I’m Still Hungry

I discovered the work of MFK Fisher during COVID, when I was desperate for long, immersive things to read — the kind that take you on a journey, away from being trapped in your house worrying about a pandemic. Things like Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. I happened upon the audiobook version of The Measure of Her Powers, and I was transfixed: from the introduction by Ruth Reichl, whom I knew from many years as a loyal food magazine subscriber, to the riveting chapter about MFK Fisher's boarding school self eating an oyster for the first time. I loved the descriptions of her aesthete grandmother, who ate only bland foods and belched profusely, and of her childhood companion aunt, who made memorable fried-egg sandwiches. I listened to all thirteen chapters, then listened again, then bought the print book used online.

From there, I began searching used bookstores for books by MFK Fisher or about her, and have collected a nice little library by now. I even found The Art of Eating about a block from where I live, discarded in a flowerpot. Of course I had to rescue it.

I found the MFK Fisher Foundation online and subscribed to their newsletter, which is how I learned about a luncheon being held at her former home, Last House, in Glen Ellen. A thrill ran through me. To go to her former home, the one I'd read so much about. Failing to think of a friend who knew and loved her work as much as I did, I decided, with a little hesitancy, to go by myself.

It was like the most wonderful book club gathering I could imagine. I was immediately comfortable and welcomed. Everyone there was a fan of her work — some who had known her, a few who were even related to her. Around 35 of us enjoyed a meal together in the pleasantly cool little two-room adobe house where she had cooked and entertained with every culinary person of her time: Julia Child, Jacques Pépin, and James Beard.

When I arrived after a two-hour drive from San Jose, I needed to use the restroom. I wasn't expecting to use the only bathroom in the house — extravagantly huge for such a small home, beautifully tiled, a bathtub right in the middle, a long tiled counter with one sink exactly in the center. Yes, I used MFK Fisher’s beloved bathroom. The walls, like many in the rest of the house, were painted red, but missing all the artwork that had hung on them during her lifetime. I stood taking it in, drying my hands, when a knock on the door made me jump and stopped my musings.

During lunch, I learned that MFK Fisher did not have a television in her home, that she did not like quinoa ("tastes like gravel"), and that she regretted that once she was famous, her work was no longer edited. Everyone needs an editor, she reportedly said.

Her family curated a collection of recipes to make at home to celebrate MFK Fisher month, and I plan to do so. The cocktail she was fond of, though, I will pass on. A room-temperature mix of equal parts dry vermouth, Campari, and gin is not something I can imagine enjoying. Luckily, she was an enthusiastic drinker of wine and other things I can stomach much better.

On my long drive home, I mused about my own culinary awakening as a teenager in France, and how much I recognized myself in MFK's writing. Her passion and sensual enjoyment of eating was like reading a diary of some of my own experiences. It reminded me of my first trip to Paris, at fifteen, when I made the local paper when I got home. I had lunched at Moulin de Mougins on food prepared by Roger Vergé and gotten tipsy on champagne, which made the floor tilt curiously as I wove to the bathroom. I swooned over a dinner of moules et frites with white wine. I dined in the Eiffel Tower to celebrate my sixteenth birthday. I begged to tag along on the daily food shopping.

It also made me think of a later trip to France — the one I took when I was forty, just before my life went through a very rocky and rough time. And two months after that, a trip to Peru with friends.

Where, I wondered on that drive home, is that writing, from seventeen years ago?

Rereading it, I understand now why I've been so drawn to MFK Fisher's work. I recognize the same impulses in my own writing. I was following in her tradition without knowing it — a forty-year-old woman full of enthusiasm and curiosity, with three children, a marriage that needed tending, and a life that felt solid. Writing without apology about foie gras and pisco sours.

— — —

France, August 2007

For the first time in five years, I am traveling without my children. Leaving my children to go on a trip with my husband is a bittersweet experience. It is hard enough, both logistically and emotionally, that we don’t go away without them very often. But it is important for us to have time together as a couple, setting aside our roles as parents and remembering why we like each other so much and why we got married 15 years ago. So we prevailed on grandparents to take care of them for part of the time, and we’re putting them in “the kennel” for the rest. The boys came up with that name, not me. Yes, the three of them are going to experience a resident summer camp for the first time. They are going to have an adventure, and so are we!

A friend suggested that I keep a food log while on this trip. I am already so behind. And here I am, jet-lagged, food-logged and wine-saturated, trying to recall the meal that I just ate. The atoms in my body are now French. I recently learned about how, in the space of one year, 95% of the atoms in your body are new. In other words, you are literally not the person you were a year ago. I can tell you I am not the person I was three hours ago.

We enjoyed this three-hour extravaganza of gastronomic delight, having just arrived at the hotel, after a four-hour flight to Houston, a three-and-a-half-hour delay (unplanned, due to hurricane weather) and a nine-hour flight to Paris, followed by an hour shuttle ride to the train station, and then an hour TGV train trip to Tours, followed by a taxi ride. I slept a little on the flight, which is why I am not a total wreck right now. My travel expert friend Lynley gave me an invaluable tip a few years ago: Tylenol PM.

We are the only Americans (as far as we can tell, and usually you can tell) in our hotel and in the hotel restaurant tonight. Everyone kept speaking to us as if we understood French perfectly, so I don’t think we stood out that much.

Our meal at Jean Bardet Hotel Belmont in reverse:

Coffee

Comes with a post-dessert, also known as second dessert, of a marshmallow square, a strawberry fruit gelee, and a caramel.

Dessert

A wonderful mixture of rice pudding, a strong citrus gelee, passion fruit seeds, and cardamom. I usually only like chocolate dessert but I loved this. Served with cookies that looked remarkably like breasts. Hey, we’re in France.

Pre-dessert

A tiny portion of ginger crème brulee, a petite mocha sandwich cookie, a tiny sugar cookie, and a lace cookie. For each of us.

Main course

Pink, or rare, pigeon, boned and served over a mysterious pastry-like medallion that reminded me of Thanksgiving stuffing. Served with three apricot halves. A really wonderful flavor combination.

Fish Course

A local fish served rare, with a coconut crème fume sauce, accented with julienned slices of Granny Smith apples and lime. This was my husband’s favorite, even though he claims not to like coconut. Whatever!

Appetizer

A dramatic presentation of a crab ravioli, topped with finely julienned vegetables and a mysterious black disc that melted when hot broth was poured over.

First Appetizer, or Fois Gras Course

foie gras. Served with toast and salt and pepper. I love foie gras, I don’t care if it is not the most politically correct food item on the menu. It was decadent. I estimate that the piece I ate had about 10,000 calories, all fat. Whatever.

Pre-Appetizer, or Happy Mouth

An amuse-bouche of a tiny slice of terrine made with shrimp, topped with a tomato sauce.

Pre-Pre-Appetizers

So good, partially because we hadn’t eaten all day, partially because we were sitting in a garden in France, and partially because they really were good.

All of the above, accompanied by some excellent Vouvray, made very locally, complemented the menu wonderfully. My husband had a glass of 1959 Vouvray that was dry and rich and honey-scented, what a treat. He was excited to drink something older than he was. I had a glass of local sparkling wine.

We left wondering why we saw not one person paying a bill of any kind. Yes, we are staying here, but how strange that we didn’t sign anything . . . maybe they didn’t want to ruin anyone’s evening by presenting a huge bill after such an extravagant meal. The service was wonderful and friendly.

By the way, we did see one French child in the restaurant; a boy, about nine or ten, who was NOT being taught those excellent French manners. He was dressed in soccer shoes, t-shirt, and shorts. He was playing a handheld video game and loudly proclaiming to his parents how his game was going as they ate. They ignored him, but it was difficult for everyone else to do so. We Americans don’t own all the bad manners after all!

OK, forget the food log. I just can’t keep up. I am too busy. I’m biking all over the place, sometimes in the rain, along the most incredibly picturesque roads in France. Actually, that is not the only reason. I am enjoying so many little courses of wonderful food three times a day that I actually can’t remember all the things I’m eating. Keeping a food log would be impossible unless that was all I was doing. The French so enjoy what I like to call “the art of the meal,” that keeping notes would be totally inappropriate. Plus I am busy using all the items of silverware in the right order, keeping track of my beverages, and trying to be a fascinating dinner companion to my husband and my thirteen new friends.

I have been watching for French boys to observe and write about, but I really haven’t seen any. So instead, let’s concentrate on my thirteen new friends. There are two leaders of our Backroads tour. One is the lovely Alicia, a 30-year-old American who lives in Paris. She is a musician, a wonderful conversationalist, and has a life full of travel and adventure. She speaks French very well and knows everything from terms of endearment to how to swear effectively in her second language.

Then we have Davide (dah vee DAY), our other leader. He is a very charismatic guy who is both French and Italian. He lives near Grenoble, lives a life of travel and adventure, and plays the accordion. His English is peppered with many funny and slightly offbeat turns of phrase. He is enthusiastic and has a smile on his face all the time, except early in the morning, before his breakfast, when he is concentrating hard on waking up. Early morning for him is before 10 am. But he is up with us, getting bikes ready to go, much earlier than that.

Chip and Mary, the turbo bikers from Florida

Even though they finish biking before the rest of us make it to lunch, I really like them. They are both funny, smart, and ambitious. They are really devoted to each other. Chip told us on the first night “It ain’t the first rodeo for either of us.” He also told us he got arrested on his very first time out of his home state, but has gone on to be a self-made success and has been to Europe now 44 times. He told us about how he and Mary visited a goat cheese farm nearby and how he was assaulted by a male goat, which seemed to be very attracted to him. His wife told us about smoking marijuana in Amsterdam. He told us how he mastered his stutter, and then decided to get some of it back because it worked so well for him in business meetings. He told us how he likes to give young people a hand, but never a handout. He is self-deprecating and funny as dog poop (his own expression).

Connie and Peter, the power couple from Washington D.C.

I can’t tell you their last name or I’d have to kill you. He is a powerful person in D.C., a very pleasant person to talk to, keeps his opinions close to the vest. He loves biking. I mean LOVES it. He has some amazing calves. He is very successful in his business and loves spending time with his family. He has a killer wink that says, “ I hear you” without saying a word. His wife is quieter initially. But tonight I had an opportunity to talk with her at length (over, guess what, dinner). She is a very powerful attorney in her own right, working for the government for a long time and, more recently, in private practice. They live in a house older than the state I live in, dating back to the Civil War. Connie is also very well-traveled, although I think she wants to do a lot more traveling if she can get her husband to retire. Connie has been recognized as an outstanding person by President Bill Clinton and visited the Oval Office at his invitation. She’s got a great perspective on being a woman working in a man’s world in D.C. She has an amazing zest for life. She and Peter met on a blind date.

Jennifer and Pete, the New Jersey-but-really-from-Connecticut Couple

Peter has got some of the best facial expressions I have seen on a man. Although he is very articulate, I’m convinced he could be a mime. He works in the pharmaceutical business. His wife is ten years younger, and they do not have children. She grew up on a farm. When her Dad first met Pete, he didn’t like him because he didn’t drive a Ford. When Pete’s sister met Jennifer for the first time, she screamed “So my God how old are you anyway?”

Terra and Ethan from (West) Hollywood

Terra is Connie and Pete’s only daughter. I haven’t gotten to know them very well yet; they are rather quiet, and it appears that they have been dragged on this trip with her parents, and they haven’t quite figured out where they are or what they are doing. Ethan has a wickedly funny sense of humor. Again, just an inkling since I haven’t spent much time with them, and they are rather quiet and reserved, concentrating on their respective daughter and son-in-law duties while chasing after her parents on bikes all over the French countryside.

Moshe and Maya from Manhattan

A father and daughter are on a trip together before she goes away to college. He is spending time with his youngest of four daughters before she leaves home, and his pride and enjoyment are tangible. Moshe was born in Poland and lived in Israel before immigrating to the US. Maya is off to Dartmouth soon. She is an incredibly poised, confident young woman for her age of 18. As my husband says, “Wow, she’s going to have some dudes chasing her.”

Adelle, the Woman of Mystery

The woman of New Jersey, Martha’s Vineyard, Vermont, and France. The single mother of two girls, the kindergarten teacher. The woman of incredibly great skin (does she get facials every other day or is she really that lucky?) The woman of independence, of “Oh, I won’t be joining you for dinner because I am flitting off the Paris for dinner with my French boyfriend.” Will we get to know her better? I really hope so, but so far not.

Oh my gosh, I have to go. As the card I found in my room states, “Le repas du soir est une fete. Evening dinner is the highlight of the day, for which an elegant form of dress would be greatly appreciated by your fellow guests.” I’ve got to get myself ready for this evening of dinner theater.

35 Miles on a Bike, followed by dinner, stinky cheese, and armagnac. Enough said. Good night. Alicia said I would wake up fine in the morning. Wait, that was what the sommelier said. They were wrong. I didn’t do all the planned miles today, partly due to a hangover and partly due to pouring rain. Also partly due to lunch, Jean-Claude’s winery, and lots of wine tasting.

My dad once took me on a “smelling tour” of Boston. We walked around and smelled the things there were to smell: the coffee, the seafood, the old buildings, all kinds of things. I thought about that tour today, as I rode about 30 miles through the Loire countryside. Part of the day was rainy, part of it was just cloudy and misty. I think the weather intensified the smells. Wet earth in the fields we went by, vineyards, the yeasty smell of wine near the wineries, lavender growing near the road, the pungent smell of wet livestock, the large fragrant flower gardens we passed, the fresh-mown grass that edges even the smallest roads, the smoke from a fireplace, wildflowers, and a meaty aroma from a house wafting across the road. The French are very sensitive to smell and appreciate all kinds of scents. They don't distinguish between good and bad ones the way we do.

My Flight is Retardé. Of course this means my flight is late. But it is so late that I would like to call it retarded, since I have seen this flashing “retardé” sign for about 15 hours now. Thank god this is on our way home and thank god we don’t have children with us. Actually, there are very few children around at all, for which I am thankful, because if they were as tired as I am, they would be unbearably cranky. We happen to be stuck in Paris. No, it is not the worst place in the world to be stuck. In fact, we checked our bags in here at the airport, then took a train back into Paris. We got there around 3 in the afternoon and went straight for some shopping in Paris. We had no idea that the entire shopping area, with two huge stores occupying several blocks, would be closed. I guess there is no shopping on Sunday in France, who knew? So we headed to the nearest café, which was full of people who had come to the area to shop and now had nothing else to do. Fueled by caffeine and a desire to stay awake until our flight, we decided to just walk around a bit. Several miles later, past the Opera, the Louvre, the Tuileries Gardens with little boys sailing boats in the fountain, we ended up on the Champs-Élysées. It was a warm sunny day, the nicest weather of our trip. We started to sit down at another café, but we were redirected away from the premium table on the sidewalk to one inside. We ordered two café au laits and just sat and watched people. Soon, the scene around us came into focus. We noted that the café managers and waiters were super-watchful and zipping around. Somewhat unusual. For Paris. Then we noted the double row of cars parked in front of the café along the Champs-Élysées. All Mercedes. Next we noticed the tall men in nice, custom-made suits keeping a watchful eye on the seating area. They appeared to be drivers/security gentlemen, murmuring into cell phones, never sitting down. Yes, OK, I see the tall, thin, exquisitely beautiful model sitting across the way with her companion. Wait . . . my god, can it be? Impossible! She is eating a piece of white baguette with butter on it. But the drivers/bodyguards are not there to watch a skinny woman eating bread. They are there to watch a rather large collection of Middle-Eastern men and women, sitting in small groups, drinking coffee and eating desserts. There are two women sitting right next to us, and they seem to know many of the other women walking by. One woman is veiled; one is not. They are sitting so close to me that I can’t properly check them out without being awkward. Gradually I become aware that there are quite a few people, at a polite distance, curious about who is in the café. Not one person is looking at the model. Instead, they are looking at the women, their hair covered, designer glasses covering most of their face, except for their lips slathered with Dior or Chanel lipstick. They are looking at the men, with their oiled hair, massive watches, their aura of power, privilege and raw wealth. They have private jets dripping off them. I have no idea who these people were. Saudi royalty?

Back at the airport, we report to our gate. I know you don’t feel sorry for me that I am stuck in Paris. But our flight is going to Houston, and all the people stuck with us are Texan. They are harder to understand than the French and not as polite. And the flight is STILL retarded. So now you can feel just a little sorry for me y’all.

Well now we are on the plane at last. But the flight is retarded again due to four idiots who checked their bags and then fell asleep somewhere and didn’t get on the plane. Another hour delay, and we finally take off at 3:00 am. One of the highlights of our time in the airport: watching a man in a bright blue suit, who was refused entry into France, try to break out of limbo-land. We saw him wandering the inner hallway of the airport, unable to get out by legal means. He talked to several people. Then he talked on his cell phone. He looked nervous. Then he talked to a maid, mopping the floors. Soon after talking to the maid, he waited for a quiet moment when there were no official-looking people around, pressed a code into a keypad, and gained entry into the area where we were sitting. About seven other people witnessed this. He just carried his bag with him like he knew where he was going. He was then stuck in the area we were in, and was looking for a way out, nervously talking on his cell phone once in a while. We made sure he didn’t get on our flight. Our pilot this evening is retiring. He has his children, wife, and a couple of grandchildren riding along on his last flight. I feel really safe. I would go and talk to his wife about raising five boys, but I’m so darn tired that I can’t get up from my seat. Maybe it is the Tylenol PM.

— — —

Peru, October 2007

Several months after returning home from France, I departed on a trip to Peru with some friends on a tour. My husband was deeply buried in work, fearful of the looming financial crisis, and stayed home with the boys.

Day One

I started my first day in Peru by brushing my teeth with sparkling water, then went to breakfast while Barry Manilow serenaded the dining room. I ended my first day by listening to Copacabana, also by Barry, riding back in a taxi to the hotel.

In between, I donned an apron for a culinary tour of Lima. The apron was to identify the people in our group, which really wasn´t necessary, but we all wore big flashy white aprons, like a bunch of cooking groupies, all around town. First, we went to an outdoor market and toured the freshly caught fish, and then the produce. Peru has some unusual fruits I´ve never seen or tasted.  We got to taste a cherimoya, which looks and feels like an alien egg pod. It is large, hard and green with big scales. A vendor cut one open for us with a machete. It was very delicious, unlike any fruit I´ve had in taste or texture.

Next, the 15 of us, with our tour guide Rosa and her assistant Jonaton got on a bus to the famous ceviche restaurant in Lima called Calbina. At the restaurant, they gave us a demo on how to prepare ceviche. The juice that the ceviche is marinated in is called leche de tigre, or milk of the tiger. They also serve it as a shot in a little glass (without the fish). Then we went to a bar, still wearing our aprons, where the bartender demonstrated how to make a pisco sour. Pisco is a distilled product similar to brandy. The recipe included lime juice, simple syrup, and egg white. The bartender worked the shaker, and we all had a taste of the cocktail. Then the bartender indicated that I should shake the next one. I stepped up to the bar, took the shaker in both hands, and proceeded to go into what I´m sure was a very cute little dance. I forgot that shaker lids need to be held down. Pisco sour sprayed all over me and several people standing near me who didn´t jump away fast enough. I smelled like an alcoholic lime for the rest of the day.

From there, we went to a restaurant for lunch, a Creole place with a buffet. Our meal was $22/person. Rosa informed us that many people in Lima earn about $300/month, so this restaurant is for tourists and the wealthy. Our tour guides would never have been able to eat at such a restaurant, but we invited them to join us. This was a foreshadowing of running into Rosa again on our trip.

Later still, we went to a huge supermarket called, strangely, Wong. I´m not sure if we still had the aprons at this point. It turns out that the many Chinese immigrants who came to Peru ran small markets. This one grew into a giant sensory overload. After such a long day, it was overwhelming. Wong is like a combination of an international market, Target, and a department store, with a Nordstrom piano player and lots of people in uniforms walking around with food for people to taste; sandwiches, ice cream, and chorizo sausages. I bought a cherimoya and went back to the hotel, listening to Barry Manilow in the taxi on the way, to change my shirt, which had pisco all over it.

— — —

Day Two

Starbucks is across the street from the hotel! My roommate hates this fact. I love this fact. The Nescafé is getting to me.

We had Spanish class this morning at Del Sol Language School. There were four of us in class together, and we covered a lot of ground. The teacher didn´t speak English to us at all. We learned useful things like party pooper = fiesta pooper. For some reason, this and many other phrases sent us into fits of laughing. I´m sure we are the most fun (or irritating) students in the entire school. At the break we watched a crazy home-made video of other things the school offers, like cooking classes, karaoke in Spanish, and salsa dancing. After the video, they offered us coca tea, a traditional tea in the mountains for altitude sickness, even though we are in Lima at sea level. The tea made me feel light-headed After class, we walked in a group several blocks away to a lunch place that looked exactly like a French cafe, but with lots more waiters. One member of our group asked if they served alpaca there. The workers laughed politely. I was hungry. I had an empanada, a sandwich, and an excellent eclair. I declined the popular Inca Cola, a soft drink that tastes like bubble gum. It is a shocking yellow color, exactly like urine after taking vitamins, very unappetizing.

After lunch, we got on a small bus for a tour of Lima with our tour guide Fernando. Fernando had the craziest Spanglish I have ever heard. His word combinations were sometimes so funny that we´d have to stifle giggles. Before we got out to walk to the cathedral, he announced on the microphone at the front of the bus, "the ruler is, please not to give monies to the childrens, they will rape you," and "the muscle mans, they have exciting when the ladies to be seen."

We toured the main square and cathedral in Lima, both of which were sadly shabby. We took our picture in front of an armed tank, next to a man with a machine gun. A dog, dressed in a sweater and beret, strolled by. Bars on windows, barbed wire, electric fences, and armed guards were everywhere. Most of the buildings are drab and ugly, concrete, brick and glass. No landscaping, no garbage or graffiti.

Later we are picked up by our bus and taken to what was essentially a Peruvian luau. Only tourists were in the restaurant. The dancing was really quite good, and the traditional costumes were beautiful. Then at one point, two men and two women came out to perform the Alcatraz dance (named after the bird, I assume, not the infamous prison). Each woman had a white napkin pinned to her butt. Her partner had a long candle, which was lit. The object of the dance was for the man to light the woman's napkin on fire. She does not make it easy, shaking her hips and moving in a way that requires quite a bit of effort from him. It was funny and erotic.

Then, the dancers came and asked one of my travel companions and me to join them onstage. They pinned the napkin on our butts and told us to "move your body." Fueled by a strong pisco sour, we gyrated around much less expertly.

After this dance, a group of young men --wait, they are boys-- came out to perform the scissors dance. They had a large pair of scissors, held in one gloved hand. They had brightly colored, embroidered costumes, many layered and not unlike what you might imagine for a Peruvian clown, and Converse high-tops. They proceeded to perform a very athletic form of what looked to me like break dancing, all while continuously clanking their scissors open and closed to the beat of the music. I know my boys would have loved to see this. It was a cacophony of sound and movement, completely mesmerizing.

— — —

Day Three

After language school today, we had the opportunity to lunch at an oceanside restaurant called Cala. Cala specializes in seafood and had wonderful food, but by far the most interesting thing about the restaurant was the menu, translated from Spanish to English in a most creative way, made all the more funny by the bracing pisco sour we had to start.

We had our choice of:

Our traditional salted but with us Angus short ribs

Juicy rice in black sauce with grilled shrimps, reduction of chili peppers and coral

Rare-done ahi tuna sealed with juices of mirin, covers the turnip spaghettis

Kid legs, shoulder and loin 24hrs marinated in indian corny brandy

The dessert portion of the menu was titled “To Make Life Sweetteness” and we had our choice of

Martini of lucuma custard over Meringue and chocolate

Breaded cheesecake fingers in Aguaymanto sauco

Crispy ponderation filled with Peruvian cinnamon milk sauce, happy custard apple, guanabana and caramelized aquaymanto

Big plate with the best cala's bitosize donout desserts

Unfortunately, after this meal, one of my travel companions was the first to be struck by what we came to call Inca's Revenge. She retired to her hotel room, not to emerge until completely empty. She introduced a new word to me: shart. The rest of our group was sympathetic but would have been even more so if we had known that almost all of us would feel the effects of Inca's Revenge by the end of the trip. Never would I have dreamed of having so many conversations about bodily functions with people besides my own children.

I suppose it is time to introduce my travel companions. There were 15 of us altogether. Like any group of people, there is always a character that stands out. That character on this trip was Lou.

Lou is a 65-year-old man, large sturdy build, thin grey short hair, a mouth full of silver braces. Yes, braces. Lou was divorced and looking for love in Peru. He told us all about how he met several ladies online who live in Peru, and he was hoping to meet up with them during the trip. One woman traveled 14 hours on a bus from where she lived to meet Lou in Lima. She was 28 years old. He took her to a nice dinner, and they got along very well (according to him). The next day, they were supposed to meet, and she canceled. The following evening, they were supposed to meet. In preparation, Lou bought some Peruvian potatoes, a special variety that is supposed to have properties like Viagra. She showed up late and was drunk. He was having second thoughts about bringing her to the US.

Meanwhile, Lou entertained us all by talking to and asking out every single breathing female he came into contact with on our trip. Every tour guide, every hotel and restaurant employee, the ladies in the language school, other students in the language school, ticket agents at the airport. Every single female, unless she was over about 40. Others in our group talked to him about being careful, women might want to take advantage of his US passport and his US money. They needed have worried.

So, where were we? Oh yes, lunch at Cala. After that hours-long affair, our tour took us to a large flea market for shopping. I did a cursory speedy lap around the market and we gathered in a courtyard. I caught my breath and all of a sudden Rosa appeared! Rosa, our tour guide from the first day. “What an incredible coincidence,” she wailed. Last night she had been mugged and her purse, containing all the cash she earned from our tour, and her house keys, her cell phone, everything she owned was gone. She looked at each of us with her sad brown eyes, tears forming, and produced from her pocket a brand-new, shiny key she had to have made for her apartment. Of course we all felt terrible for her and quickly got together a donation of $10 per person for a total of $150. She accepted it with the promise that the first thing she was going to do was buy herself a new cell phone. As she rushed off, we all felt a little sheepish. Wait a minute. In a city of 9 million people, we happen to run into her in this particular section of a huge market? Our group was divided. Some thought we had just been played. Others refused to believe that sweet Rosa with tears in her eyes could be anything but completely sincere. I will never know for sure, but $10 means a lot more to her than to me, so if she needed it badly enough to put on that kind of performance, she is welcome to my donation.

After giving Rosa money, we had to take a taxi back to our hotel. Our friend Fernando gave us some advice about the taxis. Try to pick a good one, not one that will rob you. The driver should not be too young. The driver should also not be too old. The car should be decent, not too nice. Look the driver in the eye and make sure he is a good person before you get in.

We quickly paired off, and my two girlfriends and I found ourselves with Mirta hailing the first taxi that came along. Everything about this taxi goes directly against the advice her husband just gave us. She jumped in the front seat and impatiently motioned for the three of us to pile in. We hesitated. She insisted, and we squeezed into the back seat. The car was stripped down. Downright minimal, I'd say. The inside was all bare, dirty metal. The glovebox was held together with a red twist tie and an old Bic pen. Grinding, clanking, and groaning noises come from the engine area. Each time we stopped in traffic, it was a question in each person's mind, including the driver, I'm sure, if the car would move again in a forward direction. The car had no shocks, so we felt each bump and pothole in the road. The traffic was very heavy. Lane lines were merely a suggestion. We were so close to the car next to us that I could easily reach out my window and pick the nose of its driver. We hear a siren behind us. As we realize it is getting louder, we all turn around in unison, except for the driver. Bearing down on us from behind was an ambulance. We were in the middle of a completely jammed intersection. The ambulance was somehow directly behind us then, wailing insistently. I was convinced that it was going to drive right over the top of our car, or push us out of the way. Two out of four passengers screamed. Our driver didn't react in any way. Once we were able to move out of the intersection and the ambulance could get by us, our driver lazily waved him by, as if to say "come on, pass me already."

Traffic thinned and we were cruising down the street, three cars abreast in two marked lanes. Mirta looked back at us from the front seat and said, "Isn't this fun?" Just then, our taxi driver accelerated the groaning car to pass and cut right in front of a large delivery truck, a gutsy move in a gutless car. This time, all four passengers screamed.

Finally arriving at our hotel, we tumbled out, relieved. We paid the driver the equivalent of $4 and counted it as one of the most reasonable thrill rides ever. Not one I want to try again, though, thank you very much.

We went to the bank of three elevators in our hotel. The one on the far left opened up, and we groaned. By now, we knew that this particular elevator was possessed. Sometimes it took you to the correct floor, sometimes not. As we rehashed our exciting taxi ride, each of us got off on the wrong floor and found our way to our rooms, laughter echoing in the staircase. Suddenly, it was my friend’s turn with Inca's Revenge, and she was not laughing; she was groaning and running to her room.

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Day Four

Another very fun and successful day at the language school. I am starting to understand a lot more of what I hear around me, which is exciting. Right after classes we are whisked away to the Larcomar shopping center in the Miraflores area of Lima perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. There is a lot of security surrounding the mall, which is outdoors but has limited access points.

Bored with shopping, my friend and I booked a facial and massage at a spa across the street from our hotel. I received the most unusual facial. Where I expect heat or steam, I have cold creams and a massage with glass balls filled with ice. It was not entirely unpleasant, just puzzling.

Once my facial was over, I met my friend in the waiting area. She had the most curious expression on her face. She quickly told me in a stage whisper, "My God that is the strangest massage I have ever had. Just try not to laugh, I got the giggles." The masseuse, Pedro, came to get me and seemed in a hurry. I steeled myself and trotted after him.

The massage was extremely challenging. I had to concentrate for an entire hour to control my impulse to burst out laughing. He vigorously and quickly massaged my body in a way that forced me to hold on to the table. It was, well, invigorating. It kind of hurt. When he got to my feet, which are ticklish, he moved them around in a rhythmic way and then slapped them repeatedly. Then, to my surprise, the massage included areas of my body that are normally off-limits to a masseuse. Peruvian massage covers almost everything, making sure all parts of the body do not feel left out: the inner thigh, the butt, the stomach. I was tense and ready to defend my boundaries. Overall, not at all relaxing

Our group had reservations that night at La Juaca Pucllana, a restaurant on an archeological site. When we arrived, we passed through metal detectors and men with huge guns slung across their chests. We all sat down at our long table overlooking the dramatically lit 2,000-year-old ruins. Pisco sours all around, and then dinner. One person in our group was brave enough to order cuy. It's pronounced coo-EE. I tried a bite. It does not taste like chicken. Maybe that is because it is a guinea pig. Yes, cuy is a traditional dish eaten mostly by people in the Andes Mountains. This preparation was a pretty normal looking meal and the person who ordered it really enjoyed it. I was to see a much more interesting example of how cuy can be served later in the trip.

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Day Five

Hard to believe this is our last day of Spanish classes! We bring our teachers gifts of American magazines, some treats, and some extra spending money. Then we learn that we can continue classes once we get home, online, one-on-one interaction with a teacher. I vow to do this. I do not do this.

After class, we go to a ceviche restaurant called Pescados Capitales. It is a very popular place with an interesting theme. The name is a play on two meanings: fish and capital sins. I don't quite understand the wordplay, but I do know that this place has a theme and they carry it out as much as they possibly can. The menu was themed around sins. The sins include avarice, anger, laziness, lust, gluttony, envy, and pride.

We ordered the Santa Ira, described as Holy Anger: Grilled Octopus. The English menu describes it as Grilled teenager octopus into aromatic butter comes with green asparagus, it's necessary to eat warm. The Spanish menu has a lot more interesting innuendo. It is translated something like this: A teenage octopus, perhaps still chaste but we don't know for sure, is submerged in butter, is struck by passion and soon controlled by fire on the grill. It is accompanied on the coals by perfumed asparagus. Indispensably eaten warm.

It was just before this meal that I had a feeling I was not going to escape Inca's Revenge. After the meal, I couldn't deny any longer that it was likely I was the next victim. What to do?

At the end of our meal, the tour guide from the other day, Fernando, Mr. Crazy Spanglish, suddenly appeared at our table. I thought my god, is this going to be another incredible coincidence? I just stared at him and waited to hear his story. I finally grasp that he is there to lead us on a tour for the rest of the afternoon. I am considerably cheered up by the prospect of listening to his creative speech. I am in denial of what my intestines are signaling.

Fernando took us to the Barranco, described as a bohemian and romantic residential district in Lima. I enjoyed the area, particularly the creative graffiti there. No obnoxious spray paint on the walls around here, no sir! The graffiti is in the form of carving on the leaves of the aloe vera plants in the area. I think Fernando, the tour guide, was really feeling the romance of the place, because he asked me an odd question: Are you single, divorced, or a happy widow? I looked at him with an odd expression. Dude, I'm wearing a wedding ring. A little bit later, he asked me how old I was. I told him the brutal truth: forty, married with three kids. You would have thought I just shot the guy. He gasped and kind of jumped.

Dinner that night was on our own. I really wanted to go to Astrid y Gaston, and it was our last night in Lima, so this was the night! This restaurant is supposedly one of the top 50 in the world. I had to go.

Actually, I did have to go. The feeling of Inca's Revenge was threatening me. Others in our group were also falling victim. I discreetly inquired of Fernando (not the tour guide, the Fernando we came with) if there were any medications available for what was ailing me. He disappeared and then came back to take me from the hotel to the pharmacy across the street to get a medication written on a little scrap of paper. I handed the paper to the attendant, and she ripped off a pack of ten white pills from a sheet of them, charged me $9, threw them in a bag and handed them to me. I had no idea what I just purchased; it came with no instructions, no warnings, nothing. I carefully examined the fine print on the foil backing of the sheet of pills to discover that I had just bought Cipro, a strong antibiotic. I took my first dose and hoped I’d make it through dinner.

The cab ride was another interesting one. At one point, our driver was lost. He stopped the car (in the middle of an intersection, blocking the street) and hopped out. He walked into a small corner market and was gone for what felt like an uncomfortable amount of time, leaving us alone in the taxi to hear all the angry honking. The driver came out and motioned to the other drivers that his car was dead. Crazy maneuvering began in earnest as people tried to get around us. Then he hopped back into the taxi and drove off. A few minutes later, while trying to park the taxi on an even narrower street, we heard the crunch of metal on metal. Getting out, we saw that he had hit a heavy steel cage protecting a spindly little tree. Now I know why the trees on the sidewalks have cages around them.

Astrid y Gaston was a swanky place, lined with wine racks and populated by men in business suits dining together. I ordered the most highly recommended dish, suckling pig. I should have known better. It was fatty and I really wasn't feeling so great in the digestion department. I don’t even like pork. As much as I hate to admit it, I was disappointed. And the menu was translated into English far too well to be the least bit entertaining.

Back at the hotel, we packed up and got some rest before leaving Lima early in the morning for Cusco.

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Days Six & Seven

The flight to Cusco was short, only 50 minutes. Lima is at sea level, Cusco at an elevation of 11,000 feet. In the airport at Cusco, we felt the effects of the altitude, the thinner air with less oxygen, right away. Lightheaded, it felt like we swam to baggage claim, and stood around trying not to expend any energy. We were taken straight to our hotel where we were instructed to rest for several hours. I put my suitcase down and climbed into bed fully dressed, determined to give myself the best chance of acclimating to the altitude. I was able to sleep while my body produced lots of extra red blood cells.

In the afternoon, a tour guide named Lilly came to collect us and take us around Cusco a bit. We all found ourselves breathing heavier than normal but enamored with this city of Inca ruins and colonial history. Our guide, who looked to me like an Incan princess, was not only very beautiful but also very knowledgeable, passionate even, about the area's history. She also spoke Quechua, the ancient language of the Andes.

One of the first sights I saw as I started my tour of Cusco was a little girl in very colorful traditional Andean costume holding a baby goat and wanting very much to stand as close to me as possible to have our picture taken, for a fee of course. Hard to resist. Another thing I noticed right away was the popular footwear: sandals made from old tires. Many people, young and old had them on.

We visited such exotic-sounding places as Sacsayhuaman (pronounced like "sexy woman"), Qoricancha, Tambomachay, and Pucapucara. I found the mystery of these ruins intoxicating. The massive stones fit together like jigsaw pieces without mortar. These people engineered water systems centuries ago, channeling water underground and running fountains, some of which still operate today.

Early the next morning, we boarded a train for Machu Picchu. To get out of Cusco and into the Sacred Valley toward Machu Picchu, the train must get across some very steep high mountains via a series of switchbacks. Once over that mountain, leaving the shanty dwellings and wandering pigs and dogs along the tracks, the scenery was dramatic and beautiful. At the few stops along the way, people were selling all kinds of things. You can shop and purchase things without ever getting off the train, negotiating and paying right out your window. Many of the adobe brick houses we passed had two pottery bulls sitting on the roofs, a traditional protection against earthquakes.

I never tired of seeing all the terraces, some entire mountainsides completely terraced for agricultural purposes long ago. Some are still in use. Potatoes and corn were the most common crops grown in the area. As we got closer to Machu Picchu, some parts of the Inca trail were visible. It winds along impossibly steep mountainsides.

My guidebook describes Machu Picchu as "the most celebrated ruins in South America and a place that retains its mystery, allure, and spectacular beauty despite its enduring popularity. Machu Picchu is one of the most dramatic places on earth, one that holds a mystical appeal . . ." With such build up and expectations, I was prepared to be disappointed. I was not. Photos cannot do Machu Picchu justice. Wandering through the site, I found myself really wishing that my husband and boys were there. I certainly hope to bring them to this wondrous place sometime.

Exhausted, sunburned, hot, but very happy, we descended on the scary switchback road in a bus to get back to the train. We stay in the Sacred Valley that night, at a lovely hotel called Sonesta Posada del Inca Yucay. We check in and are in our rooms for maybe ten minutes when a spectacular rainstorm, with thunder and lightning, starts, and the lights go off in the hotel. Making our way through the profound darkness of the Valley, punctuated by flashes of light, we dashed through the rain to the lovely little candlelit restaurant where we all convened to celebrate a day full of drama.

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On the drive home from MFK Fisher’s Last House in Glen Ellen, I thought about how I am the same woman I was when I wrote these travelogs seventeen years ago. I'm wiser, of course, and my sons are raised. I’ve enjoyed making elaborate dishes in the past, and now gravitate toward simpler foods. Sourdough, beans, homemade cottage cheese, things that sustain. Fresh local produce from the farmer’s market. I love to cook and eat with friends who also love food. I like to shop at the butcher in Santa Cruz who is passionate about quality and kind to customers. I also appreciate MFK Fisher’s writing on the pleasures of dining alone. She has taught me how to enjoy it. I eat at least two meals a day on my own, and I’ve gone from being unhappy about this consequence of an empty nest to very much embracing eating simply and well, on my own. I’ve become much more comfortable with myself and less needy of the distraction from others. I’ve got writing to do. And, after all, I’m still hungry.