The Vibrant Life of Lima

It is obvious as you exit Jorge Chavez International Airport that Lima is no Rio. Actually, with its heavily clouded sky, briskly cold waters year-round, and thickly polluted air, Lima seems to have little to offer a vacationing traveler. And since most allot Lima a day or two in their travel itinerary, its shady downtown characters leave more of an impression than its modern middle-class neighborhoods of Miraflores, Barranco, and San Isidro. Given the chance, though, Lima can not only redeem itself of its sketchy reputation, but amaze with its succulent cuisine, vivacious nightlife, and astounding culture.

First and foremost, there is the food. Peruvians love thick, savory sauces and sweet fruit desserts, but of particular note was the ceviche, uncooked fish placed in a lime-heavy marinade. Not only are these thin slices of fish flavored with sharp, delightful spices, but they're also traditionally accompanied by large, satisfying kernels of Peruvian corn and chunks of perfectly softened sweet potato. Knowing ceviche’s broad appeal, Canta Rana’s and Segundo Muelle’s perfection of the dish has turned them into popular, lively haunts for the locals.

And with a late weekend lunch of ceviche, plenty of room is left for the popular Cristal beer or classic Pisco Sour, a drink of Peruvian Pisco liquor, lime, egg white, syrup, and bitters, the streets around Miraflores’ Parque Kennedy offering the best bars to indulge. You can even count bar-hopping as a cultural activity, since some bars have opened in old colonial houses.

But if you want to be a good cultural traveler, Lima has plenty of churches, ruins, and museums to whet your appetite before making your way to Machu Picchu. Aside from the ornate, expansive Plaza de Armas, the Convento y Museo de San Francisco is probably the most-visited sight of Lima—and for good reason. The church encompasses delightfully high arches enveloping sometimes-gaudy altars to various saints, but the real draw is the adjoining convent area with a museum and catacombs. Although our free tour guide was not the embodiment of enthusiasm, the convent provided an interesting overview of Peru’s long-standing Catholic history while displaying religious artworks of incredible talent. The bones of the catacombs didn’t make the convent lose any points, either. Along the same lines of history is the Museo de la Inquisición, a small but poignant museum dedicated to remembering one of Catholicism’s darkest periods.

Quick Tips:

1) While I only felt unsafe once (see the below box) during my stay in Lima, you should always act with caution when walking the streets. Pickpockets are common here, especially around the known tourist draws, like the Plaza de Armas, so I advise that you carry your purse in front of you and not speak loudly in English. Also, Danny, my Peruvian boyfriend born and raised in Lima, says that people do not show off wealth here, a concept that may be hard to grasp by attention-hogging Americans, myself included. Leave the Louis Vuitton purses, glittering jewelry, and cashmere sweaters at home.
2) If traveling over the summer or in early fall, Peru’s winter and early spring, the weather will be cool, if not cold. Sweaters and a light jacket are recommended, turning into necessities if later traveling to Cusco. Lima is also blessed with a thick, unrelentless gray-cloud cover, well, pretty much all the time. "Sunny" in Lima means that you can just make out the sun’s outline through a thin, grey cloud. S.A.D. sufferers, be prepared.

Best Way To Get Around:

I ruled out taking a bus in Lima, seeing as how they merely slow down to drop off passengers. And with a taxi ride from downtown Lima to Miraflores costing about 8 soles (pronounced "sol-es", not "souls"), around , is "splurging" on a taxi really so bad?

Taxis, though, come with their own set of ordeals, because people seem to wake up one day, decide to be a taxi driver, and put a taxi sign on their car. The safest way to get a taxi driver who will not rip you off or rob you is to have one called by your hotel or a restaurant, museum, etc.

While the taxis called for us always seemed reliable, they were just hailed from the street, so, after visiting a chifa, Chinese-Peruvian restaurant, in Lima’s seedy Chinatown, we decided to hail a taxi on our own. When we finally found one, he went along suspicious back streets until Danny demanded, in Spanish, for him to take the main roads. Therefore, I suggest using extreme caution when hailing a taxi on your own.

* Do not hail a taxi if you speak Spanish poorly or not at all.

I must be an incredibly trusting person--that or just plain ol’ stupid--because I blindly handed my credit card number to Go2Peru.com, a website I’d never heard of, nor had anyone else. Although dotted with a reassuring "Verified by Visa" icon and "In Association with Amazon.com" box, are those really that hard to fake? But I ignored my mother’s ever-present cautioning voice and booked the La Paz Apart Hotel. Plus, for all I knew, La Paz had a resident crack dealer housed on the second floor, outhouse bathrooms worse than porta-potties, and a rogue employee preparing the muggers for our arrival. But trust I did.

And what a glorious thing trust is (although we did confirm our reservations with the hotels). Yes, we had reservations, and no, no one had run away with our money. Even more reassuring was the stately, spic-and-span appearance of the La Paz Apart Hotel after a neck-breaking red-eye. The sky was cloudy, as should be expected, but the tall, narrow building in front of us exuded a warm welcome, not least through the doorman who scampered over to carry our bags.

Such was my introduction to Peruvian friendliness. By the end of that day, we no longer had to give our room number to get our key; it was already memorized. Plus, with the exception of a somewhat scowling night man, the people manning the front desk went out of their way to make our stay a bit more comfortable. They even offered to confirm our flight to Cusco before we had remembered such a thing as responsible traveling. Everyone spoke English well enough, but they obviously preferred to speak to Danny in Spanish, joking about the multitudes of calls we received from Danny’s very Catholic, and therefore very large, family. But hey, if you worked at a U.S. hotel, would you really go out of your way to stumble out some, say, Burmese?

Of course, though, even the friendliest staff cannot compensate for a dreadful room, so it’s a good thing our suite was spotless and cozy. Although the living-room area was small and had some tiny downfalls, like an obviously worn armchair, it had a mini fridge, microwave, and stove more modern than my own. Down the short hallway was the highlight—the softly lit bedroom. With threaded blanket of yellows, reds, and greens, it made me want to cozy up next to the nonexistent fireplace and read bedtime stories to my nonexistent child. And you can’t forget the bathroom, a cavernous entity with a shower exuding the pressure of a strong-armed Swedish masseur. My own shower has just not felt the same since.

Absurdly expensive $15 wake-up calls aside, I guess it’s okay to be a totally trusting, gullible broad sometimes, huh?

I am not high-maintenance. Actually, I have no problem with a $10/night hostel—as long as the sheets are bleached clean and there is a working toilet and shower. But man it’s nice to luxuriate in a five-star hotel, even if only for one night.

Although greeted by an aloof front-desk staff who exuded nothing like the genuine friendliness of the employees at La Paz, the cavernous lobby in an ocean blue, complete with glowing blue lights, overcame their snootiness with its reverberating sense of refinement. Of course, the aforementioned treatment was probably because I was at least 20 years younger than their average guest. I looked like a downright clueless teenager next to the suits and designer dresses enveloping us.

Our room not yet ready, check-in being, I believe, at 3pm, we were offered a complimentary drink in their (blue) bar. Unaware that we needed a coupon for such drinks, we ordered up Pisco Sours for 22 soles each, mind-blowing compared to Lima prices we had encountered thusfar. They were served frothy and were exquisite, the best Pisco Sours we’d had, like an enchanting Pisco-enhanced glass of eggnog. The bar was also where we encountered Los Delfines’ features du jour—its two, male and female, dolphins. But our childish giddiness soon turned to subdued sadness as we saw the small, at least for these sizeable, graceful creatures, pool they called home. They jumped and splashed the windows of the bar and adjacent open-area restaurant, but even the most self-absorbed carnivore could see the longing in their eyes.

Our room was ready, and though still flooded with guilt for the trapped creatures, we couldn’t help but be sedated by the ivy-green carpet and blue, purple, and peach bedspread once inside. Moving on to the bathroom, which, as you may have noticed, is the highlight of any hotel for me, I almost fainted from overwhelming joy when I felt the baby-soft towels and washcloths. I was then subjected to Danny’s mocking after stuffing the El Jardin del Zen shampoo, conditioner, and lemongrass soaps into my already exploding suitcase. At least I left the shower cap, sewing kit, and shoeshine sponge behind.

I heard a strange knock after Danny had collapsed into the luxurious bed for a prolonged nap. Expecting one of his relatives to have already hunted down our room, I was slightly startled when I saw a smiling housekeeping staff member who quietly, in Spanish, offered me another hand towel and bath mat. Obviously shy about his English, he apologized several times for not being fluent in my language, even if it should have been the other way around, and proceeded to offer Delfines-branded chocolates of a rich, creamy consistency.

Relaxing for the first time in a week, I stared out our 10th-floor window over the quiet streets of San Isidro while savoring nut- and caramel-filled chocolate tejas from Helena (www.tejashelena.com). But, exposed to the dolphin pool below, my five-star meditation was not allowed to flourish into full-blown contentment.

As desperate vendors shoved barely cooked chunks of indescribable meat towards the car window, three Peruvians and I continued to drive through Lima’s surrounding slums for a lengthy half-hour. My persistent Peruvian companions only uttered defeat upon seeing the looming closed gate: it was Sunday, and our winery destination had closed at 1pm. Only my second day in Lima, still adjusting to the overcast darkness, this winery fiasco completed my embodiment of the annoyed New Yorker persona. I then dared to utter, “It’s not like Peru’s known for its wine anyways.” Silence. Our two companions being non-English speakers, I thought only Danny, well accustomed to my less-attractive moods, would understand me. Apparently one understands any language when one’s country is insulted by a know-it-all gringa.

Suddenly, amidst the uneasy silence, I spotted radiating yellow in the distance. No, no, it was not from anything as glorious as the sun, but a restaurant painted in a yellow reminiscent of a Provence sanctuary. Tradición Morena, specializing in foods created and honed by Peru’s black population, was, in fact, our next destination. Giddy talk of juicy, sumptuous anticuchos ensued, and my obnoxious comment was (practically) forgotten.

Grilled beef-heart brochettes, anticuchos are not for the timid, but for the ravenous meat-eater who thinks a meal without a slab of bloody beef is a cardinal sin. They could be mistaken for their less-intimidating cousin, the beef kabob, but are actually, at least in Tradición Morena’s interpretation, bigger, rarer, and juicier. And nothing like the fat-ridden bits of flesh offered earlier.

I anxiously awaited these dripping chunks of deliciousness, even if we were regulated to one of a few outside tables in brisk weather. Damn locals, getting all the ambience inside through the same soothing golden walls, native crafts dangling gently off them. Cleaning my taste buds for the anticipated heavy anticucho flavor was a glass of Chicha Morado, a subtly sweet punch derived from purple Peruvian corn. But I only had a few gulps before our waiter presented the overwhelming meat chunks on two glistening skewers.

Even though a bit on the rare side for a medium-well girl like me, we all looked like props from Lima’s Museo de la Nación, cavemen (and women) tearing into the meat after an arduous hunt. Danny even snatched a juicy, spiced piece from my almost-obsolete serving in an obviously animalistic action of survival. He got me with the, “Look, it’s an iguana!” Do they even have iguanas in Lima?

To dilute the meat-and-grease-heavy meal, though, there had to be a dough-and-grease ending. Enter Picarones con Miel de Chancaca, fried doughnuts with soft, warm insides bombarded with molasses. For this course, I kept one eye focused on swirling the crisp dough through the sugar-filled stickiness and one on Danny’s fork, which loomed closer and closer to my last bite soaked in sweetness. He backed down, forgoing the fork fight and allowing us to return to modern-day civilization, with silly things like manners, class, and restraint.

Pachacamac or Machu Picchu? While I had never heard of the former, I was bursting with excitement over the latter. But Pachacamac, a large adobe-constructed Inca structure about a half-hour outside central Lima, was an expansive, impressive introduction to the never-ending ruins of Peru. Plus, it wasn’t just a wannabe Machu Picchu, as its construction required a different kind of ancient intelligence, built with sand instead of rock. That’s not to say I would recommend heading here after your high-point Machu Picchu excursion, because then it might look like one big sandcastle.

Part of the appeal is what you see when venturing farther out from this ruin before or after your visit. The “hills” of Lima, beginnings of the famed Andes, are almost completely occupied by utter slums. I mean slums with no electricity or running water, homes to emaciated, starving dogs alongside pleading, barefoot children and desperate men begging you, racing into the street, to step in their restaurants. Yes, I’m regarding this as a positive experience, because after the memories of museums and tours fade, those capturing the locals and their lives are still bright.

As for Pachacamac itself, once we escaped the sparse groups, unlike Machu Picchu’s hordes, and inhaled the wintry scent of burning trees or shrubs, the feeling of awe at ancient man’s advanced knowledge washed in. Of course, this could be somewhat hindered if, as when we were there, multiple parts of this sandy ruin are blocked for reconstruction or preservation efforts, a necessity, of course. Plus, it’s not like they leave you be. When Danny and I wondered a wee bit off the path, a tiny official-looking figure high up on yet another sand hill blew his scolding whistle. Hey, I didn’t see any “Do Not Enter” signs.

Thankfully, though, the view of Lima’s most underappreciated asset, the breaking Pacific Ocean, from Pachacamac’s largest fort-like structure, was ours for the taking (even if the aforementioned guard did nosily check up on his newfound delinquents). After ambling between the high sandy walls, gliding my hands against the rough barriers, and climbing the smooth, sturdy steps, we arrived at several ledges jutting in the direction of the crashing waves. Here the wind intensified and Lima’s chill became ever more apparent as I wrapped myself tightly in my flimsy sweatshirt. But I became lost in a soothing blankness of my mind as I stared into the darkened water, intensified by the blanket of clouds, and shifted my gaze to an enormous towering rock a little ways from shore oddly evoking “The Lord of the Flies” imagery. Clean, crisp air flowing into my lungs and a blanketing quiet prevailing, I had found the rare calm of a booming metropolis.