Only I can get lost walking in a straight line. Honestly, if I had a sense of direction, I'd be dangerous. Yesterday I decided to venture down to Pacifico to soak up the beauty of the sea and sit reading my second book, having finished my first book. The first book was a self-development book which you're meant to read once, then go back and do the activities subsequently. Knowing me, subsequently will occur in about fifteen years, but at least I've read it once.
I walked the route which has become loosely familiar, down towards the coast, stopping for coffee and a crepe from a pavement cafe which I've now been to twice, so I'm practically a regular there.
I wandered around some of the places I had visited on the guided walk. It was Palm Sunday and there were various people emerging from churches and the nearby cathedral wielding palms. I walked and walked, photographed the stunning Pacifico, people-watched, attempted to improve my Spanish through eavesdropping. I ended up enjoying a frozen chocolate brownie drink thing - I generally have a moral objection to eating brownies as it just sounds cannibalistic, but I made an exception as it was sweltering. I read my book, sipped my brownie drink and watched the world go by, possibly jotting down ideas for our forthcoming Brownie Holiday as they pinged into my head.
Sorry, that just reminded me - I just had to book a Tesco delivery slot for Brownie Holiday - which I have now done, all good, now, where was I?
Ah yes, I decided to go and have an early dinner at the roof terrace where the walking tour had ended. As I walked along the front through what they call Love Park, just along from where I met Paddington the other day, I bumped into the guide from my walking tour and chatted to him - he was with a smaller group this time, just four people, and they were headed to the chocolate tasting spot next.
I continued walking along the front, stopping to soak up the spectacular views of Pacifico. I walked and walked, continuously looking for the right turn towards my roof terrace, where I could taste the awaiting fish. But things started to look curious, curiously different. I seemed to be walking past huge blocks of flats I didn't recognise, through parks with play and gym equipment that I hadn't seen before.
The route was packed with families enjoying the Palm Sunday sunshine, Peruvians walking their dogs, children playing, people cycling, roller-blading, scooting; there was no shortage of activity. But awkwardly I had missed the turning and was miles from where I thought I was.
The route was also punctuated by yellow-clad Peruvians wielding awkwardly-shaped bicycles which have a huge freezer box attached - I think they are selling ice-cream and things like that.
'Por favore', I approached one of these yellow-clad people with her awkwardly-shaped bicycle - 'donde es Larco?' Larco being the main road where the roof terrace is. Well, I should have been prepared for her very detailed, very Spanish answer; I didn't understand the words, but the tone and body language told me that it was absolutely miles away from where I was. Tone and body language often tell you more than words, although words are also extremely useful at times.
'Gracias, gracias', I nodded, pretending that I had understood what she had said. I tried to ask if it was a long walk, by pointing at my wrist-watch and raising my eye-brows inquisitively; she proceeded to tell me the time, I think.
It transpired that I had walked about two miles past where I had meant to turn off. I continued to ask the thoughtfully punctuated yellow-clad ice-cream sellers with their awkwardly-shaped bicycles, until I eventually found the main road.
A little irritated with myself, I wandered along and bumped into the Colombian couple from my recent day-trip - we exchanged pleasantries, I think.
Finally, I reached the roof terrace and had to show my covid vaccination card to gain entry. I was ushered upstairs, then upstairs again, then settled myself at a table and got my notebook out to log the thoughts that had floated round my head on my unintentionally epic Helen walk. Something didn't feel quite right. The staff were all dressed in a uniform with hats; the menu looked different; so did the tables and the seats. Oh no. This wasn't the same roof terrace!!
I deliver trainings in problem solving. I know how to get a farmer, a fox hungry for chicken, a chicken hungry for grain, and a sack of grain, across a river. But problem solve this one - how could I explain to the lovely kind staff that I didn't mean to be at this roof terrace at all, but that I wasn't sure where the right one was, in a language which I don't speak.
The kindly waiter presented me with a menu - I had planned to show them the photo I took of my amazing dinner the other day and order the same - but being in a different establishment, this wasn't to be. I ordered ceviche which is a Latin American speciality - fresh raw fish cured in lime juice - this was done mainly through the medium of mime, so I wasn't entirely sure what would turn up, but ceviche it was, and it was delicious, as was the accompanying pisco sour.
Whilst I was using the medium of mime to understand the menu, I noticed two American travellers arrive at the adjacent table. Within minutes they had invited me to join them and we spent the next three hours sorting out the world philosophically, sharing travel stories and learning about various aspects of our lives. It was a very pleasant evening.
There's no such thing as the wrong roof terrace.
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