NO Free Ride, NO way

The two little girls are maybe eight years old. Maybe. The late afternoon, and their red skirts and white shirts identify them as students heading home from school. They congregate with other, older people at a busy intersection near Guama, Cuba, and without a second’s hesitation, they jump into the car.

In the United States, a loving mother would scold her daughter within a half-inch of her life for a stunt like this. In Cuba, hitchhiking is standard transportation. Kids learn the ropes early, and many thumb rides all their lives because they will never earn enough to buy an old car, not even a bicycle.

Barbara and Fidelia are the first hitchhikers we pick up on our four-day blitz of Central Cuba. Because we’re two women at large, we figure support for other females is the order of the day. Through the Sisterhood, we can practice our Spanish, learn something of the Cuban culture and get knowledgeable local guides for the low, low cost of access to our empty backseat.

 

Although safety was initially an issue, we soon learn that “gringas” behind the wheel of a brand new Peugeot can pick up anyone they want with no concern for life or limbs. It’s almost like being On the Road with Jack Kerouac, mid-1900s in the US. Indeed, friends of mine hitched rides across the states well into the 1970’s; even I picked up roadside travelers until sometime in the late 60’s.

I’m not sure of the exact date—probably shortly after I read Truman Capote’s 1966 blockbuster “In Cold Blood” —but one day I decided strangers just might be dangerous. 

Not so in Cuba’s countryside. Barbara teaches an adult education history class, and she hitchhikes as much as 50 miles-a-day to reach her diverse classroom locations. This afternoon, our lunch stop is at a roadside restaurant where the manager is one of her students.

Then there’s Fidelia, who lives in Santa Clara. Yes, Fidelia is her real name and she teaches fencing—yes, fencing—to students of all ages. She’s hitching the 120 miles home from Havana after spending the weekend with her sister. Anywhere but in Cuba, where fencing is a government-sponsored sport, Fidelia would be a starving artist. 




Cathedral in Trinidad, Cuba

 

We offer rides to couples with babies; to rugged, young men when we’re really lost, and generally, to anyone with whom we think we can communicate. But by the third day’s late afternoon, we’re truly brain-dead from all the work it takes to meet and learn about people in a foreign culture. In fact, one old girl gets a bit testy in the later-day heat and she unwittingly sets off a philosophical shift in our loosely formed travel agenda: “Psst, psssst, senorita,” she repeatedly calls to Jan, who is riding shotgun and has to do most of the talking while I drive. 

Jan doesn’t mind the incessant chatter, but the finger jabs to her shoulder, with each of Mamacita’s new thoughts, begin to hurt. After we drop her off in a remote village, Jan announces: “No more Spanish lessons in the afternoon; no more pickups past 1 p.m. Whenever we come to people on the road, we’ll look the other way, avoid eye-contact and we won’t feel so darn guilty when we drive by.”



Remote village in Central Cuba



Oh yes, we’re spoiled gringas (sunglasses in a land where nobody wears them immediately gives us away), but we simply can’t bypass the two muchachas wilting in the dead heat of the after-school sun near Guama.

When the little girls jump in, they don’t say much. They just giggle and huddle together on the backseat. And when they motion us to drive past the wide double-lane highway that looks awfully familiar, we ask:  “Isn’t this the National Autopista we want to take to Havana?”

“No, no” they assure us. The road we want is down the way, nearer to their homes. 

And then we wise up: The tiny tots are in this for a chauffeured ride, right up to their front doorsteps. 

In travel—as in life—it’s the shy, baby faces you gotta watch.

   

Angels in the Swamp

I can’t see his wings, but Angel is aptly named. Like some ethereal being, his vision permeates Zapata Swamp’s mangrove clusters and hardwood thickets. Each time he signals quiet with his finger to lips; each time he turns to point, my eyes follow and voila! A Cuban tody materializes, or a rosette spoonbill or some other rare avian species.



Endangered White Crown Pigeon



Although Angel Martinez Garcia is formally trained as a “biologist technician”, he is a world-class birder. For 31 years he has worked for the Cuban National Park system, and since 1991, when Las Salinas’ wetlands came under official protection, Angel and colleagues have guided as many as 3,000 tourists a year through this section of Cuba’s million+ acres of southern Matanzas swampland. The 21-kilometer dirt road that runs through Las Salinas is bird heaven—Angel’s specialty, of course—with manatees in deeper waters; Cuban crocodiles in the shallows.

“I can’t promise many birds this time of year,” says Angel, after I pick him up at the park office.  “In the winter, flamingos by the thousands flock here, but many species migrate away during these summer months. The water is low enough to drive on the road now, but that means fewer birds, no cocodrilos.”



The 21-kilometer road thru Cuba's Las Salinas wetlands



“No crocodiles?” I whine. But disappointment is short lived when I stop the car at Angel’s direction. We exit the a/c of the rented Peugeot, and climb a lookout tower. From this vantage, we spy reddish and great egrets, blue herons, black hawks and ospreys. 

This drive-by form of bird watching is wonderfully convenient, but so far the species are similar to the USs biggest swamp, the Everglades, which I live not far from in Key West.



Great White Egret



Farther up the road, a flock of 30 or so flamingos wades in the salty brine. A mile further, a flock of wood storks nest in trees. White ibis and black-neck stilts fish in the roadside shallows. A scarlet ibis and the rosette spoonbill are special treats on the return drive. 

We make one more stop. In a hardwood hammock, Angel knocks on a wooden tree trunk.  Up pops two curious screech owls. Then by listening to the forest, it happens: new life-listers appear. Angel points me to the small lime-green Cuban tody and the much larger, Cuban trogon. All decked out in red, white and blue, Cuba’s national bird is its flag-on-the-wing.

Other winged-things like mosquitoes are fiercer in the hardwoods than on the marshy flats. They lock on to my white linen shirt and slacks with the blood-sucking gusto of leeches. Accessorized with black flip-flops and do-rags to protect my face and neck, this particular ensemble is hardly the stuff of swamp walks. But when I planned this most recent trip to Cuba, I didn’t count on a bird outing of such magnitude. Only this morning my swamp-suit was culled from city clothes when Hotel Playa Larga’s front desk clerk said, “Yes, I can get you a guide.”

As you might expect, tourists don’t just flock to Cuban national parks the way they drop into parks stateside. Everything is arranged by “Powers That Be”: guide, gate guard, time (three hours), fee ($10). Obviously, a higher authority is watching over me, and armed with bug spray, binoculars, bird books and all that jizz, which Angel backpacks for my use, he whisks me in and out of these mosquito-infested swamps and back to the Peugeot with a smile on my face.



Zapate Swamp's Las Salinas



But no cocodrilos. No Zapata wren, nor sparrow nor rail, all rare species found only here, and whose habitat requires some muck-oozing, swamp walking that goes well beyond my sandals. When in Cuba, though, I figure you do as the Cubans do: improvise. I ask Angel to shorten the Las Salinas tour and take me on a side excursion to nearby Sopillar, where live zunzuncitos, the smallest birds in the world known in English as bee hummingbirds.

A mile hike into the bush along an old logging road renders only blood (mosquitoes), sweat and tears (blisters). “Noon is not the best hour for spotting birds,” Angel apologizes. We hike another sweltering mile to another blue-flowered salsa parrilla tree where I see a locust-size blur move in erratic, helicopter-like motion. Angel confirms it’s a zunzuncito and remarkably, three more passbys offer up a rainbow display of feathers.

On the walk back, Angel raises finger to lips, points and a Cuban green woodpecker appears. A few more steps, a giant lizard cuckoo materializes. Next, a stripe-headed tanager. A pee wee. Two more trogons. At high noon during off, off-season (June) the Zapata Swamp, via an earthbound Angel Garcia, delivers more birds to my Life List than any other single day of birding. Ring him up when you’re in Cuba (059-7249), and dress smartly for the occasion: You, too, may meet Angels in the swamp.



Angel Martinez Garcia at Cuba's National Park office in Zapata Swamp



Cuzco Weekender

Revered by the Incas as the “navel” of the world, Cuzco is still the epicenter of its ancient culture; the gateway to its Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu. But over the course of eight centuries, Old Town roots entangled more than Amerindian palaces as Spanish Conquistadores destroyed or built atop their temples. These days, the Inca and Colonial façade of stone-cold walls flush against steep, cobblestone streets echoes a contemporary liveliness and energy that’s revitalizing everything antique: Backpacker chic is central to the city’s hum.

Andean fashions currently popular worldwide, such as fingerless gloves and ear-flappy hats known as chullos, are as commonplace as Asolo hiking boots. Among the half million Peruvians, who live in Cuzco and embrace the developing international scene, most newcomers—tourists, students, ex-pats—respect the mountains as much as the ruins. Only natives, though, get past the huffing and puffing at 11,000 feet, and even then most agree, the highlife is breathtaking in more ways than one.

Friday afternoon: Settle into the cultural core, Plaza de Armas—by far the biggest park-like square of many in surrounding neighborhoods. City tours in wooden streetcars start here; dozens of bars and restaurants line the curbs. Grab Peru’s popular brew, Cusquena lager, at Norton Rat’s Tavern (115 Loreto, second floor). Balconies just big enough to hold bar stools guarantee plaza viewing or 30-seconds of vitamin D from the rare sunray that breaks across mountaintops. Eavesdrop into trekking tales next balcony over. Heavily accented English is spoken here, but Spanish is better for a game of pool or darts.

Before hiking back to your hotel to forestall headache—beer or altitude?—drop into Paititi located directly below the Rat’s. This restaurant is named after a mythical Inca city, lost and never found. Place an order for cuy, a traditional staple of Andean cuisine that takes 3 hours prep. Before turning up your nose at the roasted guinea pig specialty, remember: Peru gave the world potatoes, too. Be sure to reserve the table for two at Paititi’s entry window to watch dancers in full Peruvian dress, who celebrate something almost every evening on the raised-concrete promenade of Cuzco’s Cathedral across the street.

Arrive for 8 p.m. dinner at Paititi (corner of Loreto and Mantas; http://www.restaurantpaititi.com/) with the traditional Peruvian pan flute band. This quartet will still be playing “The Condor” when you scrape the last bit of stuffing from the crispy guinea pig. Because cuy is cooked and served whole, following the tableside presentation—in this particular case, the little pig’s wearing a tomato chullo on its head—waiters trim it into finger-food because typically, hands are the utensils of choice. Other Plaza de Armas restaurants serve cuy, some at half Paititi’s price, but all need 3-hour notice.

Saturday morning: Even if you’re not staying at Hotel Monasterio (Calle Palacios 136), have breakfast here. The buffet is bountiful; the service superior, the architecture elegant. A hearty meal at this Jesuit stronghold, built in 1575 atop an Incan emperor’s palace, includes a classical-Spanish guitarist in the courtyard, which properly sets the stage for The Center for Traditional Textiles of Cusco(603 Avenida Sol; http://www.textilescusco.org/ ).

The easy hike is downhill to weavers from 9 isolated highland villages, where they carry on the work of elders, creating distinctive patterns tied to each community’s cultural identity. This is the real hand-woven deal, not a souvenir shop for ubiquitous striped-cargo pants or commercially made placemats. Weavers demonstrate backstrap looms and the adjoining museum of festival dress is free to visitors. Although Martha at the front desk says the not-for-profit organization is all about fair trade, expect to pay big bucks-by-Cuzco standards for handbags and blankets that range from $35-to-$200US.

Hike back uphill to Calle San Agustin and Inca Roq’a, where the only original Inca block wall still stands in Cuzco proper. Note the precision of hand-hewn, stone-to-stone placement and compare the craftsmanship to cobblestone streets and pebbled courtyards. En route, peek into every open doorway to get a sense of the vigorous social life hidden behind massive doors and high-city walls. Stop to visit Mama Llama—and her endangered vicuna cousins—grazing in the glass-walled park on Calle Maruri, next to San Agustin International Hotel. 

  

Continue to climb straight up San Agustin-cum-Calle Palacios-cum other street names that change at almost every corner to reach San Cristobal church. Real trekkers mosey on up this 3.2-mile track to Sacsayhuaman*, an Inca fortress. Entry to its layered walls requires a boleto turistico, the government-issued pass for cultural events, museums, parks. Buy a 10-day pass for $50US at Oficina Ejecutiva del Comite on Av. Sol 103, which includes some of the events listed here and marked with an *. Compared to US park fees, Peru’s high prices seem overly protective (a one-day ticket to Machu Picchu=$64US), but lesser expensive student passes or partial boleto turisticos limit what national treasures you may visit.  

Catch your breath winding back down narrow alleyways and walk-thrus. In neighborhood plazas, locals display llamas and art students galore display portfolios; pick from watercolor landscapes or saints painted oil-on-canvas in the Escuela Cusquena style of art. End up in San Blas Plaza for lunch at Pachapapa (Plazoleto San Blas 120), directly across from the church. This is one of many hidden courtyard restaurants, where personal pizzas are baked in huge bread ovens. A big bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, though, is good for the soul ($3US) and easy to digest for a body working hard in thin air.

Top off lunch with El Hada artisan ice cream at 167 Q’hapchikijllu walkway then visit Santa Catalina Convent* a few doors up. If shopping is in order, look for fine clothing along Zetas Street in upscale stores like Latina Americana (#306). Since the wild vicuna has become a protected species, baby alpaca is the fibrous buzzword for sweaters, coats and ruanas that cost about 1/3 of US shops.

From church bells to pan flutes, music drives Andean nightlife. Start the evening with Peruvian folk dancing at Centro Qosqo de Arte Nativo* (604 Avenida Sol) or return to Q’hapchikijllu, this time to #159, where The Dragon’s Palate features American rock ‘n roll like you’ve never heard. Think Chuck Berry, the Beatles or Eric Clapton on fiddle and bongos. This foursome—The Guardians—play music as unconventional as the base player’s chullo and lead guitarist’s cowboy hat. They even throw in Spanish and English folk songs as diners and winers enjoy Italian pasta on the patio. Antique doors are the restaurant’s tabletops, salvaged during the recent restoration of the early-1700s hacienda, which also features a series of art galleries (http://www.tupacyuapnqui.info/).

Because Cuzco is not a late-night town, budget hostels have movie nights, and the Point (Meson de la Estrella #172; http://www.thepointhostels.com/) offers theme nights or dance contests at its Horny Llama Bar. Since 2010, though, the London Town bar (Calle Tecsecocha #415, second floor) is where the backpacker crowd—when not rising to catch the 5a.m. bus/train to MaPicchu—plays hardy. Or possibly, they play here until they catch the bus at 5 a.m.  Live music starts at 11p and pisco sours, Peru’s national drink, flow until 3 a.m.

Sunday morning: Go to church.  

Choose from 10 within blocks of Plaza de Armas. Most are open on Sunday, although even this day, La Compania cater-corner from the main Cuzco Cathedral requires an entry fee. The Cathedral does not. Among magnificent 16^th and 17^th-century architecture, it is a jewel beyond its solid-silver altar or Baroque-style beams and sculptures gilt in 18-carat gold: From Escuela Cusquena, the first organized artistic center in the New World, one of its last artists, Marcos Zapata painted in 1753 a-not-so-standard Last Supper. In it, Jesus and his disciples are about to chow down on a whole-roasted cuy. In the cross-over culture of Christian icons and nature-loving Amerindians, pumas are carved on the front doors and many of the foundation stones were looted from Sacsayhuaman, when the Cathedral’s construction was started in 1550.

Hotel Monasterio’s El Tupay restaurant donates 1 percent of dinner sales to the local Catholic Diocese—maintaining these architectural wonders costs a bundle—but at least fifty cents goes directly to the salvation of pagan babies when you buy knitted finger puppets from kids hawking on the Cathedral steps.

 Just down street, the more modest San Pedro Iglesia is at the end of Santa Clara Avenida.    The big draw is not other worldly, but rather the down-to-earth focus of San Pedro Market, a cavernous affair of stalls packed under hot tin roofs, stretching full-city blocks. This is where vendors offer the best prices for commercial textiles, Peru’s biggest souvenir items. But primarily, this is the working-class market, where farmers sell fresh produce and flowers, cheeses and breads, meats and potatoes; lots of ‘em—as many as 40 potato varieties subtly flavor recipes, soups to entrees. Who knew a potato is not a potato is not a potato?

Basics

Flights into Cuzco from Lima and Arequipa arrive daily. The airport is 15 minutes from Plaza de Armas, but put on those hiking boots to walk away from taxi drivers asking for more than 10 soles (about $4US). Thereafter, forego vehicles and wear boots for transportation…or dancing.

Hotel Monasterio: Calle Palacios 136, http://www.monasteriohotel.com/. $$$$$. Oriental Express’s luxurious makeover of a 1550 Jesuit monastery.

San Agustin International: 390 Calle Maruri, http://www.hotelssanagustin.com/. $$. Conveniently located in Old Town, two blocks from Plaza de Armas; best rooms are at the top.

EcoPackers Hostel: Santa Teresa #305, http://www.ecopackersperu.com/. $. Not for the get-down get-rowdy backpacking crowd; clean and well located in an historic Old Town building.

Baby Beggars and Boat Boys

At first they’re cute. Then after you’ve been in Rio de Janiero a few days, they’re not so cute.  Now you feel sorry for them; for their tattered clothes; for their grimy little faces.  Before long, though, the scores of children who follow you through the streets wanting handouts become a nuisance. On what’s supposed to be an exciting and fun holiday, big, sad eyes constantly remind you of the social and economic conditions that plague Third Worlds.

Never mind you’ve scrimped to save money for this first-time trip abroad, by comparison, you’re the rich American: Anger at the world’s injustice turns into guilt.

India and Egypt are especially riddled with this army of baby beggars, but big cities of most underdeveloped countries have their share.  How you handle the street kids affects your vacation, perhaps more emotionally than it does financially, for it can slant forever your perspective of, say, Peru, even of the entire geographical region.

My first encounter with youngsters who wanted money from tourists was in Mexico City in the early 1970s.  These children are not to be confused with most of the shy, rural kids who followed me out of curiosity through their village streets.

The Big City kids were on a mission, and some – usually the older ones – were downright menacing: “Protect your car, senorita?”

Although I didn’t appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit at the time, I grudgingly agreed to pay a few pesos for a car intact upon return.  Sometimes the kids were still there, waiting for their hard earned cash; sometimes, they weren’t.  In all but one instance my car was safe, and even then only the aerial was broken off.

Initially, I resented paying them; it was, after all, more threat than service.  But in some places gangs were going to follow me, begging for money anyway, so why not “hire” one of them and get the rest off my back? In fact, somewhere during that three month tour of Mexico I learned a significant lesson from the children—I cannot save the world single-handedly, but I can shape a philosophy for developing young entrepreneurs wherever I travel.

So rather than facilitate bad begging habits, I decided it was incumbent upon me to practice three disciplines that can help educate children. At times it was hard to do, but now it’s second-nature to me:  (1) I never just hand out money, even to the very young.  (2) I always select one child in the bunch, and always insist that he or she do something to earn the money asked for—help me find a park, for instance.  And (3) I always tell the kids why I picked that particular child. She’s the tidiest; he’s the most polite, or speaks English.

Kids need explanations to understand choices; to benefit beyond the few cents I give them. Plus, I don’t feel guilty about ignoring impoverished children. If at all possible, I accompany the child to buy food or clothing just to make sure the kid is the beneficiary, not the parent or the pimp.

Of course, kids are far more creative today. Caribbean boat boys are all over this fluid paradise, and only the most remote islands are free of the entrepreneurial group. Yachties are the targets here.  And while sailboat or power boat vacations suggest we can get away from it all, common sense dictates that the world’s too much into tourism for real obscurity. Eager to be of service in Jamaica or maybe, in the Bahamas, boat boys show up in the harbor before your anchor is set.  In their competitive frenzy for a new customer, they have been known to get in the way of anchoring, which is frequently a tricky activity in a crowded harbor.

I had this unenviable experience in Dominica. And while the captain of the sailboat wasn’t too concerned, the already anchored yachtsmen were in an uproar. Upset with us and our boat skills? Maybe. More likely, they were nervous that the boat boys encircling us like sharks would interfere with the anchoring process and cause us to swing into their boats.

Any time of day, boat boys appear at your bow on surfboards, in dinghies, on floating Styrofoam.  They want to be your shore-link, and they’ll bring you ice or fresh lobster or frozen drinks. They will arrange taxis and tours. They will do almost anything within reason for a fee, much like one interesting young man on Virgin Gorda in the BVI.  He taught me how to clean and cook conch.

But boat boys can be especially frustrating because they can’t be dealt with in a group like children in big cities; hiring one won’t rid you of others.  One comes, he goes.  Another one comes, he goes.  Even when you say “Riggio is our boat boy”, this aggressive lot is undeterred. In some harbors, boat boys keep coming, they don’t respect customer loyalty and they must be firmly rejected before they finally get the picture…and you get some peace.

These young, Caribbean boys have found an honest, though pesky, way to make money in the lucrative tourism industry.  Instead of being cursed, I think they’re to be applauded.  Things could be worse:  Like many youths in the United States, they could tote guns.

Emeralds and Ruins

Everywhere throughout the Peruvian Andes, from Machu Picchu's tropical, 6000-foot-high climate to the dry-arid Lago Titicaca at more than 12,000, each town and tiny village boasts emeralds and ruins: A fertile Pachamama's embrace of Pachapapa's naturally destructive hand.

Plumping up for the winter to come

Especially at summer's end during this rainy month of March, Mother Earth's fecundity is in high form in the high plains—the altiplanos—where wildflowers and lavender and chrysanthemums bloom in riotous color. Water overflowing from Lake Titicaca swamps rich, cultivated fields sprouting corn and potatoes, Peru's agricultural gift to the universe. In fact, at least 40 different kinds of potatoes are intrinsic to the cuisine, depending on recipe.

Storm clouds darken the green plains of Chachani volcano above Arequipa

Mountains towering even above these plains are full of green shrubs and cedars and green, green weeds and grasses to plump up llamas and alpacas for the soon-to-come winter.

Way up here, Patchapapa has laid his cracked, brown hands on Inca temples, some of which date back to archeological ruins in Pukara (0-500 A.D.), well before King Pachacutec's high Inca empire and Machu Pichcu, a most well maintained national park. Yet many ruins stand about unattended; a roofless structure here, a low, meandering stone fence that goes nowhere.

Stones cut for the gods are topped with adobe bricks used by mere morals at the preserved Wiracocha temple in Roaqi, Peru

If a town of, say, 200 people can't lay claim to abandoned ruins or at the least a sacrificial altar then almost always it has a colonial church, or indeed, three or four churches. In one otherwise nondescript village, Andahuaylillas, renovation of San Pedro Cathedral is in full swing. Built circa 1575, the excessively Baroque church (can Baroque be excessive?) challenges St. Peter's in Salzburg, Austria. In Peru, though, this church touts 22-carat-gold leafing on statues and crosses, ceiling beams and huge portrait frames, besting even Cuzco's primary basilica, which is five times the size and gilt through and through with, ahem, 18-carat gold.

Unfortunately, some of the country's ruins are contemporary. Cities like Juliaca or the outskirts of Arequipa harbor hundreds of thousands in shanty-town squalor, a lifestyle that jars senses heavily and blurs the memory of stone cut so precisely a knife blade can't pierce foundation joints.

Tom ponders ancient construction at the Santa Catalina Convent in Arequipa

Ollantaytambo and Aquas Calientes are cities steeped in ancient culture, but these days, they are mostly staging towns for Machu Picchu tourism. Full of hustle and bustle and cheap cinder-block hostels, they're reminiscent of Alaska's boom-bust mining towns.

Contemporary Aquas Calientes

Puno, the gateway to Lake Titicaca, exhibits a similar frenzy of coarseness and youthfulness; backpackers and teenage, native Peruvians bundled with babies on backs. Lots of them; uncut emeralds, truly green among the ruins of hunched old ladies, bent in half from decades of hard labor backpacking bundles of wood, potatoes, reeds up impossibly steep roadsides.

Motorized boats amidst Lake Titicaca's floating islands

Even the ancient culture of Uros, where six or seven families currently live on each of the 49 floating-reed islands in Lake Titicaca, embraces the here-and-now as much as the past. Of course, little old ladies still huddle together to admire their fine embroidering, but motorized reed boats a la Kon-Tiki and solar panels on some thatch houses are something to think about.

I Can See Key West from Here

At roughly 6000 feet, Machu Picchu is certainly not the highest elevation in the world, but it is surely among the highest locations spiritually. Even if you don't necessarily find God here, you might find yourself in this thin place, as defined by NY Times writer Eric Weiner: mesmerizing for sure, with less than six degrees of separation between heaven and earth,..

Huffing and puffing thin air, standing at the edge of sheer cliffs and contemplating ancient architecture, you have to be brain dead not to rethink past, present and future possibilities. The following photos say a lot about the essence of place and politics, surrounded by the myth and mystery of mankind, but I'd be hard pressed to say that one picture is worth a thousand words. Of course, a thousand words on Machu Picchi may be forthcoming.

Huanyna Picchu is probably the world's most recognized mountain peak amidst Vilcabamba, one of the most unknown mountain ranges in Peru's Andes.

Architecture worthy of gods; its stones so carefully cut and stacked, knife blades can't slip between joints

A city for all times; at least 500 years' worth

Contemplating the universe

Tom contemplating the Sacred Valley

Chinchilla contemplating dinner

Antique terraces Inca style for gardening and agriculture; the economic base

Park rangers maintaining structures in Machu Picchu... 

Because Patchamama's seedlings are ever present..

the before...

and after!

Head Scratching Moment in Peru

At nearly two miles high, the headache's gone, thanks to Hotel Monasterio's oxygenated room. Of course, the two 12-hour nights of dead-man sleep probably helped, and for sure my soul is renourished by music: a classical guitarist who plays at breakfast each morning; the opera soprano who sang from the hotel's restaurant pulpit during Tuesday night's dinner, and last night, by the string quartet in the chapel.

Cuarteto de Camara practices in the chapel at Hotel Monasterio

The concert was fabulous: Two hundred people crowd into the golden gilt, religiously-iconated 14^thcentury hall to hear Cuarteto de Camara play Haydn and Halvorsen, Bach and Schubert. The concert is worthy of Key West's Impromptu Classical Concerts, which on March 4 hosted the world-renown protege, pianist Conrad Tao. In Cuzco, though, half the concert goers are under age 30, and when the chapel's huge wooden doors creak shut for the performance at 7p.m., a door-pounding performance takes place by folks stranded outside, who want to get inside.

What an elegant mob scene. Almost entirely local.

The tourist scene, on the other hand, is generally less mobbed in March, the end of the the South American summer. Rainy days and nights are normal; temps range between 60 and 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Tom and I have been weather lucky; the occasional sun ray plows through roiling gray clouds for some most-appreciated moments of vitamin D. Rain or shine, the lure outdoors to hike about the City is irresistible. The steep streets and narrow back alleys are as intriguing as they are intoxicating; in fact, a breath-gasping exercise in lung development that reveals how Tomcito's high-Andean training made him a 2008 Triple Crown contender.

Textured mix of stones and slate indoors and out

I am, of course, not so sure footed. The headaches may be gone, but a lingering sense of altitude impairment lurks behind each trip over a cobble-stone curb, each slip across a slate or highly glazed interior brick floor. Most surface textures are intricate and uneven, even when my sense of balance is balanced. But centuries-old cities like Cuzco attain antique status precisely because they evolve from hard, hard building material. Reflected in the architecture is the solidity of granite and gray slate, clay-tiled roofs and massive brown, cut blocks of stone, not to mention a pervasive monotone.

Colorful family wearing colorful fibers

Cusquenians challenge such dullness with flashy fibers—vibrantly colored blankets and wraps, ear-flappy hats with braided ties, fingerless gloves, embroidered skirts—all natural materials, woven with cotton and wool from alpaca and vicuna.

Marybelle displays an endangered vicuna pelt in her fibers shop

Oops! No mas vicuna. Because this wild camalid has been over harvested, Peru protects vicuna and its lush, downlike fur. The super-soft baby alpaca, which is domesticated and sheered, is vicuna's fashionably trendy replacement. En route to Banco da la Nacion, Tom and I drop into a city park, where Mama Llama greets us with a few grunts and spits and hisses. In the distance, a couple of alpaca, or is that vicuna? happily harvest the terraces' grass.

            Mama Llama greets us in a Cuzco city park

This lovely cultural moment transitions into a real headache at the bank when we try to prepay our $64-per-person park tickets for tomorrow's entrance into Machu Picchu: After a half hour queue the bank cashier refuses to accept our credit cards. That's right, no US credit available at Peru's national bank. Even more head scratching: Because she accepts cash for MaPicchu tickets, the cashier then refuses to trade Peruvian soles for US dollars. She explains there's a daily exchange limit—banks only accept $4US in trade—and obviously, the two-day, $128 pass has already over taxed the bank's assets.

Can we thank the US credit downgrade for this, or are we at war with Peru?

Not Tonight Honey

"Honey, I have a headache" is a given in these parts. But because I almost never get headaches I didn't think much about altitude sickness, even after a half dozen or so conversations with people who suffered the malady. Not even when Mary, a Spanish teacher from Pennsylvania sitting next to me on the early morning LAN Air flight that descends into Cuzco, Peru says, "Man, the pilot doesn't have to drop down much to make a landing here."

Cuzco rooftops behind Hotel Monestario

Tucked into an Andean valley at 11,000 feet, this antique city boasts a half million people and among them, Carlos a native Cusquenian who works at the Hotel Monasterio figures that headaches are a standard mode of operation: "Especially when I go to higher altitudes," he says.

My friend Tom anticipated the possibility of headaches so he booked the first three of our 24 nights in Peru at the Monasterio. Three days of glorious pampering and acclimating. This is especially prudent because the hotel's driver snags us instantly at the airport, amidst the chaos of taxi drivers hawking rides: One headache saved. The trip is quick to the heart of Old Town and Hotel Monastario, built in 1595 on the site of the Palace of Inca Amaru Qhata. It is a national landmark. It's also one of the few hotels in the world that infuses its rooms with oxygen-enriched air to help temper the impact of altitude sickness.

My first clue that I'm getting high is not a headache, but rather the slowly developing loss of balance--an unnerving problema in the land of mountains and Machu Picchu. After a cup of coca tea I feel absolutely airheaded, almost like I'm about to fall off the chair--time for an oxygen-enriched room.

Paititi hidden in stone galleries at Plaza de Armas

Four hours of sleep and no food since 9 a.m. sends us scouting into the evening air and through the plethora of narrow, cobble-stone streets and open-air plazas. We find Paititi, a fine little pizzaria hidden in ancient stone galleries across from the Plaza de Armas. Fausto, the owner, informs us Paititi is an Incan city that has been pursued by many, but found by none. The wine and pizza is a lifesaver; Fausto a true gentleman, who wishes us many more Paititis on our Andean adventures.

Tom in search of oxygen

Then Tom announces what we need to search for most is oxygen: He has a headache.

Any Place but Here, Any Time but Now

He doesn’t send flowers anymore. She hasn’t initiated sex in months. Alas, life’s endless routines get in the way of most things sensual. Except, of course, travel. Something about luggage lifts the daily baggage from our heads and hearts: Minds roam freely with wanderlust. Lust wanders back into placid relationships. Fantasies shape up and romance happens.

Now, “romance” is a complexity of nouns and verbs, with almost two inches of definitions in Webster’s Dictionary. Throw in three more inches if you’re inclined to be “romantic” and by the time you untangle all the possibilities for romance, you’ve untangled all the body parts and failed to seize the moment.

So let me clarify: I define the true romantic as anyone who wants to be “any place but here, any time but now.” He’s hard to live with and she’s harder to travel with, but spontaneity is the mantra for both. More importantly, spontaneity is intrinsic to romance, adventure and travel, in general. Especially in the tropics. Especially in February when the cold, cold north turns icy white and valentines twinkle in your lover’s eyes.

Right now is the time to head south to recharge those numb nerve endings. In the Caribbean, nature heightens sensuality with warm breezes, barely clad bodies, exotic beaches and blue, blue water. Sooner or later, everyone heeds Mother Ocean’s call, for indeed, cruising is one of the most sensual ways to tap that primal urge. But giant, generic “Love Boats” in Big City Ports with a few thousand strangers do not hold the tickets. No, no. Spontaneity’s best friend is bareboat sailing in say, the Virgin Islands, or maybe the Grenadines, where you choose your own shipmates, charter your own course and arrange your own infusion of love, beauty and privacy.

Because we tend to behave differently on vacation, R&R (relaxation and romance) tickles our fancy and triggers our wildest dreams. Anything can happen day or night. Unless of course, your psyche has been penetrated too deeply with children and PTAs, or perhaps it's too tuned into computers and CNBC. For you, the following are some jump-starts direct from Cupid:

1. Convertible sunbathing. The aft deck of your private sailboat, crewed or un-crewed, is a natural for tops-down. Or bottoms-up, for that matter.

2. Skinny snorkeling. There are few finer reefs in the world for shallow water snorkeling than those offshore Virgin Gorda. Put on your mask, snorkel and fins…only. Just you and the angelfish hang out here, and they’re wearing birthday suits, too.

3. Protect delicate skin; use sunscreen. Slather it on her generously. Everywhere. Often.

4. Late night foreplay on the boat’s foredeck. In fact, spend an entire night topside watching stars fall into the sea. Their blazing trails are so sexy; that last great flash of light is akin to a great, er, well…use your imagination.

When the week is drawing to a close and every fiber and sinew in your body and soul has been replenished, a few of you will go that extra mile for romance: You will not allow yourself to be any place but here, any time but now. You will pull out the cell phone (which is on board solely for emergencies like this one), and cancel all of next week’s meetings and activities. You will apply the ultimate in spontenaity by remaining in Paradise one more week, and you will trust me when I say, phone sex doesn’t get better than this.

When You Go
Chartering a sailboat may be done with or without a captain and crew. Without a crew means cooking your own meals, charting and sailing your own course, and generally, looking out for yourself. Only seasoned sailors charter a boat in this manner. If you’ve had some sailing experience, but not enough to skipper a 40-foot yacht, charter a boat with a captain. You’re still bareboating, but not in the barest sense.

When you’ve had enough fun working the sails on a bareboat vacation and want to be pampered and coddled with much TLC, the following charter companies can set you up with everything from captains to gourmet chefs to limos. They’ve all handled business in the Caribbean for decades, and they’ve seen it all. Prices vary from as little as $1,250 per week to $200,000 plus expenses per week, depending on season, size of boat and number of guests.

Whitney Yacht Charters, http://www.whitneyyachtcharters.com/ (Chicago-based, 800-223-1426) and Nicholson Yacht Charters, http://www.yachtvacations.com/ (Massachusetts-based 800-662-6066) offer crewed charters only, throughout the Caribbean and elsewhere.

The Moorings, http://www.moorings.com/ (New Orleans-based, 800-535-7289) and Ocean Voyages, http://www.oceanvoyages.com/ (California-based, 415-332-4681) offer bareboat and crewed charters in various Caribbean locales.