August 1: Hola Cusco
The walls of the surrounding mountains, a needle-sharp wind, and the smiling face of my host family’s mother—Dina Alvarez—greeted me as I finally landed in Cusco, Peru. We promptly found a cab; a go-kart sized Yugo, suitable for the size of the average Perueno. Swerving in and out lanes like a drunk criminal on the run, our taxi driver managed to drop us off at the Alvarez house, after what I felt to have experienced two or three heart palpitations. I met the family, Siccaya, Alfredo, and my roommate, Evan, as well. The family members are incredible, recognizing me as a worthy Spanish-speaker and allowing me into their lives. Evan, a twenty-five-year-old white boy from Augusta, Georgia, who speaks as much Spanish as the heavy duty socks currently warming my feet, is great too—his accent instantly making him an outsider, but so likable. 
took Evan, me, and another traveler staying at the house (an Australian girl named Sara) into town after lunch. Everything is handcrafted, the streets are made of uneven and slippery brick, and mosaic domes on top of churches are like the gods’ cereal bowls flipped upside down. After absorbing the town, Siccaya let us join in on one of her favorite recreational activities—watching and betting on cock fighting. I watched as owners tied crescent-shaped blades on their rooster’s back leg. Blood erupted and spewed everywhere, and the crowd screamed with joy. New, ridiculous, cheap, Cusco is spectacular.
The walls of the surrounding mountains, a needle-sharp wind, and the smiling face of my host family’s mother—Dina Alvarez—greeted me as I finally landed in Cusco, Peru. We promptly found a cab; a go-kart sized Yugo, suitable for the size of the average Perueno. Swerving in and out lanes like a drunk criminal on the run, our taxi driver managed to drop us off at the Alvarez house, after what I felt to have experienced two or three heart palpitations. I met the family, Siccaya, Alfredo, and my roommate, Evan, as well. The family members are incredible, recognizing me as a worthy Spanish-speaker and allowing me into their lives. Evan, a twenty-five-year-old white boy from Augusta, Georgia, who speaks as much Spanish as the heavy duty socks currently warming my feet, is great too—his accent instantly making him an outsider, but so likable. 
took Evan, me, and another traveler staying at the house (an Australian girl named Sara) into town after lunch. Everything is handcrafted, the streets are made of uneven and slippery brick, and mosaic domes on top of churches are like the gods’ cereal bowls flipped upside down. After absorbing the town, Siccaya let us join in on one of her favorite recreational activities—watching and betting on cock fighting. I watched as owners tied crescent-shaped blades on their rooster’s back leg. Blood erupted and spewed everywhere, and the crowd screamed with joy. New, ridiculous, cheap, Cusco is spectacular.
Attaboy.
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