Auntie M's aggressively calm behind the wheel. I'm quietly freaking out, counting near-fatal misses from the passenger's seat.
"What brings you to Peru?"
"Life change."
A quick burst of stifled laughter.
"What was that?"
She smirks, "Nothing" then lays on the car horn at an ancient truck pulling into her lane. "¡Asu mare!"
I pry my fingers from the dashboard and show off a friendly grin. "What do you mean, nothing?"
Auntie M scrutinizes me, before pausing to compile the English words. "Es just every gringo that comes down here es looking for a change." Her expression lightens when she sees my concern. "No worries. I is sure you will find what you es looking for."
Shrieks of traffic as Auntie M barely avoids rear ending a mototaxi. The driver yells. She snarls, "¡No me jodas!" Then calmly looks over at me.
My eyes are saucers. "Do you always drive this way?"
A boisterous laugh. "Tranquilo."
We stop off at a bank to exchange U.S. dollars for Peruvian soles, then dip next door to a small neighborhood "catch-all" store in the hopes of finding me a cheap phone charger.
"Stay here."
Auntie M heads in to expertly handle the purchase while I stretch my legs and fumble around in circles, coughing as I soak up exhaust from all the passing cars.
Leaning against a lamp post, I yawn into my shirt sleeve, then crane my neck and gape at all the small stores sharing space with houses behind tall fences and concertina wire. What's the meaning of all these well-worn hospital signs dotting the street? Weird.
I'm lost in wonder. Auntie M appears next to me. "Es yours," she says, handing me the charger.
"Thanks. Hey, I'm impressed."
"Huh?"
"The. . . hespedajes in your country. They're everywhere," I say, pointing to the street of hospitals. "You must have the best healthcare system in the entire world."
She stares through me. "Hospedaje es hostel, Doug. No es hospital."
Damned if Gus wasn't right. I am helpless down here. After racking up about twenty-seven mini heart attacks, we leave the festival of claxons, parking on a side street next to a gaudy, purple and faux-gold-plated casino. Las Vegas writ small.
Passing a panoply of sparkling signs and gambling machines, the rumble of incoherent voices thickens as we glide up to the second floor on a brightly lit escalator.
I lean over to Auntie M. "What are we doing here, again?"
"Meeting my friends." She looks ecstatic.
"Really?" Crowds are a horror show for me. No matter what the pretense, I always manage to make a fool of myself.
"Only a few. No es nada," she says in a thick, halting accent. Auntie M taps my arm as we make a left turn, and even before the attentive waiter opens the glass double doors, I know I'm fucked.
Jet lagged, I had hoped for a small, quiet table nestled in the corner and some light conversation over cheap appetizers with maybe a Coke to wash it all down. So, after seeing three massive dining hall tables chock-full of gussied up Limeños, I sweat where I didn't even know glands existed.
Auntie M's greeted by a lineup of hugs, "Holas" and "Qué tals", and kisses on the cheek, the apparent linchpins of Peruvian custom. It's a far cry from my customary handshake or, preferably, just a nod.
I pump out clammy handshakes, greeted with curious smiles, like I'm some foreign object floating in the penguin exhibit at the Lima zoo. Tired, I'm confounded by a blur of happy, drunk, and amiable partygoers introducing themselves: a comedienne, an extroverted media specialist, an actress, a naval officer in uniform, a smiling lady dressed in blue with a blue birthmark, a puffy-faced musician, a tanned bodybuilder from the Isle of Man and his winsome Peruvian girlfriend.
A younger, well-dressed woman greets me and says in halting English. "You smell American."
Oh-kay? Her smile implies this isn't malicious. Maybe something's lost in translation? Or could it be from the thirteen-hour plane ride with layovers? Maybe the early onset of old man smell?
The confusion builds. She misunderstands about every eighth word in English and I understand about every tenth word in Spanish. Finally, after a klutzy pantomime of an attempted conversations, Auntie M performs the save, cheerfully steering me away from more muddlement.
"Do I smell American to you?" I sniff around, taking in Auntie M's alluring perfume.
"Nah. I think in any country your scent is unique."
"Thanks. I like your friends, but I stick out like a sore thumb. It reminds me of high school."
"Y what es that like?"
"Like being trapped in an insane asylum for the hormonally supercharged. Eight semesters of Lord of the Flies horseshit games and popularity contests. A singularly deformative experience."
She puckers her lips and crows. "Pobrecito. Don't be eh-scared." Before I can protest, she plops me into a chair. "I will find peoples who can talk to you." After an encouraging wink, she veers back into the ensemble.