Category Archives: partying

Bilando, Gatos, y Amor

Lima is huge and complex. The poor are perched precariously in favelas on barren hills, and the wealthy over look the sea and live behind iron gates.

Facela

Favela

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For lunch today I had an Asian salad with grilled chicken breast and a delightful red wine at Tony Roma, on the malecon overlooking the beach where at least 50 surfers vied for the perfect wave. I could have been in Los Angeles. One of the parks along the malecon is Parque del Amor. And it was. Entwined bodies were openly, lovingly,  strewn about the grass, and cuddled together on the wall.

Sculpture of love.

Sculpture of love.

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The Flying Dog Hostel is in Miraflores, a neighborly section of the city, the center of which is Kennedy Park. Living in the park are an estimated 250 cats. I’m told they each have adopted parents who feed and care for them, and sometimes take them home for visits. Certainly they seem relaxed with the attention and affection they receive  from  tourists and residents alike.

Dancing in the park

Dancing in the park

On my way to lunch yesterday I saw a large crowd gathered around the sunken stage area, which turned out to be dancers. If I hadn’t been meeting someone, I would certainly have thrown myself into the dancing mass. Form wasn’t an issue, and it seemed that most folks danced with anyone who could move.

Dancing in the park.

Dancing in the park.

I’ve spent most of my time here researching my route to Cuzco, Lake Titticaca, Machu Picchu and then Chile, and purchasing the first of the bus tickets. Getting around has been fairly easy, but the bus rides are looong. Yikes.

 

The Manifestation
 People who live in glass houses should not throw stones.

“`What goes around comes around.” The hostel where I am staying is two blocks from the governor, Sergio Cabral’s, house. It’s a three story glass house    

on a corner directly across from the beach in Lablon, the suburb next to Ipanima. Wednesday night the ground floor windows were broken by folks protesting his corrupt politics.

Policia in full riot gear blocked the streets going north and south in order to confine marching angry protestors to the main east / west street and the street that runs along the beach directly in front of his house. To hear Brazilians talk, it seems that just about everyone but the wealthy are disgusted with him.

As the crowd passed our hostel  

the protestors were peaceable: a few in a party mood. A woman who lives in a favela spied me and began a weird verbal exchange-the kind I probably invoke with my limited language skills here.

“You Cheecaago?’
” No. California.”
“Ah. I know Cheecaago. I know you United States.”
“Not all of them. Only some.”
“You fala Inglas?”
Finally she had me dancing in the street and posing.   

She was with a man and maybe a very pretty girl-maybe her daughter.
When she found out it was against the rules of the hostel to buy her a beer they left.

I walked to the beach and to where the protesters had gathered: to listen, observe, and learn.
The avenue along the beach was quiet. A woman did yoga, dogs were being walked, skaters and bicycles went by.

A few minutes later, while walking home I heard, Bang! Bang! Bang!Then the smell of tear gas stung my eyes, my nose. Fires burning photos of the governor were lighting up the next block. We could hear glass breaking, ambulances screaming down the street. Our street. Suddenly it was quiet. I went to bed. The noise started again. I put the window down.
I took my hearing aids out of my ears and fell asleep.

In the morning I walked among the carnage. Broken glass littered the street. A clothing store on the corner was completely open-I’m pretty sure looted.   

Now it is covered with black boards that have slogans painted on them. Most of the banks along the main street had been vandalized. The young, professional Brazilian woman I walked with said, “the governor is probably in Cancun on the beach. He doesn’t give a shit.”

At the governors’ men were measuring to replace the glass. Policia guarded the street. She was right about him being gone. He is still gone.