Our second day in Cuzco, Kelly suggested that we see some of the archeological sites in the surrounding valley.

“You can take a cab up to the highest of the four sites and then walk back.  It’s like 7 miles.  We can do that, right?”  We were pretty sure that we could.  LeAnna and I were heading out the next day for the 4-day Inka Trail trek.  And Kelly was recovering from an Achilles injury.  The question was more whether we thought it was a good idea.

“I’ll go ask the front desk about it.”  Kelly headed downstairs while LeAnna and I took turns showering and getting ready for the day.  When she returned, it was with a big smile on her face.

“It’s $5 for the taxi…and she said we can rent horses!”  We stopped pawing through our backpacks and looked up at her beaming face.

“Horses?”

“Yes!  You can ride horsed back down.  Should I ask her to call a cab?”

An hour later we were climbing into a hatchback, the three of us crammed in the back seat, grappling with the stubborn seatbelts.

The driver wound through the too-small streets, rattling along the stones, as people jumped out of the way onto sidewalks or up into doorways.

As we drove up and out, we were treated to a view of the city, nestled in the hills high above the distant sea.

Here we found locals.  Real ones.  Dressed in the functional clothing that kept them both warm in the morning chill of 12,000 feet and safe form the uv rays of the sun, relatively unfiltered by the thin air.

Our taxi driver dropped us at the topmost of the four sites we would see:  Tambo Machay.  We were greeted by dreadlocked donkeys and llamas rolling in the grasses.

The focal point of this site was water.  From the spring running along side the path leading to the ruins, to the incorporation of the water in the beautifully hewn stone, there was no question about its importance here.  Beautiful trees grew on the banks of the little spring, shading the path, providing a rare bit of shade.  Despite the biting chill in the air, we lingered out of reach of the sun’s searing rays.

Merchants walked the path, back and forth from a make-shift marketplace at the foot of the ruins, carrying their wares and offering pictures with their livestock.

The archeological site was beautiful.  The stones were smooth and impeccably placed.  The thousand years or so of weather only a mild nuisance to its grand presence.  The aqueducts were clearly deeper than they had been when they were originally cut into the rock; worn away by centuries of flowing water.

The niches, possibly used to display mummies – a connection with the afterlife – still retained their pink hue, and sharp angles.

We climbed to a viewing area and surveyed the site.  Locals gathered water from the spring, the market spread out in a colorful patchwork of textiles, and a shepherd brought his sheep along the ridge just above the site, the modern mixing seamlessly with the ancient.

From Tambo Machay we walked down the winding road that had brought us from the city.  Our next stop, Puca Pucara, was just across the way, a sentinel balanced over the valley.

If Tambo Machay was about water, Puca Pucara was about the earth and air.  Wind whistled around the site, open on all sides to the elements.

When we walked up we found a young man and woman who wanted to show us the site.  “Just for tips.”  We declined, but I was intrigued.  “Without knowledge, this is just a pile of rocks,” he called after us.  We had our guidebook, but his words stuck with me.  How interesting that we had traveled all this way to see a pile of rocks.  To walk on a pile of rocks that had been so carefully placed.  How curious.

On the inside we found carefully constructed windows, small niches, walls built in harmony with the rocks upon which they stood.

And a cave.  LeAnna found the little opening, and we contemplated the intelligence behind entering.  None of us had brought a head-lamp, which, in the end, probably saved us from making a foolish decision.

The thorn bush and stinging nettle pleaded with us to turn back.  Which we did.

The site had a good number of rooms, layered on top of each other.  We climbed stairs cut into the mountain, and spent time looking out at the valley.  It was clear that this site was placed so as to offer a view, whether for aesthetic or military purposes.  In fact, its purpose as either a hunting lodge or a fortress is still in question.

This was our first introduction to a couple of things.  First, the small, uniform niches that decorated the inner walls of the sites.  They were perfectly sized to house me.

Second, we were introduced to the mountain-shaped rocks carved by the Inka, sacred objects that we would have walked by without knowing they were there.  This stone at Puca Pucara was shaped like the entire site of Machu Picchu.

As we walked from the site, Kelly started to feel the uncomfortable crisp that was beginning from spending hours in the high-altitude sun.  Even her stylish straw hat provided little protection.

A quick reassignment of clothing resulted in a charming expedition-worthy outfit.

I think that one of the greatest parts of traveling with other people is that I don’t have to be the only one to look like a fool on a regular basis.

The walk between Puca Pucara and the next site of Qenko was the longest leg.  We passed a wildlife refuge (about an acre of flooded grassland), fields of great clay bricks drying in the sun, and animals of all sorts.

My favorite was a pig, ridiculously tethered to a clump of grass.

As we turned a corner, the road swinging wide out over the valley, we saw a pack of horses, and two men sitting in the grass.  We all smiled and waved.  We’d nearly forgotten about the horses!  A quick negotiation, and we were on horseback, our guide walking beside us.

My horse was Palomo.  A beautiful, dusty white guy who was assigned to me, after I volunteered that I’d ridden before.

The ride was great.  We meandered through the hills, cutting across the country-side, up and down rocky embankments, and splashing through wild springs.

Kelly chatted in Spanish with our friendly guide, and I tried to slow Palomo who clearly preferred to run ahead of the pack.  Only once did we stop, our guide ordering me off of the horse, and instructing Kelly and LeAnna to continue on.  They looked at me and stayed put as our guide walked over to Palomo and adjusted the saddle, which had slipped back considerably.

With graceful movements, he adjusted the straps and moved with the horse when he sensed the argumentative kick coming.

As we neared Quenko, our guide gave us the go-ahead to let the horses run.  That was what I’d been waiting for.  All thoughts of a slipping saddle were thrust aside as I nudged Palomo on.  And we flew, through the hills of Peru, a huge smile on my face, and a chortling rumbling up from my soul.  Up the hill and into a lane filled with other horses, and we landed, Palomo taking charge of where and when to stop.

We hopped down, said our goodbyes and headed up the lane in the direction our guide pointed.  We were in a distinctly agricultural area now.  Workers were bringing tubs of potatoes from the fields to dry in the sun.

We spent the next while at Quenko.  It was lunch time, and we made a familiar picnic of trail mix, dried peaches and cheese.  The horses had been a delightful break in the day and we were all smiles as we hydrated and rested our thighs.

This site was different from the others.  It was carved into the rock.  Zig-zag channels and natural crags replaced the carefully-formed walls of the other sites.  We walked along the path to the site, noting the differences.

And then we were in the ruins.  Literally, in them.  Quenko was all about the earth.  The great cave in its center was a clear focal point.  The altar, carved from “living stone” is thought to have been used for embalming.  Mummies were an important part of Inka culture, serving actively as a connection between this world and the next.

Between the altar and the niche at the far end of the chamber was a great crevasse.  LeAnna and looked up at the piece of sky above, and the clear path to the surface.  And then we jumped.  She did a neat tuck and roll away from the edge, gently sloping down into the bottomless earth.  I made a comment under my breath about not having health insurance.  Halfway through the muttered doubt, I slammed the edge of my knee into the edge of the unforgiving stone.  One day before the longest trek of my life.

Even with the purple bruise already blooming, I was able to walk, so I shook it off and looked back, thankful that I was above, and not an offering to mother earth.

Up above, we met a young man anxious to talk with us about the site.  Not for tips.  He introduced himself and his culture and told us he was preparing to be a shaman.

“In two weeks.”  He had that long to prepare.  He’d been coming to the site every three days for the last 6 months or so, and was ready to join his father, grandfather and great-grandfather as a shaman.

“That is a good sign for you,” he said pointing to two small butterflies that were fluttering together 5 feet from the ground.

He pointed out the phallus-shaped site visible from where we stood – the companion to the uteral cave we’d just escaped from – as well as the male and female mountains visible from where we stood.

We thanked him and walked back to the road.  Without horses to guide us, we chose the road that seemed to be headed most directly down and began our journey to the final site.  We walked past houses and fields, llamas and soccer goals.

Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”) our final site for the day, was the largest, by far.  The Cuzco region is said to be shaped like a puma.  Sacsayhuaman is known as the puma’s head.  The walls of the site form jagged, tooth shaped battlements – the puma’s mouth.  Even from a great distance, it was easy to see why.

The road took us out of the way, through a small resort, and next to more llama pastures.  As we walked past one, a herd of llama escaped, running through an unsecured gate.  We considered whether we were morally obligated to attempt to wrangle the llamas.

We decided, no.  We were not.

Once at the ruins, we found a spot in the shade to relax and hydrate.

And to take in the enormous Cristo Blanco standing opposite the ancient Inka site.

The site was gigantic.  We spent at least an hour there and saw a small fraction of what there was to see.  The stones that were used were incomprehensively large.  One was something like 70 tons.

We wandered through the doorways, up the steep stairs, along terraces.

We contemplated the strange, chalk grids marked on the walls, designed to help reconstruct the site in the case of an earthquake.

I also perfected my Peru look.

The hat kept me warm, the camelback kept me hydrated, and the tank let me get some sunscreened rays.

And then we went in search of the old Inka trail that our guidebook said we could take form the site down into the city itself.  But there were a lot of stone trails.  Eventually, we chose one that we thought looked promising, and headed down hill on the worn stones.

We made our way back into Cuzco, alongside the stray dogs that inhabit the streets.  Along side the tiny, old women walking the sidewalks, and the insane motorcycles carrying propane tanks strapped to their metal frames.  We walked back into the city with a boy and his grandfather carrying loads of rubbish on their backs.

We walked back into the city and directly into a pizza place.

Along with the excellent pizza we had what became our favorite meal, avocado relleno.

One of the vegetable dishes that we could eat, the avocado relleno was stuffed with boiled vegetables and cheese.  It was delicious.

We also sampled a local potato and egg-sauce dish that wasn’t shabby, even if we weren’t exactly sure what we were eating.

And we each had a local beverage.  LeAnna opted for some kind of juice, Kelly for hot chocolate, and I won out with a huge mug of coffee, served concentrated with a beaker of hot water.

While we ate, the World Cup played in the background.  Locals leapt up periodically to cheer on a particularly good play.  We spent the rest of the evening doing laundry, walking the Plaza Armas, and in a briefing for the next day’s Inka Trail trek.  But generally we were waiting until it was dark enough for us to return to the cake shop for dessert.

Which we did.  It was good.  I even ate a cheese sandwich.  And I think we shared four desserts.  But we’d been walking and riding and learning all day, so we were hungry.

With full stomachs, we went to bed early, ready to wake up at 4AM and catch our shuttle to the Inka Trail, and our next adventure.

The woman at the front desk took our passports and spoke with Kelly in Spanish.  We designated Kelly our primary Spanish speaker, because she’d been studying the most.  She was so eager to speak, that even when the other woman told her she could easily speak English, Kelly refused.  So LeAnna and I listened and nodded along as Kelly confirmed our reservation and bought 3 huge bottles of drinking water.

Because we were there so early, the room wasn’t quite ready, so we tossed our bags in a corner and struck out to see the city.

Cuzco is high.  It sits at 12,000 feet above sea level.  I grew up at 7,000, with regular trips to 9,000, but the only time I spent above 12,000 was on Hawaii’s Mauna Loa for my 30^th birthday – where we all became giddy from altitude sickness.  As we toddled out into the streets, it was with awareness of the distinct shortness of breath that accompanied the clear, blue sky.

We made a circuit around our part of town, stopping at the train station and airline office to confirm parts of the next leg of the trip.  Kelly and LeAnna would be continuing on to Lake Titicaca and the Amazon.  While they talked timetables and layovers, I consulted Kelly’s guidebook, and dozed lazily in the plastic chairs of the waiting areas.  I located the Plaza Armas on the map (the main historic square) and read about its history.  Then I turned to the really important thing:  food.  I had no interest in eating llama, or the local staple, cuy – guinea pig.

There were pizza places everywhere (I’m guessing because the wood-fired ovens used for cooking the cuy are a natural fit for pizzas).  The guide book suggested an interesting place off of the plaza, and I filed it away for later.

We tramped through the streets in a jet-lagged haze, making our way to the plaza.

The light seemed strange.  Filtered, somehow.  It was bright and made the morning feel much later than it was.  The streets of Cuzco were coming alive, its cobblestones reminiscent of, but more raw than those of Italy.

The lanes offered beautiful scenes of daily life mixed with simulated authenticity.

Mothers carried children of varying size and age under blankets wrapped tightly around their backs, little hats poking out from the bundles.  I covertly snapped a shot of what was remarkable to me, and completely commonplace to the locals.

Then, just off of the plaza,  I saw something colorful and furry.

When I ran over to take a picture of an “authentic” Peruvian with a llama, I didn’t know that I was supposed to pay for it.  These women make their livings selling snapshots of their clothing, animals and weaving.

The plaza offered great views, bounded on two sides by enormous churches that had competed for the Vatican’s attention and the Pope’s declaration of “most beautiful.”  The cathedral (the Pope’s choice) was built on the base of an Inkan temple.  The other was a Jesuit church.

We had a look around at the brown, brushy mountains and the images of pumas everywhere, scoping out a good place to sit.

The guidebook said that the plaza still served as a marketplace.  By sitting in a park bench, you could avail yourself of vendors.  Paintings, jewelry, knick-knacks, tours, paintings, massages and all other manner of items were pedaled to us, as we claimed our view on the plaza.

We became more comfortable talking with the vendors.  Unlike the vendors on Italian beaches, these vendors would take the time to let us look at their wares, and then move along when we declined, with a polite, “maybe later.”

The maybe later made us laugh a bit.  The third time we heard it we realized that it was ubiquitous.  We decided it must be a way to keep the conversation open for the next time we entered the plaza.  Because the vendors remembered us every time we entered the plaza.  “You remember me?  I showed you paintings yesterday.  I am Pablo Picasso!”  The young men sold mostly paintings.  The women crafts.  Silver jewelry and carved gourds.  Textiles and postcards, and everything under the sun, pulled from bags and displayed one after another with immense patience.

With one woman, the most assertive vendor we met by far, I tried out my theory.  After looking at her carvings, I smiled and said, “maybe later,” thinking I was politely ending the conversation.

“Maybe later is no good for me, lady,” was her response.  I think I burst out laughing as my self-designated cultural awareness was flung out the window.

The morning nearly over, we headed back to our hostel, stomachs grumbling.

Our front desk friend greeted us with a big smile and a grinned, “como estan?”  Our bags were already in our room, and all we needed was our key, which was turned-over heavily to Kelly.

She took command of the huge skeleton key and we made our way up to our second floor room overlooking one of the property’s courtyards.

Then we spent some time figuring out the surprisingly complex locking mechanism

By the time we got in the room and threw down our gear we were appropriately hungry.  Working together we came up with a fantastic meal of almonds, dried peaches and an Italian pecorino cheese that I’d smuggled out of Italy and into Peru.

Other places have things that the US doesn’t have.  Rooms for more than 2 single travelers, for instance.  Our room had four single beds.  We each claimed our own and designated the fourth as the gear bed.  Then we marveled at our accommodations.  Along with the four beds, we had our own, private bath, internet access, breakfast, and all the coca tea we could drink.  All for $55 a night.  Total.

But back to the coca…

When I told people I was going to Cuzco, they all said the same thing, “drink the coca tea.”  I like tea, but I don’t like introducing my body to new addictive substances.  Just doesn’t seem like a good idea.  So I’d planned to tough it out without the benefit of the coca.  But the shortness of breath, sleepiness and vague head pain I was experiencing, along with the pots and pots of coca tea provided by the hostel convinced me that I might be better off joining the locals.

And I was.

LeAnna and I sipped the tea, while Kelly, who would not be spending the next week hiking, looked on.  We had no interest in finding ourselves with altitude sickness two days before the four-day trek that was ahead of us.

The tea is made from coca leaves – that’s coca, not cacao – the leaf from which cocaine is extracted.  It lowers the blood pressure, and allows your body to absorb oxygen differently.  So, in effect, we were doping up for our trek.  It did the trick with our headaches.  Tea in hand, we all moved into the second, terraced courtyard where scores of traveling students were clutching their own styrofoam lifelines and taking in the mountain air.  After a couple of cups, LeAnna and I found ourselves lounging in the sun, our hearts beating insistently in our chests.

Beating aside, we were sleepy.  The 20 hours of travel finally caught up to us, so we soon headed to our bunks for a high-altitude nap.  In our little beds, we crashed.  My last thoughts were of the blood rushing through my heart.  LeAnna, on the other hand, was graced with dreams of falling off of cliffs.  The coca tea was potent.  Kelly slept like a baby.

When we awoke, the day was moving into evening, which meant we could head to dinner.  Yay.  We pulled out the guidebook once again and I found the restaurant I’d identified earlier.  The addicts in us were most excited about a good cup of coffee (because we needed more stimulation), and the “cultural center” atmosphere promised in the book sounded interesting as well.

Books lie.  Or they become outdated at an alarmingly fast rate.  We found the restaurant, and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor.  We were the only ones there.

We looked out the top floor window onto the streets, and then looked at each other.

Maybe we were just early for dinner.  Maybe there were new owners.  Maybe it would pick up.

We were game for staying, but only because we were hungry and had no other lead on food.  And we wanted Peruvian coffee.  “So, do we drink the coffee?”  LeAnna asked the strange question and we looked at her quizzically.  “Well, it’s made with water, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t boiled the water for 10 minutes.”

Damn.  None of us had considered this.  Parasites weren’t on the list of things we wanted to take home from Peru, and the drinking water wasn’t safe.

A quick debate ensued regarding the drinking of coffee.  LeAnna and I came down on the side of “screw it, we’re in Peru, we’re drinking the damn coffee.”  Kelly came down on the , “can I have a sip” side.

While we waited for our coffee, we checked out the menu.  Along with cuy and other, unidentifiable items, there was a pizza list.  Which sounded delightfully comforting.  We were adventurous, but hungry.  After discounting local fare, we ordered my personal favorite:  pizza with olive and pineapple.  Delicious.  The olives turned out to be Kalamata, a change from the usual, but tasty.

And the pizza was good.  Surprisingly so.  We gobbled the pizza and slurped tentatively at the coffee.  Which was divine.  All thoughts of what could be lurking in the water was tossed aside as we tossed back the beautiful-smelling elixir.

And as we tossed back, we looked up to find the strangest part of the place.

Sperm.  Fertilizing a ceiling lamp.  Yes, that’s what I said.  I don’t know.  I didn’t ask.  We’re assuming this is the “cultural center” to which the booking was referring.  Who knows?

Our stomachs happy, we sat and considered the rest of our time in Cuzco.  We’d need another place to eat.   And we might need dessert.  While we were a little hesitant to consult the guidebook again, we weren’t ready to accept the recommendations of the hoards of barkers trying to bring in business from the streets.

The guidebook listed a European bakery.  A place where we could get more coffee and a piece of cake.  Potentially perfect.

Kelly needed an internet café, so we worked our way down the main street, searching for a shop that looked both legit and safe.  At every corner was clogged and we were barraged by women with handbills asking if we wanted massages.  “Maybe later,” we answered, and they agreed.

When Kelly entered the back of a shop, LeAnna and I sat waiting, catching up on each other’s lives, and musing about the days ahead.   Sitting there talking about the emotional and the mundane, we were treated to a preview of the camaraderie that would thrust itself upon us as we made our way through the truly foreign experience lying in wait.

And then we were walking again, through the streets of Cuzco at dusk, past murals of a maturing justice, and fountains and tourists and locals.  Toward pastry.

We would visit the pastry shop every night that we spent on Cuzco.  We would order a total of 10 desserts in the three visits.  Nine of them would be delicious.

The shop was lovely.  White-shirted, black-aproned Peruvian boys waited by the door, hands clasped behind their backs, their dark hair and eyes sparkling at the mix of locals and tourists streaming in and out.

Our three desserts and coffees were consumed, and we laughed lightly, comforted by the familiar look and feel of the place.  Caffeinated and sugared, we stepped out into the dark plaza in front of yet another ornate church, where we found a backlit Mary standing watch.

Odd churches were nothing new to me, and I was interested to see the Peruvian flair overlaying the Catholic basics.  Kelly and I stepped inside to find one of the strangest church interiors I’ve ever seen.  A couple dozen life-sized saints stared down at us from high niches.  Wooden or ceramic, each of them was dressed in real clothing.  Satin, lace, wool.  They all had complete textile clothes.  Some had jewels.  I wouldn’t have expected this to be so strange, but it really was.  Instead of the feeling of benevolence I have felt from the carved statues of saints, this felt like life-sized dolls staring at us as we made a circuit of the large church.

LeAnna, who had wanted to be culturally sensitive, came in to see what was taking us so long.  I’m sure we had wide eyes, due to caffeine overload, and the strangeness of the scene.

We weren’t far from our hostel, just on the other side of the Plaza Armas.  Despite our sugar highs, we were starting to fade.  As we walked back, the night took on a fuzzy, sparkly feeling, the scooters rattling past us along the ancient stones.

We started our trip on the fourth of July, meeting and flying out from Miami.  We looked out from the airplane windows to see hundreds of fireworks displays below us, cheering us on our way.

This was a big adventure.  I was just one week back from Italy, where I’d spent a month, but already Peru was shaping up to be a bigger adventure.  It struck me that Italy was now a familiar place.  A place with a familiar sound and smell and taste.  Peru was completely new.  I’d never been to South America.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been to Mexico.  And although I grew up in the mountains of Idaho, the 12,000 foot altitude of Cuzco seemed worlds away.

And that’s where we were headed:  Cuzco, via Lima, where we would acclimate for a couple of days before the trek.

The first real excitement of the trip began in Lima where we navigated the complexities of purchasing a ticket on a local airline.  We were unable to purchase a ticket online.  We could reserve, but not purchase, so once in the Lima airport, we needed to pay for our tickets – in cash, at a special counter.  Fortunately, Kelly and LeAnna had been practicing Spanish, and I had been speaking Italian for a month, so I could understand a fair bit.  My college Spanish threatened to re-emerge, but never really followed-through.

After Kelly and LeAnna took care of their tickets, we found out that, for some reason, I was booked on a flight an hour and a half later than the flight the other ladies were on.  Not good.  The shuttle to the hostel was not likely to wait or return for me.  I’d have to work it out when I got there.  Alone.

Kelly handed me a map and told me the name of the hostel.  Then she wished me luck, and they ran to catch their plane, which was scheduled to leave very, very soon.  I stood in line to check my bag for the later flight.  I’d been told by the agent at the payment desk that I could not get on the earlier flight.  Darn.

But I am my father’s daughter.  He traveled extensively while I was growing up, a manufacturer’s rep for an international company.  We’d traveled as a family, and I’d seen him work with desk agents.  He’s magical.  I’ve seen him talk an entire family onto a full flight.  I’ve seen him get free first class upgrades for all four of us.  When it comes to travel, there is almost nothing he can’t do.  Or at least that’s the mythology I’ve developed.  A mythology that can come in handy when I’m in a foreign country needing to be emboldened to make a little magic of my own.

So, as I approached the desk, hefting my 35lb pack, I focused, and I channeled my father – in Spanish.  Or Italian.  It’s not clear what I was speaking, exactly.

I asked the agent if I could get on the early flight.  She looked at her watch and asked another agent.  Who went to work, typing frantically on her keyboard.  I felt like I was on the Amazing Race.  They worked together, speaking rapidly and in low tones.  Finally, the second woman nodded, and the first took my bag to label it.  Then she handed me a small, squarish piece of paper.  I looked down and saw that it was a ticket.  For the early flight.

“Esta bien?” I asked.

“Si.”  She looked at me staring at her in awe.  “Rapido!”

I smiled, nodded, and took off running.

Then I heard her behind me.  I’d forgotten my water-bottle.  We both hopped over the ropes that separated the lines of travelers.  She smiled broadly, handed me the bottle, and I was off, looking for Kelly and LeAnna who still thought I was on my own.  I found them in security, after being turned around and sent to pay my airport tax.

In Peru, you cannot enter or leave the country, or even fly domestically without paying a tax.  When we flew to Cuzco, we paid about $8 American.  When we left the country, it was about $30.

Once the tax was paid and the validating sticker attached to my little ticket, I was able to run through the checkpoint, and into security.  “Kelly!  LeAnna!”  They looked back at me, in the middle of taking off their shoes.  “I’m on!”

We all smiled and celebrated, and they waited while I danced through the metal detector.  Then we made a break for the gate.  We arrived 15 minutes before the departure time, just as they were closing the door to the runway.  We were sure we’d missed the flight, but the gate agent put up her hand, made a call, and then pointed us through the door and to a bus.  Well, we were pretty sure which bus she pointed too…

We were elated.  We’d all made the flight.  We snapped pictures, and chattered through our grogginess.

After 10 minutes of sitting in an empty bus, we started to worry.  There was almost nobody on the bus, and the flight was supposed to be leaving in 5 minutes!  Kelly couldn’t take it.  She walked off the bus to confirm that we were in the right place.  The airport worker checked his watch and told her that, yes, we were on the right bus and that we’d leave in a bit.

Apparently, departure times are kind of a general rule, more than an absolute.  The bus filled up with people and we took off.

The hour and a half flight was a treat.  Primarily in Spanish, we were instructed about safety, and handed snacks.  It reminded me of air travel in the US 15-20 years ago.  We had leather seats, as much as we wanted to drink, and a meal complete with breakfast sandwich and cookies.  All for about $100.  Maybe less.

I usually sit on the aisle, but I would have sat on the wing to get on this flight.  As luck would have it, I was on an aisle, with an occasional view out the window.  I watched as locals and returners looked out to see the terrain becoming more and more rugged, mountains emerging from plains.

The approach to Cuzco was a little intense.  The mountains were close on either side, and we turned hard to get to the strip.  And extreme landing for an extreme place.

On the ground, we celebrated again with high fives and acknowledgements that “We’re in Peru!”  In the shadow of the “Oxi Shot” sign, we repacked our bags and wondered if we’d really need the canned oxygen during the next week.  I laughed and made some Spaceballs “Perriair” joke that nobody got.

It was 8:30AM when we walked outside to find our shuttle.  The sun was piercingly bright in the thin mountain air, leaving the sky intensely blue, and the hills surrounding the city a washed-out brown.

Our shuttle turned out to be a guy with a car.  We located our names on his list and convinced him that we were the ones he was there to pick up.  The we tried to locate our seatbelts, and held on tight as we rumbled through the city over cobblestone streets, through plazas, and to our hostel.

Our driver came to an abrupt stop on a steep, one-way hill and we hopped out.  The adventure, though just officially beginning, had already given us a lot.  And, packs in hand, we were ready for more.

Here are some of them:

Yummy.

“What’s Stone Mountain?”  I’d asked blindly.

A few people stared at me while someone answered flatly, “It’s like a Confederate Mount Rushmore.”

I’d been intrigued ever since.  That intrigue was only heightened by the episode of “Undercover Boss” that included a stint at the amusement park that surrounds the landmark, focusing on the WWII duck boats that shuttled visitors through part of the park.

So when Kelly, the friend who had instigated the Peru trek we were about to embark upon, handed me her keys and a map and told me to head out to Stone Mountain for a bit of hiking, I was totally game.  “See what time the laser show is,” was her only instruction.

She’d bought the season pass to the park as part of her preparation for Peru.  Stone Mountain, with its strange geography was a good place to get some uphill trekking in.  But an Achilles injury had kept her from using the pass fully, so she was eager to have me take advantage of it.

I studied the map, and headed out.  The mountain was about 30 minutes away.  As I drove, I sang to the radio, watching a bubble in the Earth’s surface growing.

The further I drove out of the suburb of Decatur, the bigger and louder the trucks became, and the further from home I felt.  I know it sounds cliché, but it was my experience.  At about 40 minutes, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the mountain.  Crap.  I’d sung myself right past the place.  I turned around and hoped I’d be able to use the bubble to navigate myself back.  Even so, I wasn’t completely sure which turn to take to get to which gate.  My usual half-lost-but-okay-with-that self was fading a bit as the monster trucks seemed to crowd nearer to my little Acura at stoplights.

I found my way back to the village of Stone Mountain, and wound through the streets toward the stone.  After a couple of wrong turns within the park, I located the right parking lot and a sign to the trailhead.

Which wasn’t much of a trailhead.  Just a stone face.  I paused for a moment to see where other people were going.  And they were going up.  Straight up the stone.  I followed them, interested in a new adventure, and struck by the really strange geology of the place.

Green scrub reached out, sending fingers of scratchy brush along the stone face.  Trees grappled with the ground, finding a hold.  Great swaths of smooth stone were exposed from the thunderstorms that hit the place regularly.

Bobbing along through the scrub, I looked around, side-to-side, up and down, taking it all in.  This wasn’t so bad.  Strange and all, but still…  And then, about 100 yards in, I froze a little inside.

Yes, I know the Confederate battle flag is a symbol of independence; of rebellion.  But where I come from, it means more than that.  For a lesbian alone in the woods, it means quite a lot.  My ex-girlfriend of 4 years was from the south.  From Alabama.  And she’d tried to explain the flag’s significance.  I’d never really understood completely.  It was like trying to understand the utility of the pink triangle.  I was curious, but uncomfortable.  I looked over at the display of flags, considered stopping, and then sped up, happy to move out of the clearing, and wondering what else I might find.

What I found was a moonscape.  It is, quite literally, like nothing else I’ve ever seen.  The “mountain” seemed to be dropped out of the sky, or left behind by an incomprehensively large glacier.

Pitted and strange it stood, as people, like ants, climbed its face and carved their loyalties into its side.

I climbed with them, wondering if they could sense my unease.  I climbed with trail runners, and German tourists.  I climbed with families, black and white, who seemed either oblivious or unconcerned with the blatant history of the place.  I wondered, blithely, whether I’d take my children to an anti-gay monument to go hiking.

The top of the mountain is large, and flatish, the edges dropping dramatically to the greenbelt below.  I did a circuit, looking over the side, wondering where the Confederate generals were carved.  Until I found what I was pretty sure was the place, based on the grand, grassy viewing area below.

And the gondola platform.

With the gondola shuttling people from the ground to the top of the stone.  For what, I’m not sure.  I’ve ridden the tram in Portland just to say I rode it, and to see the views on the way to Oregon Health Sciences University.  Maybe it’s kind of like that.  I’m not sure.  Or like riding a ski-lift to the top, in order to see the view.  And I have to say that the views from the top were spectacular.  It was as though I was looking down on the city from a meteor.  It’s possible that I was.

The place was strange.

Have I mentioned that?  The geology alone was strange enough.  Smooth sections, then great pits, then strange bumps adorned the surface.

Normally, I’d find a quiet spot, sit, and commune with nature for a bit.  But I felt unsettled in this place.  It reminded me of the feelings I’ve had when I’ve visited prisons.  As a 6^th grader on a field trip, or an attorney for the state.  There’s a violence in the air.  A stripping away of something.  A deep unrest sat about the rock, and I couldn’t tell whether it was the people, the weather, or the place itself, churning with a displeasure.  I watched the skies change, and the vultures circle.  And then I made a break for it.

As I jogged down the stone face, the rain started, dotting the thirsty surface, and making everything incredibly slick.  Only once did my shoes fail.  On the steepest part, I slipped backwards, arms flailing out to grasp the handrails that jutted from the steep ground, waiting to catch unwary visitors.

When I reached the flags again, I decided to stop.  The rain was coming down lightly, and my curiosity was even greater than before.  I carefully read the placards in front of each flag, considering the combined history.  The frustrated history of mistaken identity:  Stars & Bars was changed to the battle flag, so as not to be mistaken with Stars & Stripes in a fight.  The battle flag incorporated into the white field of the second national flag, which had to have a vertical, red bar added later, so as not to be mistaken for a flag of truce.

That’s a rough history for a movement.  Seems a little confusing.  I tried to commit it to memory, as I walked the last bit of the trail to the parking lot, past the African-American families headed up the mountain with beach chairs under their arms.

Before I left the park, I wanted to see the carving.  I know very little about the Civil War, other than I was taught that it was about slavery, and my ex was taught that it was about trade embargos.  I couldn’t tell you who the heroes of the war were, or where the important battles happened.  But I still wanted to see the generals carved into the side of the stone.

I drove around the edge of the park until I saw a sign for the plantation and the “memorial lawn.”  It sounded promising.  I walked past the boarding area for the gondola, where Star Wars music was being pumped like IV fluid to the excited families waiting to fly to the top, through a whitewashed colonial-style building that vomited air-conditioning into the Atlanta heat, and out onto a viewing area.

Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis rode across the face of the rock, their horses given equal billing on the informational signs.

I stood there, battling my fight or flight response.  Fascinated.  Petrified.  Now, I’d like to make it clear that I’m an intelligent person.  That I’m fairly rational. That I have deep interest in things that are different from my experience.  I often seek these situations out, ready to confront my unease.  But here, the unbelievable discord of the place crept into my cells.  It still does when I think back on it.  And I couldn’t find a way through it.

So I tried the nature path.  The path led past flags of the confederate states.  Scarcely little information was provided.  Too bad, really.  I was happy to learn more.  But I’d have to do it online.  I walked down to the front of the lawn and back around.  I saw the scenic railroad cars filled with tourists.  I saw the high-ropes course and the recreated “Crossroads” town.  I saw the white families playing volleyball in the shadow of the mountain, and the young black men wearing “Stone Mountain” polo shirt uniforms as they staffed the attractions.

And then I left.  Uncomfortable, but curious.  And excited to talk with my Atlanta friends about what all I’d observed – sure I was missing some major dynamics that would help it all make sense.  (In fact, as I write this, I’m sure there are people who will be willing to tell me how I got this all wrong, and why, exactly, this is understandable.  And probably how racially and socially insensitive I am.  That’s great.  I’d like to know.)

Only, when I got back to the house, my Atlanta friends looked at me like I was a small child, unable to really understand.  “Am I missing something?”  I asked, after describing the black workers and picnicking families.

“Hmmm,” is about the extent of what I got in response.

I tried again a few days later with another friend who had grown up there.  “We’re thinking of going to the laser show at Stone Mountain.  Want to join?”  The Stone Mountain laser light show is legend.  Confederate glory lasered on to the face of the mountain and set to classic rock.  According to the website, there also seemed to be some kind of tribute to Elvis.  My friend was not interested.

“It’s just a bunch of rednecks,” was her response.  She didn’t go much beyond that when I probed further.  I didn’t find that response especially helpful.

It wasn’t until I posted about my experience on facebook that I got anything more.  A law-school classmate who had grown up in Atlanta, and happened to be African-American, responded to my “am I missing something here?” post.

“No, not missing anything. That kind of crap is just so engrained there that people don’t notice it … It’s still very much the old south for much of the population mentally.  Took me leaving to realize how truly creepy the laser show is (or even just the carving by itself). Like I said, issues.”

Indeed.  When I googled Stone Mountain, I found out that the man who carved Mount Rushmore had originally been involved in the carving of Stone Mountain.  Interesting enough.  I also found out that the KKK had re-org meetings on the top of the place.  You know right around where the tram lets people off to visit the gift shop.  And the snack shop.   I think maybe society has some issues.  Or maybe I have some issues.  I don’t know.  But, for the first time, I found myself unable to understand.  Unable to come up with some storyline that made sense of what I was seeing.  But I guess it made sense to the German tourists.  I don’t know.  I just don’t know.

The day before I left Italy for Atlanta, I was in a fit of groundlessness.  Both of the places I’d planned to stay in Atlanta had fallen through, and then reemerged.  When I left Italy, actually got on the plane, I didn’t know where I’d be staying when I landed.  I sent an email to both of my friends asking them to talk amongst themselves and let me know where I should tell the taxi driver to drop me.

I checked my phone as I waited in the customs line in New York, and found that I’d be staying with my friend Kelly for a few days.  I’d camp in her attic room – in June – in the Atlanta heat – without air conditioning.  Then I’d transfer over to my friend Linda’s place, passed around like a smiling football.  This was fine by me.  I’m a pretty easy traveler.  Not a lot rattles me, and I’m happy to sleep almost anywhere.

Kelly was set to pick me up at the airport when my late-night flight arrived.  That changed, though, around hour 3 of sitting on the tarmac in Ney York.  Hour 3 of sitting between 2 giant guys, after I’d traded my specifically selected aisle seat with a woman who wanted to sit with her daughter. “I bet this isn’t what you had in mind when you switched.”  She was right.  I pick my seats very specifically.  At this point I’d been traveling for about 26 hours.  I talk about culture shock pretty regularly, but sitting between two big black guys for three hours, in a hot-ass, non-moving plane, trying to make small talk about a church conference was a seriously challenging re-entry.

When we finally made it to Atlanta, I was in an okay place.  I was channeling my father, ready to figure out how to get a hotel room in the area, and take the shower that I’d been dreaming about for about 12 hours.

I cruised to the front of the plane when the seatbelt sign went off, waved to some of the friends I’d made on my Pisa NYC trip, and booked-it to baggage claim.  Where I proceeded to wait for over an hour.  Long story short, I ended up filing a lost-baggage report, and receiving a little toiletry bag from the airlines.  It was nice.  It even had a t-shirt for me to sleep in.  As I filled out the report, the agent asked me to describe my bag.  “Point to what kind it is,” she said, handing me a laminated card, and smiling kindly.

“It’s a backpack.”  I pointed at the diagram and handed it back to her.

“Oh, did you check oversize?  That’s where backpacks go.”

No, no I had not checked oversize.  My bag was not, in fact, oversized.  So I signed my report, just in case, took my little gift bag and headed to the oversized baggage area.  My little bag, in its friendly, green rain cover was there among army duffels, and weaponry.

Clinging to my post-bag-retrieval high, I sauntered up to the bank of reservation phones to book a hotel.  I studied the colorful pictures, and familiar hotel names.  My dad was a traveling sales man, so I grew up spending family vacations in hotel rooms earned with frequent flier miles and points.  Each logo evoked a specific emotion or memory of sandy beaches, and amusement parks.

I called through the friendly logos, finding each of them booked.  Evidently, the airport had been practically shut down for two days due to the thunderstorms that had kept us grounded in New York.  Stranded travelers had already filled the best hotels.  Around the time I was calling my 10^th hotel, I started making friends with the other travelers standing in front of the phones.  We warily traded information:  All of the Holiday Inns were booked, the number for the Comfort Suites was incorrect.

And then we all found an opening.  I can’t even remember the hotel name, but it was close, and it had rooms.  One after the other we called, booking whatever we could, happy to get on a shuttle and get some sleep.  It was 1AM and we were collectively exhausted.

We made our ways to the shuttle area and waited.  When the van pulled up and the doors opened, we stood back to let the others off.

“If you are going to Ramada, don’t.  It has bedbugs and mold.”  A group was piling off, clearly jacked up on adrenaline and drama.  We weren’t headed to the Ramada.  We were headed next door.  I tried not to think about how far bedbugs could travel, and whether mold would matter if I was spending 7 hours in the room…

The hotel was dingy, trapped in the early 80s.  We waited outside a semi-secure vestibule large enough for 2 people, and stifling in the Atlanta heat – even at 1:30AM.  Through bullet-proof glass I paid my $69 and received my key.  The desk clerk pointed to the room closest to the street, and across from the pool/vending/front desk.  All I could think about was a shower and a pillow.  My carefree traveling self was fading, slowly replaced by a character from Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

I keyed in, looked around, and stuck my head back out the door to give the thumbs-up to the others who were still waiting for keys.  We’d wondered whether we’d have better luck across the street at the Highland Inn, or something like that.

Backpack balanced on a chair; shampoo in hand, I headed into the bathroom.  And found that there was no hot water.  None.  I let the shower run, hoping it would warm up.  I jiggled the handle and tried the sink.  Zero.  I thought feebly about asking for another room, but I the bed’s tractor beam pulled me in, and I passed out on the way to the door.  I’d shower in the morning.

I didn’t move for about 6 hours.  When I woke up, it was still with thoughts of hot water .  Which did not exist.  Not in my room, at any rate.  No matter, Kelly was coming, and I could get a shower at her place.  I packed up and waited for her call.

“Hi!” came her chipper voice.  “I’ve got a great day planned for us.  We’re going to head to coffee, then to breakfast, then to a meeting, then somewhere fun, and then home tonight.  Make sure you get a shower. ”  Crap.

It’s been a while since I took a submarine shower.  I’m not so good at them.  Fortunately, halfway through the chilly ordeal, the hot water appeared, out of nowhere.  I did a little dance, and scrubbed a couple of days of bus, train and plane rides off of my body.

I checked out, and thought about how mildly grumpy I was that I had to pay for a crap-ass hotel room.  Fortunately, I’d be spending the week with people I loved.  I tried to focus on that, not wanting Kelly to know how un-great my night had been.

When Kelly arrived, it was with some news.  She’d run into her neighbors on the way out of the house.  They were headed to the airport for a 3-week vacation.  That meant that their carriage-house – a beautiful space with a full kitchen and bathroom – was empty.  Quick-on-the-draw Kelly had secured the space for me.   She was a little apologetic when she described the place, afraid that I’d be disappointed not to stay with her.  But the idea of my own bathroom and air conditioning was a dream.

We spent the day tromping around the city, eating, drinking coffee, and catching up.  When we rolled up to Kelly’s place, and she pointed to the neighbors’, I laughed.

It was more beautiful than anything I could have planned.  Nestled into a gorgeous backyard, with its own porch and swing, the carriage house was perfect.  I crunched up the gravel drive, through the white-picket-fence, and opened the door.  The burst of cool air that met me at the door made me laugh again.  Kelly headed to her place, and I set to unpacking.  I drew a bath in the clawfoot tub, and made some tea on the stove.  Then I kicked back in the oversized chair, thinking about the fact that Kelly would never have run into the neighbors if my plane had been on time.  I drifted off, smiling about the $69 I’d paid for the week-long stay at the carriage house, and knowing, once again, how wonderful groundlessness can be.

Damn.  I knew I was hooked almost immediately.  They had a nice outdoor seat for me, in the cool-enough Atlanta evening.  I quickly made friends with my waiter, Daniel who, when I asked his name, handed me his business card (I thought this was a nice touch), and we started moving through the menu.

Something I learned in Italy was the benefit of taking advice.  Some advice, about what to eat, from the wait staff.  These people know the food intimately.  They see it all day long.  They smell it.  They eat it.  They see what gets sent back, and know what the chef is most proud of.

Tonight I took my Daniel’s advice.  “You’ll be good if you order the special salad and the red quinoa.”  Okay, not what I was thinking, but why not?  I’d eaten late in the day, and my slice of pizza was quickly turning into a full-blown, serious meal.  I had a conversation with my stomach and prepared myself.

Or so I thought.

The salad, which was big enough to be a meal in its own right, was beautiful.  It was endive and arugula with seasoned Marconi almonds, grilled peach, and goat cheese.  Holy yum.

I savored every scrap of it, listening to the lesbian couple next to me bicker about whether they would allow their infant daughter to know the family members they didn’t like, and whether people who don’t work are just a drain on society.

I just smiled at my salad.

A fool, I had debated with Daniel about whether I should have the quinoa (I love quinoa), or something else I can’t even remember now.  The quinoa erased all memory of competing meals.

I’ll try to reconstruct the combinations of flavors and textures, because it was precisely these combinations that made the plate of food sing.  The quinoa, which was nutty and beautiful, had a delicate crunch, and sat on a bed of roasted red peppers.  Slightly roasted.  Roasted just enough to concentrate the flavors, while leaving the soft, sweet flesh tender.  That sweetness paired beautifully with the tangy tomatillo salsa, and the crunchy, salty asparagus that had been slightly braised.  The magnificent corn sauce was entirely of its own flavor, creamy and sweet.  Independent in the way it made the whole, stewed tomatoes edgy, and the mushrooms even more elegant.

I’d been worried about the mushrooms.  Generally, I’m a fan, but shitake can border on the slimy, chewy, nasty side for me.  I have to say, though, these were the star of the show.  They were marinated, seasoned and sautéed in a way that made them tender and succulent.

The endive and microgreens were lovely as well.  The finished off the piece, giving it a light, clean feeling.

I spent a good amount of time, studying the dish, which was beautiful and inviting.  I paired different parts and evaluated each combination.  It was as much entertainment as meal.  Even as I became increasingly, uncomfortably full, I wanted to make sure I’d tried everything fully before abandoning my attempt.

Daniel glided past a couple of times making eye contact long enough for me to smile, give the thumbs up, or nod vigorously.  When he saw a slow-down in the action, and approached again, he was smiling.  “Dessert?”

Now, I wasn’t hungry.  I was, in fact, unhungry.  But it’s almost always worth hearing the list, in my experience.  He went through a litany of tasty treats, gelato, tort, etc.  And churros.  With a chocolate dipping sauce.

I’d heard tell of such things existing in far off lands like Spain.  My experience of curros was relegated to Disneyland and Costco.

“What’s made in-house.”  The question had served me in so very many situations, and I pulled it out now with relish.

“Well, the churros.”  He was a little sheepish telling me that they didn’t make everything there.  It wasn’t a problem for me, though.  The churros sounded delicious, and I didn’t really want anything huge, so it was a win-win.

“And an espresso.  Let’s do this thing.”  Daniel smiled a conspiratorial smile and headed to the kitchen.

I sat in front of the plate of fried, sugared delight.  It reminded me of an edible Calder staybile.  You know those giant steel sculptures that look like mobiles that have fallen to the ground?  Yeah, maybe it’s an obscure reference, but it’s the truth.

Passersby gawked.  Kids.  Adults.  Dogs.  I could hear the lesbians whispering next to me, and after an hour of ignoring each other, they finally asked what I was eating.  The power of the churros was strong.

“How is everything?”  Daniel was back.

“You might want to give people a heads up about the size.  I’m getting stares.”  He giggled and looked at the ground.

The churros were hot.  They were extruded and fried-to-order.  Which was perfect.  I thought I’d finally make it through a meal in Atlanta without a fried course.  Nope.  The fried dough had a wonderfully crispy exterior, and an airy, doughy inside.  The tubes were the size of a big carrot, and crunched with a satisfying sound when I chomped into them.

The chocolate dipping sauce was slightly spiced, and equally hot.  Throwing all concerns about staring lesbians, I dip pieces of churro in the sauce, and then into the surplus cinnamon-sugar on the plate.  The chocolate dripped on the way to my mouth, and I soaked it up with more fried dough.  There were enough churros for four people.  And I ate them all.  Every last one.

I paid my bill and laughed at what my little piece of pizza had turned into.  Then I moved Spain further up my list of places to visit.  Pretty much for the churros.

Breakfast:

My first day there, my hostess, Kelly, took me to one of the best breakfast spots in town:  Highland Bakery.  (It just so happens, it’s gay-owned, too.  Joy!)  I’d been there about 7 years ago when I last visited Atlanta.  It was good then, but now it’s bigger, better and even more delicious.

What’s better than being greeted by a cupcake-laden pastry counter?  Not much really.  Unless it’s a mini-muffin sampler!

Yeah, that was good.

The actual meal was a breakfast sandwich of some kind for Kelly, and the breakfast burrito, recommended by our waiter.  I’ll have to go back to try the Hoppin’ Highland.

Pretty much every day, I headed to the Dancing Goats for coffee and bagels.  Mmmmm, bagels.  I hadn’t my usual bagel fix for over a month, so I was really excited to encounter the hand-made, wood-fired bagels at Dancing Goats.

Not to mention the world-class coffee.  (There are only two Dancing Goats coffee-shops, despite the coffee being sold everywhere.)

And then there were donuts.  I heard there was a place that’s been compared to Voodoo Donut in Portland.  I knew it couldn’t actually be like Voodoo.  That’s not possible.  It was, however, delicious.

Housed in a non-descript strip-mall of a building, Sublime Donuts turns out gourmet donuts.  We chatted with the owner who, when asked for his favorite, waived his arm dramatically and declared “all of them!”  Kelly had the caramel-apple fritter.

And I signed up for a red velvet cake and an orange dream star.

The red velvet was topped with cream cheese frosting and pecans and the orange dream star was filled with creaminess and topped with a delicate, sweet orange frosting.

Next there were the sweet potato waffles at Rise and Dine.  Kelly raved about these things from the second I got in until we had them.  And then a little after that.

She had hers with bacon.  I had mine with Jalapeno cheddar grits.

Turns out I’m a grits girl.

Which I proved again and again, next at The Flying Biscuit.  This place used to be owned by the Indigo Girls.  Now it’s not, but it’s tasty.  I had this:

It was black bean patties, over-medium eggs, tomatillo salsa and feta cheese.  With a side of cheesy grits.  And a biscuit.  And homemade jam.  O. M. Y.  Oh my yum.  This is possibly the best thing I ate in Atlanta.  At least for breakfast.  Don’t be dirty.

The award for most beautiful breakfast in Atlanta came from Rise ‘n’ Dine.  I made a return trip.  This time I had a scramble with tomato, goat cheese and basil.  It came with a beautiful biscuit and house-made, no-sugar-added jam.  It was terrific.  And pretty.

The least delicious, but most interesting breakfast was at IHOP.  It’s been years since I had eaten at an IHOP.  I was a fiend in college.  Currently, IHOP has a 600 calorie or less menu.  I’m really not sure how many people in the house were eating off of it, but my other hostess, Linda, and I were.  Not a bad meal, in fact.  Harvest Nut and Grain pancake, egg substitutes and a banana.

The other quasi-healthy, and much tastier meal I had was at Kelly’s place.  She and her partner cooked for me.  The takeaway from the meal was a recipe for kale chips.  Yep, kale chips.  If you rip kale into potato chip sized pieces, place them on a baking sheet, drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper, and then bake at 400ish until they’re crispy, you’ll be delighted.  It’s almost like a potato chip.  But healthy.  And kale.

I’ve since learned that you can add a bit of mustard to give it a zing.  Paired with cheese I brought back from Italy, we had a darn good meal.

For other healthyish meals, I hit ragin’ tacos for a plate of delicious tofu tacos,

and Lotta Frutta, an excellent, exotic fruit smoothie bar.  I had a guana smoothie and a grilled cheese.

The sandwich came with seasoned corn bits that I would, oddly enough, experience a week later in Peru.

Veggie burgers:

I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of house-made veggie burgers on menus all over the city.  Some of these were seriously good.  Some of these were seriously fried.  Some of these were served in restaurants I will not frequent.

The first was at Joe’s on Juniper, a gay sports bar with a great outdoor seating area.

The burger was house made with black beans, and fried.  It was tasty, but fell apart in my hands, which irritates me, truth be told.  I sat on the patio and listened to labor protestors across the street.  My waiter apologized, but I had good time listening to the chants.

That same night, Kelly took me to a fancy burger bar, called Flip Burger.  I only tell you the name so that you will know that it’s the place that serves fois gras.  For that reason, I won’t, personally, go back.  The burgers were good.  Mine might have been fried, I don’t recall, but it was topped with pickled onions, goat cheese, and microgreens.  Kelly had a bacon cheeseburger.

The real purpose of the trip, however, was the milkshakes.  Kelly’s was toasted marshmallow, and mine was turtle.  Neither of us opted for the goose-liver pate option…

While we were there, we ordered a tray of fried pickles.

Yes, they were good.  They were bread and butter, and came with some kind of buttermilk dipping sauce.  I’ve always pictured a fried pickle as a whole pickle, dropped into a deep fryer.  That’s not what these were.  They could have been bread and butter shoeleather, fried and slathered and they would have tasted good.

Much like the fried okra I had a couple of days later at a place called Farm Burger.

This had some kind of chipotle dipping sauce.  I think I liked this veggie burger best of all.  It was fried and fell apart, but it was quinoa.  I like quinoa.  It’s another grain I saw a lot of in Peru…  Paired with the sweet pickles and goat cheese, the burger was nice.  It went down smoothly.  Which is good, because Farm Burger also serves ice cream floats.  I had a ginger beer one.

While the award for best veggie burger goes to Farm Burger, the award for best fried food goes to Watershed.

That’s an okra pancake.  Actually, it’s two of them.  Chopped and battered and formed into cakes, the okra retains some of its former glory, the tapioca-sized seeds bursting in your mouth.  But it becomes more.  It’s far better than the usual fried-okra, which is pretty darn good.  It was delicate and crispy.  It didn’t hit me over the head with its okraness or its fried nature.  It was just simple and good.  Like everything else on the plate.  There was no surplus.  The heirloom tomatoes were simply seasoned with salt and pepper.  The cucumber salad was dressed with crème fraische.  I left full and happy.  Plus, it was at Emily Saliers place, Watershed.  So it was staffed by cute girls, and had a certain lesbian sensibility about it.

While I ate well the whole time, there’s one meal that stands out.  After a long day of writing, I was hoping to grab a piece of pizza and head back home.  Only, on the way to the pizza place, I got sidetracked by a menu in the window of the Iberian Pig.

That’s the pig.  Or it’s A pig.  Might not be the actually Iberian Pig.  Unclear.  What was clear was that the food was divine.  Peaches, quinoa and churros.  If you want more detail, you’ll have to wait.  This place deserves its own post.

Now, I know that some of you are saying, “Atlanta’s not the South!”  Well, it is.  For someone from Portland, it’s the South.  I like Atlanta, but it might have been less of a shock to head directly to Peru, where the language difference would have alerted my brain that I was, indeed, in a different country/culture.  Spending a week in a place that looked and sounded somewhat familiar was just enough to make me feel like I was losing my mind.  I spent time searching for the gayness that I’d missed so desperately over the last month, and finding fried food

Stone Mountain

and slow-talking hospitality.

Total strangers put me up in their beautiful guest-house.  Amazing.

I even found some of the gayness, too.

But that just contributed to the feeling of being constantly off-balance.  I could read the menus, but couldn’t anticipate the constantly fried preparations.  I could navigate the nature hikes, but couldn’t absorb the confederate flags along the trail.  I still don’t know if it’s good or bad etiquette to take pictures of confederate monuments, or if there’s a reason to put fois gras in a milkshake.  Anyone?  Anyone?

There’s a tower.

There’s a lake.

There’s a beach.

There’s Puccini’s opera house.

There’s a gay disco or two.

There’s more than one crazy person.

And there’s more than one vendor.

We experienced this.  All of it.

Also, should you forget your bathing suit, it’s not a problem.

The locals don’t mind.