*****
There's only one part of airport routine that gets me more uptight than security screening or immigration and border control: baggage claim.
Ever since my family and I lost our baggage coming back from Alaska in 2011, and had to periodically return to the airport to collect a total of ten bags arriving on flights bound for Omaha from eight different cities, I've been a little gun shy when my well-traveled JEEP roller top doesn't pop out and around the luggage carousel first.
Of course, at four in the morning in a foreign country where I know or comprehend not a single word of the language, the powers that be made sure my blood pressure was raised as my bag was the very last one on the plane and into the terminal.
*****
For a third-world country, Lima has a decent airport. There are three main baggage carousels working in the arrivals terminal-- that's one more than Omaha, Nebraska, and threefold better than Alegknagik General Aviation in Bristol Bay, Alaska (in which a mid-sized garage door in the back of the lobby is opened and the pilot throws the bags straight through).
However, it's what comes out on those carousels that makes you think, "We sure as hell aren't in America anymore." Large rucksacks made of oilcloth, resembling giant laundry bags, that have been patched and tied with double knots at the top--lumpy due to perhaps a lack of folding or on behalf of the exotic contents inside--replace the traditional roller tops and duffle bags found in most (if not exclusively) other Westernized countries. What few roller tops there were, were wrapped tighter in cling film than the vice principle's sedan on senior prank day.
At first, I was fairly biased, thinking maybe in the smaller surrounding villages, zipper repair on an expensive piece of luggage just wasn't commonplace practice, however the rational (and also incredibly biased) political science student that operates the logic sphere of my brain concluded that perhaps the Peruvian TSA (which, in most airports we encountered, were in fact stright-up military police officials) is invasive enough that saran-wrapping your bag is the only way to keep unwanted attention out and your personal belongings inside of your luggage and any other expensive merchandise arriving from the US, Canada, and Europe.
Other than the consistent flow of bindle stick and laundry bag-style luggage and cling wrap arriving through the baggage claim, were giant storage tubs that had been duct tapped closed--the most amusing of which was labeled "SNACKS" in block-letter Sharpie, in distinguishably perfect English.
There was also an abundance of fancy camera cases and film equipment arriving-- probably for the North Americans or Brits with the snacks.
Between another oilcloth rucksack and what I assume was a dissembled set of booms for the hungry filmmakers was my bag--making it safe to unclench my buttcheeks and allow us to continue to the next leg of the journey.
*****
Our guide from the travel agency who would be accompanying us in our travels throughout Lima was waiting for us at the taxi rank, where he handed out our travel itineraries for the next few days.
...To make a long and otherwise repetitive story short, my legal name is so long that it doesn't even fit in its entirety on roll call forms, checklists, boarding passes, footnotes, or even my drivers license. Given that, on the Orient Express traveler roster, only my last name fit in the allotted space: Dennis-Renner. Not even a snippet of "Mary Alexandra" (or god forbid, just "Alex") to follow. Miguel, our guide, associating the last name on the list as the last girl in the group assumed that "Dennis" couldn't possibly be the correct feminine pronunciation of the name, and therefore it must be "Denise."
First name: Denise. Last name: Renner.
"Mary Alexandra" was missing in action.
In short, this is how I came to be known as "Denise" over the following two weeks.
Aye carumba.
*****
The drive through the hotel was through Mida Flores-- the Bloomsbury district of Lima. Along the costal highway there were stacked, shimmering lights coming from the upscale apartments of early risers that lined the mountainside neighborhoods about 300 feet above the beach below.
Trumped only by the narrow, winding road that switchbacked all the way down the cliff, the surrounding area could've been West Palm Beach, or Jupiter, Florida. By daylight, it would be much different: the clay brick and stucco buildings with cedar shingle roofs would be visibly more faded shades of pink, ochre, grey, and yellow, and the coats of paint either thicker than the siding itself, or chipped.
On the way out of the city, marquees above the buildings, signs, and billboards would appear weather-worn and peeling, and what was once white would seem aged and dirtied. Even the sky would feel grey and hazier. Apparently, that's Lima's typical weather. Never sunny, never rainy. Just grey and foggy with some half-rain always hanging in the air.
*****
By the time we reached the hotel, checked in, and I had showered and rearranged the next day's couture to the top of my bag, it was already 5:25am.
Breakfast was served on the hotel's terrace overlooking the beach at 6am and we had to be ready in the lobby by 6:30.
I still don't know why I bothered to change into my pajamas (or even put on fresh clothes for the impending day, frankly) -- I'd already blow-dried and flat-ironed my hair, and put on a base layer of makeup.
Maybe it was the thought of starting fresh and pretending I'd had the time to do such things instead of trying to cram an entire night's allotment of rest and relaxation into 45 minutes. Maybe if I acted like I hadn't just spent the last 23 hours traveling with little-to-no prospect of sleep until 10 or 11 that night, I would somehow be able to navigate through the grogginess and anxiety that was sure to catch up with me as soon as the adrenaline decided to take a break and go outside for a smoke.
...Or perhaps it was the idea of sleeping in just my lingerie with my grandmother less than three feet from me that didn't seem quite appropriate.
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