Trotting Through Lima: By Bruce Mero
Readers of this author may remember an
episode I wrote about
wherein I relived a terrifying event from a number of years back in Kerman,
Iran, when I lost control of my innards and "soiled" myself.
Well...it ALMOST happened again when Gretchen and Mitra and I were in Peru a
few months ago. Déjà -vu? Nearly.
It was the
final day of our trip, of course. We had been in Lima earlier for an overnight, then off to Cusco, Machu
Picchu, back to Cusco and then back to Lima for a half-day city tour before our
return on a red-eye flight to the States. The milk-colored skies of this huge
city built on large sandy cliffs abutting the ocean reminded us of a cool, sunless
Los Angeles. An annoying, giggly,
horn-rimmed be-speckled , young tour guide was our host for a quick tour of
urban Lima, followed by Colonial Lima. All was fine for the bus trip along the
coast and the walk through the Mira Flores market was colorful and educational,
though most of us had to pee by the time we were back in the bus.
We ate a
fabulous lunch at Lima's premier restaurant, Puro Peru, where I probably should
have taken the opportunity, but instead was flabbergasted by the urinal in the
men's room and forgot about my other end. The urinal was a long trough, ornately
tiled and filled with polished black pebbles, on top of which had been spread a
layer of sliced limes. One peed on the limes and the whole room was odorless!
One of the guys in our group was so impressed he went back to the table to get
his camera for a photo.
By the time
we entered historic Plaza de Armas though, the magnificence of the Spanish
Colonial architecture represented in the buildings surrounding the square was
beginning to look a bit foggy to me. My attention began to center on the uncomfortable
gastronomical rumblings from my lower regions. The Cathedral of Lima was next on
the tour with its magnificent, towering, gold-encrusted altar and voluminous
sanctuary, the beheaded remains of Peru's conqueror, Pizarro and a lot more
stuff. Monks chanted ethereally in the background. All blurred as I focused instead
on locating a non-existent public comfort station. The Cathedral tour was then
followed by an interminably long and surreal trip through the catacombs beneath
the building where we saw the bones of every one of the 20,000 burials therein,
or so it seemed. I was surreptitiously looking for a dark corner somewhere if I
might leave the group for a few moments. No such luck.
Next was a
short walk to the oldest, elegant Spanish colonial house in Lima, belonging to
the family of Pizarro's scribe, Jeranimo Aliaga. I took our bubbly tour guide
aside and in Spanish told her that I was in need of a restroom. She seemed to
understand, but began addressing the group and describing the history of the
house. I again took her aside and tried to express the urgency of my situation.
As a courtesy, I spoke in Spanish. She walked into another room and began to
discuss the paintings. I took her aside for third time at an opportune moment
and expressed to her in no uncertain terms and in English this time the urgency
of the situation and just what was about to happen if I did not find a restroom
immediately. Apparently, this got her attention and she disappeared into
another room. She quickly returned and
told me that the restroom was beyond the room she'd just been in but that it
was unavailable. The anteroom was under renovation, the floor had just been
stripped and varnished.
In
desperation, I opened the door and encountered a man and women who were re-finishing
the floor. I pleaded my case in Spanish and English and evidently convinced the
couple of the impending disaster. They both pointed across the room to another
door and nodded. My shoes stuck to the curing varnish and once or twice I
skidded as I headed for the door and the bathroom beyond.
Ahhhhhhhhh!
I was a bit
sheepish on my return through the anteroom and thanked both workers as
profusely as my limited Spanish would allow. Both were laughing as I left. I
was aware that I'd left footprints in the sticky varnish on both of my trips
across the room.
No one had
missed me as I returned to the group. Gretchen was busy taking photos of
stained glass doors and Mitra was admiring the ornate carvings in the wainscot.
The woodwork, the artwork, wall and ceiling treatments and tile work in each
room were so overwhelming and beautiful that no one in our group had recognized
my distress nor my departure. The tour had continued without me. I am certain,
however, that someone would have noticed had I not found that restroom
precisely when I had.
