weekend, I had an “a-ha” moment: when Marcella speaks with her mother and sister (and sometimes Renato), she greets them with, “Oi, Gorrrrrrrrrrrrda! Tudo bem?” Meaning, “Hey fattie, how’s it going?”

When I realised I said, “dude. Are you trying to give them eating disorders?” (But I was also busy congratulating myself for having understood…)

I said to Renato, “don’t you mind?”

He said, “no, because I am fat.”

He’s not.

And while her sister, Manuella, is bigger than Marcella—which is funny because when I met Marcella, we bonded over a love of cheese and regularly did our German homework from Aran (know it, Kath?) since Marcella was addicted to an open-faced sandwich there. Now, she barely eats *anything* and is tiny—Manuella’s not fat, either.

Marcella said, “it’s a term of endearment. I also call him,” gesturing to Renato, who was casually sipping a lovely Argentinian Pinot Noir, “lindo.”

Too true. And lindo means gooooooood lookin’.

Now, you tell me, North Americans (and others): my sense is that if I called someone “fat”, that would be somewhat cruel. Certainly, when I was in high school and I was a fat kid, I was horribly humiliated and hurt when the epithet would come my way…

But it seems to me that body culture is different in Brazil—that’s not just a stereotype. I’ve wanted to post on this for awhile, but I was waiting until I was out shopping with my camera first, because mannequins are shaped distinctly differently here. Rather than aiming for curve-less and skinny, mannequins in Brazil have a bum and thighs. Louco!

We’ll get back to the photographic evidence later, because the post needs to come now.

When I was on a treadmill at the gym that was held hostage by one single channel on the TV, I got to watch a bit of Tudo a Ver, a channel showing the “top 10 bums on TV”. Numbers 6 and 4 on the list, respectively, were:

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and:

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Nary a Pippa or a Kardashian…

The rest of them were various Brazilians who were, I suppose, so well-known to Brazilians that they didn’t need to have their names flashed across the TV. One thing that they had in common—and this is also true for Beyonce if you read the page where the photo came from—is training.

The Brazilian bums are not the result of spending hours and hours upon them, but instead they are something that are coveted, honed by lots of squats and lunges and leg presses and cardio.

For someone who couldn’t be a flapper if she tried, I think this is kinda cool. I often joke that, if stranded on a desert island, I could survive for about 4 months on my ass alone. I don’t fit the North American ideal (or, the image that’s screamed back from glossy magazines… which is fine if you’re destined for string-beanness in a healthy way): who knew I could be just right if I just went south of the equator?

That said… we have to talk. This isn’t about self-esteem and “does my bum look fat in this”, however—the greatest thing about being in my 30s is that I don’t feel like my appearance defines my mood. If my bum looks fat in this, well, maybe I’ll go to the gym more. Alternatively, maybe I just won’t care.

I do, however, care very much about my health—and for me, my weight is closely tied to my genetic time bomb: cholesterol.

So, when I tell you that Thursday last was the day of my medical evaluation at the gym, as well as my “goals” meeting, and first training, and when you know that I’ve started this post talking about fat, you can guess what’s down the road, right? What exactly I did for all that is going to be the subject of another post, but suffice to say I had a nice little “OH MY GOD” moment that morning.

Earlier, when discussing the use of “gordo” as a term of endearment, Marcella offered to call me “Gorda”, too, ’cause she loves me. I said, “hell no!” but now, I’m wondering if I should have let her.

Just ’cause she loves me.

What does the word “fat” mean to you? All negative, or something more?

On Sunday last, as I was incubating my cystic acne (ouch! OK! No more fish!), I did something out of character.

I got up at 8.30.

For São Paulo Steph, this isn’t common. But I had a noble goal: I wanted to shower and do my hair so we could get out the door by 9.30am… and catch the MC Escher exhibit down town.

I joined an expat group here (but haven’t actually *done* anything with them yet), and had gotten the heads up about Escher from them. I had also been warned that the line ups were crazy if we didn’t get there *right* when it opened at 10am.

Unfortunately, my “wake up early” day became a day in which Marcella chose to have a lie-in. I had sympathy for the lie-in. Sundays were my favourite lazy-morning-days before, too: Saturday was the buffer between the work week and weekend, and Sunday was my one shot to make up a little sleep. Plus, in Brazil, winter doesn’t mean a respite from allergies, and Marcella was sneezing madly. Even *I* felt the effects for the first time, getting burny, burny eyes. By 11.30, I had given up on Escher. Life’s too short to stand in line, you know?

So instead of Escher and culture, we went for lunch (better forgotten, frankly: LEAVE GERMAN FOOD TO GERMANS, BRAZIL!) and then the mall. At the mall, I did something wonderful.

I bought a dictionary.

My language training is coming along now. I can describe who I am intrinsically (“Eu sou“) and what I am at the moment (“Eu estou“—because there are two forms of “to be”), but I will not be allowed to own anything until chapter 10, when I learn the verb “to have”.

Now, I like words. So the absence of a dictionary (besides my Kindle one, which turned out to be *only* English-Portuguese, and not the inverse as well… how weird is that?) has been seriously impeding my ability to build up an arsenal of nouns. Adjectives. Verbs.

I bought this little beauty:

And began reading from it to Marcella and Renato. Because that’s just the kind of friend I am.

Lucky that I did, I have to say, because that’s how we found out that the dictionary was bad. Not like when I took the leftover uncooked fish out of the fridge and it was sticky, but still pretty unfortunate.

Pay attention now, because we’re going to play with language and culture:

What’s this?

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Did you say “pineapple”? Because you’re half right. Pineapple, or “o abacaxi” (a-bah-ca-SHEE). However, it’s also this:

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A pickle.

How’s that? WELL. Do you know the expression of “in a pickle”? (Sidebar: can anyone *not* just hear Ned Flanders’ voice saying, “that’s a dilly of a pickle!”?) So, “a pickle” is also a problem, according to the expression, right?

Well, based on the Portuguese equivalent to “a pickle”, the word “pineapple” had already shown my dictionary to be a “lemon”.

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Heh.

And by that I mean, it translated abacaxi to mean “pineapple” (check)… and “pain”.

Eh?

I mean, sometimes having a problem *is* a pain, I’ll grant you that, but the problem, ipso facto, is still just A PROBLEM. As was my dictionary, it turned out.

And so my dictionary was promptly returned, which was, itself, a pain (“o abacaxi?” Não!) and exchanged for the Oxford dictionary, which correctly translated pineapple as “pineapple”, as well as “problem”. And then all was right in the universe.

At the mall, I also got a comforter. People will tell you that winter in the southern hemisphere is worse than in the north. Now, I’m sorry to break this to you, but there’s just no bloody way that -30°C is *BETTER* than 8°C. For those of us who like Fahrenheit better (and it makes this so much more dramatic!), I’ll ask again: do you think that -22°F is better than 46.4°F?

That’s a difference of about 1000°F, or 38°C. Seriously. How could it be better??

The problem is, if you don’t insulate your house, and you have NO MEANS of heating any of the water (I’m not joking: the water for the shower is in a tub on the roof, heated by ambience—see that on the left?—so when it’s warm out, I just scream while standing in a NUCLEAR HOT shower, and when I actually *want* a hot shower, I stand there, sobbing, because I’ve made a bad sitch worse), and you have the world’s SECOND coldest tile on the floor, and you keep your windows open all the time, you’re just asking that 8°C to make you unhappier than you ever could be at -30°C—when in a heated house, with insulation, curtains, wool blankets, hot showers, space heaters, and a puffy vest.

The southern hemisphere practices winter denial. From denial is born suffering. And then acceptance. And then, just when the temp hits the 20s again and all that pain (“o abacaxi?”) is forgotten… you go to the mall and buy a comforter.

I’m sleeping better with it, in all truth, but that just leaves me in denial over something else.

This is my bed:

This means that, except for my 7 nights in Vancouver, I’ve been on a series of air mattresses since 21 May. Do you see how there’s a ridge in my bed? It started with a bump… which graduated to a full-length ridge, because one of the “pleats” busted out. (Hey Steph? Time to spend more time at the gym, eh?) It doesn’t stay fully inflated all night, and I had to start sleeping with my head at the foot end because there’s an upward curvature at the top end, and I think that + cold weather = spasms.

Marcella is totally aware of the fact that one cannot sleep long-term on an air mattress, and we’ve been working toward finding her a couch / bed type piece for the living room since April.

That’s not a typo.

The criteria are, “it must look nice as a stand-alone piece”; “it must be functional as a place to sleep”; and “it must be functional for people over 6′ tall to sleep”. She has a tall friend from Brasilia and a tall father—also from Brasilia—who will need to bunk down from time to time.

Well! This was certainly a pickle! (“O abacaxi?”) But not an unsolvable one: after much deliberation and store-room visiting, this past weekend, we ALSO made a special order for a piece of furniture that I cannot for the life of me show you. Let’s try this. It’ll be in… in 40 days.

Technically, it’s a foot stool. A very loooooong footstool. It’s also really, really firm, which excites me beyond reason. And it can be dressed up with awesome pillows, covered with a fitted sheet for naptimes, and is 10cm longer than either her tall friend or her father, so: win, win, win.

And that, my friends, is the story of how the pineapple became a star(fruit).

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