Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
333Trip End Ongoing
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So the boys on tour comes to an end. At least for now. Paddy jumps into the first cab and speeds away, I flag down the second and get fleeced 20 Soles. I miss him already. I know I should be doing my best to learn the language, but at the moment it's useful to have a fluent speaker around just so you don't get stiffed by the gringo tax. I have no negotiating skills at all, so pretty much stuck with the first offer or not taking the cab in the first place. "20" mumbles the guy when I ask him how much. I stick my stuff in the boot, climb in, and ask again. In the time it's taken me to dump my gear, the price has gone up by 5 soles. 25 he unashamedly barks. I glance at the crucifix and rosary hanging from his rear view mirror. I wonder what he would have thought about such blatant robbery.
As usual the driver has no idea where he's going even though he claimed he did, and we have to ask a dozen different folk before arriving at The Point hostel. This includes a detour around the beach roads, and reversing the whole way down a very long street. Eventually I'm handing my passport over to the extremely attractive girl behind the desk and checking in.
I can hear him before I see him, which is usually the way when it comes to Applebury. He's like a force of nature, blistering through rooms with gusto, pomp and circumstance. He's one of those guys you either love or hate, but most, including me, find themselves loving him. We met in Medellin, Quito, and now in Lima. Three countries, ten nights out, about to be four more. Here we go again.
Surrounded by beautiful local girls and I end up going with a Scot. Albeit a very attractive one. She is staying at the hostel, but I've left the group to case around the massive club we've been brought to, hoping the kilt swish will get some attention. Of course it does, but I've got to the point where I've had too much to drink to have coherent conversation. A pretty girl is talking to me but my chat is slurred and brain confused. It's somewhere around this point that I make a bee line for the pale girl in the red dress and plant my lips on hers with no messing about.
I've got to the point where sex after drinking isn't going to work. It might, but it'll be a horrible messy exertion of effort where I won't give a good account of myself and pass out immediately when some kind of woeful conclusion is reached. Consequently I've fallen into the habit of stammering something along the lines of "I want this to be good, so let's wait until the morning." Of course by then the alcohol has worn off and drunken passion is killed because my breath is like an old sock draw full of ash. Then there's the condom. Condoms and me don't get on. I've fallen out with them. We're not on speaking terms. At this point though of all the things that could go wrong the problem is not having one. No female contact whatsoever for the best part of three months and the moment the opportunity arises I can't do anything about it, as the one aging johnny in my wash bag has gone missing. I'm left with ruing what might have been and an inebriated fumble in the dark. Romance isn't dead.