BLAH, BLAH, BLAH

This is the day that all 29 of my new traveling Tauck friends are waiting for. Machu Picchu. I know from the get-go that we are not going to walk the 26-mile Inca Trail, which is how my daughter and son-in-law did it. (Day 2 is alleged to be the worst, where you’re hiking up and down to 12,000 feet.)

We are taking the train. And I am quietly disappointed that we have to make a stop first, at some ancient Inca ruins in a city called Ollantaytambo (oy-yahn-tie-tahm-bo). It’s a massive Inca fortress with large stone terraces on a hillside. 

Shame on me. Turns out it is oldest still-inhabited Inca city, and we learn so much about how and why and where the Incas built their cities. The perfect primer for appreciating Machu Picchu later in the day.

See that line down the middle of the street? It’s an irrigation channel still flowing from the original Inca aqueduct. 

And of course, we walk through the main Square where there is plenty of shopping to be had. Try as I might, I can’t convince Donna to buy this hat. 

And here we are posing before the steep steps and terraced “layers.” Our group is going climb to the fifth terrace and reconnoiter to learn more from our local guide. (Not to mention gulp water, pant, gasp and wait for our hearts to stop pounding out of our chests like a Looney Toon cartoon character.)

Did I mention steep?

How embarrassed am I to learn that Ollantaytambo is the most popular train station to embark on the Machu Picchu journey?

Very.

In fact, most porters that accompany the hikers live here. Mile marker 82 is the stop for the hikers. We are taking the train “all the way.” At least as far as the public bus station at the end of the line. Then we board a bus and wind our way to the entry point.

Spoiled rotten. We disembark the public bus at the entry gate to Machu Picchu. Entry to the park is limited and by appointment only, and our entry window is between 2 and 3 pm. We have 45 minutes to kill, so we check in to our rooms at, yes, The Sanctuary Lodge.

And then we are there. We hike a short while on switch backs, including a small section of the Inca trail, and after a steep climb up steps, we arrive at a terrace.

And there she is. Machu Picchu. Old Mountain in the Incan language of Quechua.

Those red lanyards and “badges” around our neck identify us as authorized to be on Circuit 2, which is the upper area of the Park. We are able to go lower, and we do, but the sun is setting and to go any lower requires a new reservation and appointment.

Llamas roam freely. In that we are there as dusk approaches, the llamas are ready to gather for the night. We are exploring the “residential” area when a herd of about 20 llamas drop in for Happy Hour.

See that anachronistic greenish blue contraption in the photo above? That’s where the llamas all nestle together for the night. Around it. Not in it.

That night, the conversations are filled with awe and wonder. Egad. That sounds so trite. But we all experienced something unique, and we shared it freely with people we’ve only known for a few days.

In a very different way, but yet still the same, I am reminded how Donna and I felt connected to the throngs of people who had completed the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It doesn’t matter who you are, how far you walked or where you started–you shared something deep inside that connects you no matter what.

That being said…the return train ride the next day is quiet. Until La Banda sets the tone in the “observation car.” What a way to celebrate an amazing accomplishment, no matter how you define it.

Turn up your volume.

If Machu Picchu has been at all on your radar screen or bucket list, we say, as we often do these days…

If not now, when?

Lima to Cusco flight. We must have our bags packed and outside our hotel room at o’dark 4 am on Sunday, Oct. 6. The bus to the airport leaves at 5 o’yawn. Yes, there’s breakfast available, but, really, regardless of time zone, who needs to eat at 4 am?

We do, apparently. See food? Eat some.

Tauck took care of everything by way of delivering our luggage to a safe area for us to claim once we arrive at the wee hour of 6 am. We are handed our boarding passes by Zack the Tour Guide, and the bags are already tagged. We just hand them over with our passports and “poof” we go through security.

And wait. And wait. And change gates, but only once. Truly–I had imagined so much worse.

Arrive Cusco and get outa there pronto! Why? We left sea level at the crack of dawn and are now suddenly at 11,150 feet. Zack says we are going down to about 9,400 feet to the Tambo de Inca Resort and Spa located about midway down the Sacred Valley. If he told us once, he told us mucho veces:

• Go slow. Your body has less oxygen and that means it has to work extra hard just to fuel your circulation.
• Digestion slows down at high altitudes, so remember, “I know it’s Tauck, but you don’t have to eat all the food we put in front of you.”
• Drink water, drink water, drink water.

And look what Tauck gave us to help with the latter!

Head for the hills and then Sacred Valley. We board our deluxe vans (Donna, John and I are still Llamas) and drive over the Andes peaks that surround Cusco. “Stretch your legs” break at the east end of the Sacred Valley. Sneak preview of where we’ll descending and staying the night. (Machu Picchu is at the west end of the Sacred Valley.)

We arrive at Hacienda Huayoccari for lunch at a private estate, surrounded by the family’s crops and stables of Peruvian Paso horses.

Peruvian Paso Horses. We learn that the Paso horse has a unique inherited four lateral gait (style of walking), which is the breed’s trademark. Translation? They don’t gallop, and that makes the Peruvian horse one of the most skilled and smoothest riding horses in the world.

And they can dance in time to music! Watch:

Tambo del Inka Resort and Spa has the best welcoming committee EVER. Baby alpacas. Donna and I dropped our purse/backpacks in our rooms and bolted back to the entrance lawn.

Next day will be Machu Picchu. Sort of. Eventually.

Stay tuned/subscribe!

We start our day on “The Big Bus” and head for the historical city center and Capitol. We will divide into two groups of 15 and 14 when we get there. Llamas and Alpacas. We are Llamas. Later we will ride in two different short buses because the streets are so narrow.

Fun facts about Lima and Peru. Richard, our local guide, regales us with a wealth of information:

• Peru has 90 micro-climates with the coast, highlands, jungle and rainforest being the major climate zones.
• Peru “domesticated” 3,500 varieties of potato! They are the world’s biggest exporter of asparagus and quinoa.
• The biggest war in South America was over bird poop. It was between Bolivia, Chile and Peru over the Chincha Islands off the coast. Apparently that’s where large sea birds did their business in the 19th century. Guano deposits were 30 meters thick in some places. Guano was used in the production of fertilizers and explosives, which made it a profitable commodity. I can’t remember the details of the outcome because I am still trying not imagine 30 meters of bird poop.

Balconies. I’m picturing the Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo kind. Not in 16th and 17th century Peru. The “modernized ” one on the gold building has glass windows. Big issue for the aristocratic husbands and fathers of yesteryear. It’s one thing for the wife and daughters to look out the window. Quite another for them to be seen from the street.

The balcony on the green building is preserved from the early 1600s. (Spain conquered Peru in 1532.) Ladies can look out, and not be seen from below.

Oldest home in Lima. Built in 1535 it is the oldest colonial house of Lima. It is still occupied by the descendants of the founders, Aliaga family, who were beside Pizarro during the conquest of Peru. Lovely to tour.

A shame that my favorite picture is this one. My first thought is wow, what a beautiful courtyard. My second? This is why our HOA in the desert doesn’t allow ficus!

Lunch at a private “summer home” in Mirafloras. When you travel with Tauck, they find amazing venues to entertain you, including this private home, Alvarado Garcia Alvarado house. The granddaughter, Anna Marie, is our hostess and we dined in her courtyard with musical accompaniment.

Introducing the iconic drink of Peru: the Pisco Sour. Pisco is along the lines of a brandy, 43% alcohol, shaken vigorously with Pisco, lemon, simple syrup and egg white. This one, here is delicious. Think: margarita-like. (It’s the beverage directly under our waiter’s buttons.)

Causa. My daughter and son-in-law told us to definitely eat two things–causa and ceviche. Causa is a layered dish with potato, sometimes tuna, avocado and more potato. Who knows which of the 3,500 varieties of potatoes this one is, but it is delicious.

Ceviche. I am skeptical when my daughter tells me that the ceviche is unlike any in the US, and, in fact, it took them a long time before they ever order it State Side. Really? What’s to modify beyond lime, fish and maybe some minced peppers or onions?

Answer: everything. OMG. Unbelievably tender, flavorful, not too “limey” or strong. We all moan in unison at the first bite. Those large pieces are the ceviche. Note the size of the corn grown in Peru as well.

Spoiler alert. I write this three days after leaving Lima. Just so you know, we made it to Machu Picchu and I will post oh, so much more later.

Stay tuned/subscribe for more updates.

LAX-Houston-Lima Oct. 4

Uneventful. That’s how we like our travel to the airport and flying to our destination. And that’s what we got. The most exciting part was Mr. Rocking Red Shoes on the flight from LAX to Houston.

Airplane lighting doesn’t do justice to the spiffy, sparkly bling on his Bose headphones. Zoom in for better effect. Mr. Rocking Red Shoe Guy played the air guitar–and I mean really really played the imaginary left hand chords–as well as air piano and drums. The. Whole. Time.

The usual suspects. John and I are traveling with Donna on a Tauck tour that will takes us from Lima, Peru to Cusco to Machu Picchu, back to Cusco and then to Ecuador and a 7-day small ship cruise of the Galapagos Islands.

Luxury in Lima. We arrive at our hotel around 10 pm Friday night. Check in. A little more sparkling and posing out front before bedtime.

Saturday we explore the area. Lima is the Capital of Peru, on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. We learn that the sprawling city is made up of 43 districts (think: municipalities) each with their own Mayor, police and “city hall.” We are in San Isidro in south Lima, and walk to Miraflores to check out the cliffs above the beach.

A reunion with Martha! When Donna and I finished our first Camino de Santiago (Portuguese Coastal Route ~200 miles starting in Porto), John and our friend Don met us in Santiago and then we four flew to Budapest for our first Tauck tour. A river cruise to Prague on the Danube. And that’s where we met Martha, who lives in Santa Monica. We’ve remained friends visiting each other up and down Pacific Coast Highway for seven years.

And now we get to travel together again! Here we are along the coastal trail above the sea.

John forgot to pack a baseball hat, but look at the dapper substitute he bought at the Mercado!

Sunday (mañana) Zach, our Tauck guide, will lead our group to the Main Square, local ruins, Barranco district and then the Larco Herrera Museum and a private dinner at Cafe del Museo.

Buenos noches.

“Remember that time on the Camino when . . .?”

Donna and I start many conversations this way now.

When I learned that “Rain” was the theme for TheMoth.org’s Los Angeles open mike StorySLAM event, Donna and I bought tickets. Once there, I put my name in the hat and was one of 10 lucky storytellers selected to go on stage and tell a 5 minute story (plus a 1 minute grace period) based on that theme.

The Moth stories must be true, told live, without notes. Three teams of three audience members judge the storyteller’s telling of the tale, based on the teller’s sticking to the five-minute time frame, sticking to the theme and having a story that has a conflict and a resolution. Winners of StorySLAMs advance to a GrandSLAM event, with a different theme and more time to tell their stories. I came in second by a fraction of a percentage point.

No big deal. Not why I was there.

You know from reading my blahg how much I like to write about the Camino de Santiago. The Moth gave me a chance to talk about it. From behind a microphone! (Deja vous all over again from my years of professional speaking.)

I’d forgotten how rewarding it is to make people laugh. Not to mention make Donna choke up just a tad at the memory.

Click the image of The Moth logo to watch the 6 minute video.

Buen Camino!

P.S. If you love listening to or telling stories, I recommend The Moth Radio Hour Podcast, available wherever you listen to podcasts.

Marcia is sitting across the card table from me as we play canasta last Fall. She mentions ever so off-handedly that she read a great “feel good” book over the summer.

“It’s called The Guncle. It’s funny and takes place here in Palm Springs.”

“The WHAT?” I ask, as I organize my cards.

“The Guncle. Stands for Gay Uncle. Or GUP—Gay Uncle Patrick. He ends up taking care of his young niece and nephew while their dad is in rehab in Rancho Mirage. Really funny and sweet,” she says as she discards a four of spades into the plastic tray.

Always looking for a good book to listen to, especially one both husband John and I can listen to together on road trips, I buy the Audible version of The Guncle. We listen to it on our drive to and from Colorado for Christmas.

Fast forward to February.

I suggest The Guncle to the two PGA West book clubs I belong to and volunteer to host at my house. So long as we do a first-ever combined meeting of the book reading minds, I add. Which gets me thinking. . .the author, Steven Rowley, lives in Palm Springs. Wouldn’t it be great if I could get him to come speak to us?

Squeals of “Oh yes!” from the Popcorn Book Club ladies make me realize I had said it aloud. I have one month to make it happen.

Or maybe not.

I visit his website, StevenRowley.com and see that all the contact information is via publicists. Three different publicists, one for each of his three novels. I learn movie rights are sold for each of them.

“Dang. This guy is big time,” I mutter to my husband and then tell him all I’ve learned.

“Good luck. You’ll never get him to come a little book club meeting,” John says.

I raise my eyes above my laptop screen, give him The Glare, and then do my best Barney Stinson imitation and shout, “Challenge accepted!” (Google it, if you didn’t watch Neil Patrick Harris in How I Met Your Mother.)

Patrick, aka GUP in the book, doesn’t do his own “sosh,” aka social media. Maybe Steven Rowley does?

LinkedIn lists 10 Steven Rowleys. None are authors. On Facebook I find the author Rowley (and a bus driver Rowley). I scroll and scroll the author’s page and agree with the eleventy-million fans who are commenting on his books. But I don’t want to approach him through a fan page.

Instagram for the win.

I scroll and scroll Insta (that’s what the cool kids call it, ya’ know). I discover a photo of Steven with ladies from the Carlsbad Book Club. Hope springs eternal.

Instagram? Hmmm. I think I have an account. Egad. Ancient history.

I better post a few pictures from this decade. Two cute pictures of Rusty, my labradoodle, because Steven is a dog lover, too. And one of the view from brunch at Ernie’s Bar and Grill, because “Brunch is awesome.” (Guncle Rule #1.)

I’m ready. I post a comment to his post about The Best Bookstore in Palm Springs. (That’s its real name.) I tell him that The Guncle is a fan favorite in PGA West and that it’s the March selection for two, count ‘em, TWO, book clubs here.

“I’m honored,” he replies a few days later.

“He replied! He replied!” I holler as I happy-dance around our island kitchen counter, taunting my husband. “He replied!”

“Is he coming to book club?” John asks skeptically.

“I haven’t asked yet. I only posted a comment. And he REPLIED!”

I not-so-calmly wait until the next morning to craft the official “ask” and share my email address via Insta. (Instagram, remember?) He replies again!

Holy cow, this might just happen. I’m trying not to hyperventilate.

I provide details of date, time, location, and format. Format being the Popcorn Book Club model in which the hostess (me) provides wine, water and popcorn. Period. After all, I add to my message, some of us consider popcorn a meal.

“I have you on my calendar,” he confirms, signing it “Team Popcorn Is a Meal.”

The RSVPs start pouring in.

On the day of the event, I haul every piece of moveable furniture I own into the living/dining room area, saving the best upholstered “throne-like” chair for Steven. Yes, I tell a couple of ladies, bring a few folding chairs, just in case more than 22 people show up.

And show up they do. Good thing I created a make-shift reserved parking sign so that Steven wouldn’t have to walk too far.

Despite being a Doubting John as to whether I could persuade Steven to come, I allow my husband to attend book club–as bartender. Which means asking what color of wine a woman wants and then pouring it. (Meetings sans authors are pretty much DIY when it comes to beverage pouring.)

As the ladies are scooping popcorn into their red and white striped boxes and claiming their seats, I am focused on the front door. I peek past the crowd, through the courtyard gate. Every 17 seconds or so. Why am I so nervous?

I confide to a few gals that my hands are shaking. Me, the Blah Blah Blah lady who hasn’t met a microphone she doesn’t love to use. This feels more like I’m an excited teenager waiting for my prom date to arrive.

Arrive Steven does. To fanfare, applause and caftans.

Now for the best part.

To get the dialogue started, I ask the “audience” to share a memorable moment from the book. Something that sticks with them, perhaps long after having read the book. A laugh, a tear, a gasp. One by one we share snippets of scenes or dialogue. (Don’t worry, no spoilers here.)

And Steven punctuates the conversation first with thanks, and then with some “behind the curtain” comments as to how and why he crafted something a certain way.  His thank you is not about accepting the adulation of his readers. Well, a little bit, maybe. He also shared that it means a lot to a writer to hear what sticks.

“Being a writer is actually quite solitary work. With stand-up comedy, you know immediately when a joke lands. With a book, I can crack myself up writing a scene, but how do I know if anyone else thinks it’s funny? he says.

I ask about Grant, Patrick’s 5-year-old nephew.

“Why did you give him a lisp?” I think I know the answer—because it’s endearing, adds to the little guy’s vulnerability and sets up some humor, too. I’m right on all accounts.

But wait, there’s more “behind the curtain” to it than that.

“I knew there’d be a lot of dialogue, and I wanted a way to distinguish the kids without having to keep writing ‘he said, she said,’ over and over,” Steven explained.

Brilliant! I had not thought of that.

The bartender asks how much of the story is based on Steven’s own life experiences and family.

Steven volunteers that yes, he has nieces and nephews. Yes, he has a sister, but she’s not as mean as Clara, the sister in the book. Yes, he lost a very dear college friend to breast cancer. (Again, not a spoiler.)

“What about Patrick, the Guncle himself?” a caftaned fan asks. “How much of you, Steven, is there in Patrick?”

“Certainly some, but Patrick is richer, more famous and more handsome than me,” he teased.

Wrong on the latter, many ladies voice. And once the movie is made, wrong on the former as well.

“Someday, we’ll watch you on the red carpet and sigh, ‘We knew him when. . . .’” I predict.

The late afternoon flies by.

We hear more about the recording of the Audible version of The Guncle. Steven doesn’t just read the book, I say. He performs it, creating theater of the mind like no other, I gush, as Audible alumni ladies nod their agreement.

We know we can’t keep him much longer, so we assemble for a group photo with caftan-clad club members in the front row. Individual book signing and photos and farewells follow.

As Steven leaves, I hand him a box of popcorn for the road, hoping it truly isn’t his evening meal. When I see him drive away from the curb, and I know he can’t see me standing in the entry way, I close the door and turn my back to lean on it.

Challenge complete! And oh, so much better than going to prom.

The Favor First.

If you’ve been keeping up with my blog posts as Donna and I walked the 500 miles of the Camino de Santiago, you may have noticed that my Mom, Patricia (Pat) Stoner, commented every time. She was often the first to do so!

Many of you have shared with me how much you enjoyed reading her comments.

Well, TODAY, Thursday, Sept. 29 is her 90th (yes, ninetieth) birthday.

She doesn’t do Facebook, and I would just love it if you could enter a comment here,  wishing her, “Happy Birthday, Pat” today. I’ll make sure she sees them!

The Story I’ve Been Meaning to Tell

Continue reading “A Favor to Ask and A Story to Tell”