On Halloween day, I headed to the Tribeca firestation made famous in Ghostbusters. That night, I channeled Margot Tennenbaum on the streets of midtown, eating stick after stick of candy cigarettes.

The next day, I realized I wasn’t yet done paying pilgrimage to movie locations or obsessing over Wes Anderson.

And so, on the first day of November, which was bright and clear and curiously warm, I left our hotel with a specific goal in mind: I was going to see the house on Archer Ave that Royal Tenenbaum bought in the winter of his thirty-fifth year.

The Royal Tenenbaums was the first movie I even saw in the theater with the boy I later married. I don’t know if that is part of the reason I can’t watch it without my heart hurting, without sighing longingly and thinking that life is beautiful and hilarious, even when it’s sad.

It might be something more – like the fact that my father has always sort of reminded me of Gene Hackman. That in a few early scenes of the film, Anjelica Huston‘s character speaks Italian. That weeks after it came out my brother called me and the first words out of his mouth were not “Hello” or “How are you?” but, “Have you seen The Royal Tenenbaums?” 

If you are unfamiliar with the film, please take a minute (or 109 minutes, to be exact) to watch it. I’ll wait. Really. (Seriously, go. This post will be waiting for you when you get back).

There. Good, yes? Your life is changed, isn’t it? Yes. I know.

Though Archer Avenue itself is fictional, the house that Wes Anderson used in The Royal Tenenbaums is not (his draw to the building was so strong, it actually influenced parts of the story). It stands on the corner of West 144th and Covent Ave in Harlem.

Harlem. Prior to that November day, I’d never been further than 112th street. I knew nothing of Harlem besides its eponymous globetrotters, and the fact that my husband’s mother had grown up there.

I looked at my map. Harlem sat at the very top, threatening to fall of the edge. I decided to take the 3 train. This was a mistake. The A, B, C, or D will place you around the corner from the house. The 3 will drop you off three-quarters of a mile away. But I’ve never been one to have much direction, in travel or in life, and it was a beautiful day. I stepped off the subway, learned of my mistake, and began trekking across a portion of Manhattan that I never knew existed.

It was like time had become undone. It may have been the 70s, the 80s, the 90s or now. Or perhaps all of those things at once.

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I crossed Malcolm X Avenue. I saw old churches made of stone and small, family-run restaurants with neon signs. I listed to men laughing loudly inside a barber shop, their chatter bouncing off the walls and onto the street. Everyone I saw was on their way somewhere. There were no tourists in this part of town, save for me.

And I, too, was on my way somewhere.

The sun lit up old, graffitied buildings, forever cementing the impression in my mind that Harlem is bright and beautiful.

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The house is in a wealthy little enclave called Hamilton Heights. It’s beautiful and somewhat disorienting, not just because you feel like you stepped onto a movie set, or because you need to remind yourself that this is, in fact, still Manhattan, but also because all the houses look like they could be the one where Richie, Chas, and Margot grew up.

Like this one, which sat across the street from my destination, and also had the telltale spire:

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Or this one, which was just down the road.

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Or even the church across the street.

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But I’d seen the movie enough times. I knew the spire I was looking for. The wrought-iron fence out front, the stairs Eli crashed into. The rooftop on which Margot and Richie shared an ancient cigarette. I knew it when I saw it, as if there had been tiny dalmatian mice hiding in the corners.

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It’s a beautiful house. I only saw it from the outside, but still, it was lovely.

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I spent far too much time capitivated by everything.

The leaves on the cement banister.

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The three stories of windows, out of which each of three Tenenbaum children stared.

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The scrolling metalwork on the fence out front.

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I went knowing I couldn’t go in. The house is a private residence, a discovery which caused me the same mixture of envy and pain that I get when I pass my childhood home here in Seattle. You simply hope that the current inhabitants who live there know how truly lucky they are. That they wake up every morning and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

And then you dream, quietly, of the day when your writing career will take off (because it is your dream, after all) and you are able to buy it. And every morning after, you’d open your eyes and sigh wistfully and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

But back in this reality, you have to say goodbye to the house and return to midtown.

As I walked through Harlem again, this time to a nearer subway stop, I began to wax poetic (the way one only can when they are wandering through uncharted parts of New York alone). I thought about how life isn’t a straight comedy or tragedy – how it’s all those things in one, and it leaves you wanting to laugh and cry at more or less the same time. It’s not unlike how I feel after watching a Wes Anderson movie. And perhaps that’s why he resonates so well with me.

And why I trekked all the way to Harlem. Just to look at a house, and only from the outside.

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The Essentials on the Tenenbaums House (West 144th and Covent Ave, Harlem):

• Verdict: Yes. If you saw the movie (and consequently loved it, because, really, HOW COULD YOU NOT?) it’s worth a visit. If you haven’t seen the movie, why didn’t you do so when I told you to 18 paragraphs ago?
• How to Get There: This should be easy for most people. You hop on the A, B, C, or D, and it will graciously drop you off around the corner. I’m just kind of an idiot.
• Ideal for: Wes Anderson fans; folks who have spent too much damn time in New York and have started roaming aimlessly into seldom-trekked sections of the city.
• Insider Tips: The house is a private residence, so banging on the front door while screaming, “I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A TENENBAUM!” is ill-advised. True fans will also want to check out other filming locations from the movie.
• Good for Kids: Dear lord, no. The Tenenbaum house is not appropriate for children.

Guess where I am. Go ahead. Guess.

It’s rare that I have direction when I travel, in any sense of the word. I usually roam around the city, using my blessedly-large nose to seek out and follow the smell of baked goods, often to a happy end.

But during my trip to New York last October, I had, for one of the few times in my life, direction (and one that was not influenced by baked goods).

I needed to make a pilgrimage to Tribeca, and one that was a long time in coming. I had intended to go to 14 North Moore Street for years, but the other callings of New York (Ellis Island, shopping, and cupcakes) kept leading me astray. This time, though, there was nothing else on my schedule. The sun was shining, it was unseasonably warm, and it was, rather fittingly, Halloween Day.

And so it was a perfect occasion to visit the firehouse that served as headquarters for Ray, Peter, Winston, and Egon.

That’s right: I was going to Hook & Ladder 8. The New York fire station used in Ghostbusters.

My love for films of my childhood is no secret here on the blog (every few years I pop down to Astoria, OR, where The Goonies was filmed, just to see if anything has changed. It has not). Ghostbusters ranks high on my list of favorites, and even to this day, quotes from the movie pepper my vernacular.

My default outburst of choice is always, “Mother pus bucket!”. And at least once a week Rand will do something that will cause me to yell, “What did you do, RAY? WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Getting to Hook and Ladder 8 is surprisingly easy – the subway will drop you off just a few steps away. On the corner of N. Moore and Varick, you’ll see it.

I may have squee'd a little when I saw it, because that's what grown women do when their childhood dreams are realized.

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The station is still being used, so be careful when you approach it. The firefighters I encountered were incredibly polite, and no strangers to curious tourists, but you’ll still want to get the heck out of the way if they start to pull the truck out of the garage.

I felt some subtle disappointment when I saw that the vehicle which emerged, sirens blazing, was not in fact the Ecto-1.

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There’s a subtle tribute to the movie, painted on the ground near the station house – a rendition of the Ghostbusters logo that looks very little like the original, but may be just enough to communicate to a savvy passer-by as to what’s going on.

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Then again, perhaps it’s fitting that it doesn’t look like the movie logo. It’s a reminder that the beloved stories from our childhoods are merely that – stories – and that reality can be far grimer. Proving that point even further is this plaque on the wall of the station, commemorating Lt. Vincent G. Halloran, who died while on duty on September 11th. He left behind five sons and his wife, who was pregnant with a little girl he would never meet.

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It’s funny – all these years I’ve loved a movie about ghosts, and this was the first time I ever associated it with death. I had finally found reached a destination that I’d been trying to get to for years, and seeing it left me both fulfilled and saddened.

I suppose sometimes it doesn’t matter how well you plan – your life will get derailed for reasons you can’t anticipate. You plan to visit a place, and you’ll never get there, or you’ll end up somewhere you never imagined you’d be. In that respect, it was nothing short of miraculous that I had gotten to Hook and Ladder 8. Heck, it was nothing short of miraculous that any of us got anywhere.

I took a few more photos, stared a building for a bit longer, then turned and walked into the fading sun. It was autumn in New York, and once again I had no direction, but I knew that somewhere, someone was baking cupcakes.

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The Essentials on Hook and Ladder 8:

• Verdict: Visit, if you are in the area (the station is close to the SOHO shopping district and is by no means out of the way). But don’t expect anything particularly grand. If you loved the movie, you’ll get a kick out of seeing it.
• How to Get There: It’s a short walk from the subway. You can take the 1 or the 2 to Franklin Street, or the A, C, or E to Canal Street. From there, head over to 14 North Moore, and on the corner, you’ll find it.
• Ideal For: Movie buffs; children of the 80s
• Insider Tips: Since the station is still in operation, you can’t really tour it, but if you catch an obliging fire fighter on a slow day, they might let you peek inside. Supposedly the Ghostbusters II sign still hangs inside. Be sure to catch a glimpse of the customized insignia on the ground just outside the station.
• Nearby Food: Magnolia Bakery isn’t far from here, but for those of you who need something more substantial than a cupcake please consider getting out of my sight because I DON’T WAN T TO KNOW YOU walking to SOHO and NOHO, where you’ll find plenty of options.
• Good for Kids: Little ones who are fans of the movie and old enough to tell the difference between fiction and real-life might get a kick out of this. Otherwise, it will just be confusing (and possibly a little dull).

It's official: The Clink is not now, nor has it ever been, a good place to visit.

I am easily scared.

The first time I saw The Sixth Sense, even though I knew the twist thanks to a big-mouthed teacher of mine, I nearly peed my pants. Thankfully, as far as you know, I did not.  And once, years ago, Rand and I spent the night at a hotel near the Oregon Caves that was supposedly haunted. I literally spent the night with one eye open, convinced that if I closed it, I’d wake up dead (in the early morning hours, this logic made sense).

On occasion, I find myself at odds with my chicken-sh!t disposition, and my curiosity as a traveler wins out. Like our visit to Sleepy Hollow, New York, or the Old Operating Museum in London. Yes, these places are somewhat creepy, but they’re also downright fascinating.

This is what originally drew me to the Clink Prison Museum in London. The Clink Prison was in operation from the 1100s up to the 1700s, and was known for being a rather unpleasant place. All manner of torture and suffering happened there, usually to members of whichever religious group the reigning monarch at the time was not a part of. The jailers and guards were entrepreneurial in their corruption, accepting bribes and charging prisoners exorbinant amounts for food and other necessities. Prisoners were flogged, or strapped to the rack, or boiled in oil, which I understand makes for a lousy week.

I anticipated that the Clink would be a worthwhile visit – creepy and entertaining. The reviews were solid (edit: I don’t know where I got this idea. The reviews are awful and hilarious), and it sounded legit. Even when I saw a gentleman in a terrible period costume handing out fliers in front of it (which is a pretty clear sign that you should run in the opposite direction), I was still convinced it wasn’t going to be an awful tourist trap. After all, there were street signs pointing to this place. The civic planners for the city of London wouldn’t lead me astray, would they?

There should be a warning underneath that reads: "This place is so not worth your money."

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Spoiler: they totally would. Those bastards.

While plenty of genuinely horrifying things happened on this spot, the museum feels like a bad house of horrors at a county fair. In an effort to truly hammer home the atrocities that happened here, the purveyors somehow cheapen them. A few sharpened pikes are scary on their own, because of what our imaginations add to the scene. But with the addition of a couple of fake, bloodied heads, and it becomes absurd almost to the point of being funny. Part of the reason I think I didn’t love the Clink was because of my expectations – had I expected something ludicrous and funny, something that I could have ridiculed in the company of a friend, I suspect I might have gotten a kick out of it. Instead, I found the whole thing to be kitschy, and not in a good way.

The museum started out promisingly enough, with real, genuine artifacts! Scraps of shoes that had been uncovered at the site were on display. The different sizes and shapes made it clear: men, women, and children had all spent time in The Clink.

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But it soon descended into corniness.

In the background was audio of a man yelling in agony. Problem was he sounded like Bert from Mary Poppins.

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Want to know how to create your own authentic Clink Prison dummy? Take a regular dummy, add a Pilgrim costume, and smear the whole thing with blood. Done!

The idea that children were imprisoned along with their parents was incredibly disturbing. Fortunately, the zombie Pilgrim helped brighten the mood.

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Reproductions of implements of torture, like this metal mask, were genuinely frightening:

Though I bet wearing this is more comfortable than having to sit through the 1998 film version of "The Man in The Iron Mask."

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This, however, was not:

This looks less like death and more like la petite mort.

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Frightening:

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Not:

I see Curly and Moe, but I'm having trouble placing the other two.

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Creepy:

Chains and locks found at the site of the Clink Prison.

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Outtake from a Barbie bondage video:

It's meant to illustrate one of the torture devices, but I'm pretty sure it's a huge G.I. Joe. And he's not wearing pants.

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This next part of the museum was legitimately disturbing. It’s a recreation of a debtor’s cell.

This scene sent one poor little girl screaming out of the room.

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Notice how the bed is raised? Apparently the prison would often flood, filling with ice cold, putrid water and sewage, and the prisoners would struggle to not get soaked while they tried to sleep. Oh, and see the bowl of round, red things in front of him? Those are rats. Since he’s a debtor, and unable to procure any money to buy food, that’s what he’s going to feast on.

Now, considering all this talk of rat-eating, what, pray tell, do you think an appropriate mascot for the museum would be?

Soon, you will be eaten.

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That’s right! An adorable little rat!

He’s actually quite sweet, what with his buck teeth and bright-eyed demeanor. Shame, really, that he’ll end up skinned and eaten by some innovative debtor. But wait … what’s that on his foot?

Um ... he's attached to a ball and chain? Seriously?

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The idea that the rat is a Clink prisoner tells me that the early English legal system was far more thorough than I had previously imagined. Still, it’s cute, and probably plays well with younger visitors who haven’t yet run screaming from the museum. And I bet he’s sharing lots of kid-friendly facts!

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Or, you know, just facts about how former monarchs were really BIG on torture.

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Okay, you know what? That’s just messed up.

The Clink isn’t a particularly big museum – just a few rooms. Apparently it was once the basement of a warehouse, and it still largely feels like it – there are no windows, the lighting is dim, the air stale and hot. I guess that’s the one bit of authenticity about the Clink: when you’re there, you really do feel like you are imprisoned. When I left, my wallet ten dollars lighter than it had been, and stepped out into the bright, crisp London afternoon, I couldn’t help but breathe a little more deeply, walk a little more lightly, and enjoy the city just a little more.

My hard-earned lesson was this: Freedom has its merits, even if the Clink Prison Museum does not.

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The Everywhereist Essentials:

• Recommended: Nope. Unless you are a teenager looking for a few laughs on Halloween, this is one you can definitely skip.
• How to Get There: The museum is conveniently located on Clink Street, in South Bank. If you find yourself in the area, kindly walk past the museum and consider visiting the Tate Modern (which is free), Shakespeare’s Globe Theater (which I highly recommend), or one of my favorite spots in London – the Old Operating Theater Museum and Herb Garret.
• Ideal for: Morons, teenagers, people who rent horror movies and laugh when the heroine gets it.
• Insider tips: Don’t go here.
• Nearby food: There’s a Starbucks directly opposite, which really should have tipped me off. And the boardwalk near the water is full of chain cafes, including a Greek place that I think is better than the reviews suggest. If Borough Market is open, though, just head there and skip all this other nonsense.
• Good for kids: Absolutely not. I watched several little ones get carried out by their frantic mothers, including one little girl who was holding back tears and saying to herself, “I have to be brave. I have to be brave.” It was heartbreaking. Anyone between the ages of 13-17 might enjoy this place, though.

How have I let so much time pass without telling you about these?

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It is late Sunday night, and I’m staring at my computer screen, trying to figure where the time went.

“How is the weekend already over?” I wonder (even after years of having no real obligations on Monday morning, I am still sad when it approaches).

And just earlier today, I asked a friend how, exactly, it was December already. And how can 2012 possibly be weeks away? How – sweet lord in heaven – how am I thirty-one years old and still have to stop myself from answering “Sixteen!” when people ask me my age? (And why, while we’re on the topic, do people keep asking me how old I am? Is it that much of a mystery?)

I close my eyes tightly, trying to take a mental catalog of the last few hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Did they all pass by so quickly? Did I miss anything? Did I forget to tell you anything?

There are things I’ve yet to get to, I know. Last summer’s trip to Ashland. The visit to the east coast that happened just before that. The journey to Machu Picchu right after. Barcelona. London. Halloween in New York. Thanksgiving in San Diego. They are all places that I will tell you about, as soon as my life calms down and my wheels of my rolling suitcase have had a chance to cool.

Really, there’s nothing that I have to tell you about that can’t wait. Except for one thing. Something of such importance, that I’m amazed I didn’t write about it sooner.

I need to tell you about the best cupcake I’ve ever had. And the middle of the night on a Sunday seems a perfectly good time to do it.

Rand and I were in New York this past August and in possession of a rental car. On our way out of the city (heading to Jersey to see Rand’s grandparents) we figured we’d swing by Philly and visit a friend. That’s something that’s always fascinated me about the Northeast: drive a few short hours, and you’ll find yourself in a different state, and a drastically different city. It seems that whenever we drive anywhere in New Jersey, Rand will excitedly turn to me and say, “Guess where we are?”

“Um … Princeton?”

“No. We’re in Pennsylvania!”

It happens without fanfare or flourish. I will watch the trees passing by on the side of the road, and suddenly, miraculously, we are in another state. This is how we end up in Philadelphia. We leave New York on a hot, overcast morning, storm clouds rumbling on the horizon, listen to a few hours of NPR and Mumford and Sons, and end up in a place called New Liberties, in Philly.

It is there that we meet Rand’s friend and colleague Wil (with one L) and after a lunch during which things got far too intellectual for a Sunday, and the threatening skies finally open up on us, he tells us about Brown Betty.

Cupcakes lie within.

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One of its many claims to fame? It was featured in Oprah Magazine. This didn’t immediately sway me: I still have yet to buy into The Secret or the holiday stylings of Josh Groban. Besides, when it comes to cupcakes I am a tough critic. I demand a moist cake with golden edges that are just a weensy bit crisp. A frosting that tastes of something more than sugar (vanilla, perhaps?), has a bit of salt for height, and develops a nice crust that provides just a little bit of resistance as you bite down.

And, rather remarkably, the cupcakes at Brown Betty meet all of my demands. They are enormous, and almost creamy in texture. And yet, they are not overwhelming. The sweetness is actually quite moderate: it doesn’t cloyingly coat your tongue,  and it spares you the slightly-revolting-feeling that comes from having ingested half a pound each of sugar and butter. These cupcakes are, despite their miraculous size, subtle in flavor.

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Rand got the "Sing Little Alice" a chocolate-vanilla marble cake with chocolate and vanilla frosting.

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Ever the traditionalist, I went with Sally's Sour Cream. It was heavenly and light, and not at all indicative of the condiment in its name.

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The store is darling. Decorated in pink and brown (like all good cupcake shops should be) it looks like a confection, and yet there is something gritty and down-to-earth about the shop. Perhaps it is the less-than-perfect appearance of the cupcakes. They do not look like they were made in a professional kitchen, but rather in the home of some genius friend who happens to have a sweet tooth and a less-than-steady frosting hand. The girl behind the counter is friendly and courteous while still being all business. She tells us the cupcakes she prefers, takes our order quickly and competently. We order three – one each for me, Rand, and Wil, and they are packed in individual plastic cases (no pink boxes for this place, and that’s fine by me. I like to gaze at my cakes before I devour them).

Rand and Wil pick out their cakes.

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If I ran the world, all menus would look like this.

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The surrounding area, much like the store itself, is a mix of glamor and grit. Wil explains that it’s changed considerably in the last few decades. It wasn’t a particularly wealthy part of town when he was a kid, but now it’s full of trendy boutiques and restaurants, modern condos and offices (including Wil’s company’s headquarters which are located – no kidding – in a renovated church).  The issue of gentrification in the area is a heated one – many residents say it’s at the expense of the neighborhood’s soul. As a visitor, I’m not able to pick up on this – I just blithely see the charm of the area. I look no further than the frosting on my cupcake or the facades on the buildings.

It is getting late – we need to head back to Jersey, and Wil needs to be in New York that night. There’s comfort in the fact that many of our friends travel as much as we do.  We say goodbye, and as we head back to Flemington, I occasionally peek at the desserts nestled near my feet.

Hello, lover.

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I worry there won’t be enough for everyone, but Rand reminds me that his grandparents aren’t big on sweets. While this is true, it proves to not apply to these cupcakes. They are so delicious, we all devour them on a rainy night in his grandparents’ kitchen, and I am left pressing my finger against the last few crumbs and depositing them on my tongue.

And I am very, very happy.

It remains perhaps the best cupcake I’ve ever eaten. An unforgettable one, really. Which is why I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you about it.

Because the seat did not adjust properly, I needed to sit on a large pillow to see over the steering wheel (I am short). Because the breaks were not the strongest in the world, I had to stand on the brake pedal with both feet (with so much force that it lifted me off the seat) in order to stop the vehicle. That vehicle was not with me long, because, as I politely informed my mother, if I was going to die prematurely young, I hoped it would be from something slightly more creative than “death by shitty car.”

So the Pacer was sold off, and I got myself a Hyundai Excel. The brakes worked and I could see over the steering wheel, which I suppose was better, but damn it, was it dull. And so bourgeoisie.

I quietly wished to have the Pacer back, to rock out in it while eating licorice and listening to Queen, but  I said not a word. I wasn’t that ungrateful a kid. Besides, all the money that had gone into those cars was my own, and I was now broke. When I effectively destroyed the Hyundai (rear-ending someone in Seattle traffic), I cried. I cried for a car I didn’t really want.

My family is known for buying clunkers. Because the defrost never worked on any of our vehicles, we’d boil a pot of water on chilly winter mornings and toss it on the windshield to melt the frost that had accumulated there overnight. I learned to drive on an old Volvo that wouldn’t park (like, the actually gear of park would not work, so we had to rest it against light poles or whatever was handy so it wouldn’t roll away). When I was in elementary school, my mother briefly drove a white station wagon with rust spots in the floor that were so large, you could see through them to road underneath. On the wagon’s hood my brother spelled out in silver duct tape, rather inexplicably, “WHO’S YO DADDY?”.

I’d watch my teachers squint as they read the hood of the car whenever my mother drove me to or from school. The look of confusion on their faces was delightful. It’s the sort of magic only an awful car can provide you.

My family tried to bring me into that world of exciting, exhaust-scented unpredictability with that dear Pacer, but in my youthful ignorance, I wanted nothing to do with it. I rebelled by opting for boring, dependable cars. They had short names that sound like (or actually were) computer programs. Excel. Neon. Spectra. They’ve been good to me, those cars, they really have. My KIA almost always starts on cue, has electric windows and a CD player. It’s literally everything I’ve ever wanted from a vehicle.

But when I see a clunker drive past? When I see a group of friends pushing a vehicle down the street to get it started, and running alongside it before managing to hop in? I get sentimental. I think of my family. And I smile.

It’s one of the things I loved about Peru. Everywhere we went, we saw old, broken down vehicles. We piled into cabs that were a battle ground of odors: stale leather, gasoline fumes, and the faintest whiff of a pine tree air freshener that had been hung in hopes of combating all of it. Some people might regard these vehicles as an indication of the country’s poverty. But my view of them is much more favorable: they are the embodiment of not being wasteful. These vehicles are the opposite of a consumer culture, the antithesis of keeping up with the Joneses. Every dent is a memory, every scratch is story. These automobiles may be old, but they are loved.
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I like the newspaper window-tinting.

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These are the cars that I grew up with. Cars with silly, strange names from far-away lands. Volkswagen. Peugeot. Datsun. They the original expats, retired and lounging in the warmth of the South American sun.

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For years I wondered why our cars were always partially grey. (Answer: it was Bondo.)

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These are the vehicles my family crowded around in chilly garages, replacing pieces with other ones they had purchased at the junk yard. These are the cars of my youth, long since sold for parts. On the streets of Lima, I saw them again.

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I am 90% sure my mother actually owned this car.

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They are everything a good friend is not: dirty, unreliable, and constantly wasting your time and money. My KIA, which I found patiently waiting for me in the garage back home, is none of those things. It is a good car. One I can’t complain about.

And yet, some days I still find myself thinking about that Pacer. I almost wish I still had it. Equipped with some new brakes, of course. And, since I’m dreaming here, a CD player and a licorice dispenser, too.

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My husband occasionally has moments of brilliance. He has moments of utmost stupidity, too, but since I love him more than Seattle on a sunny day (a rare phenomenon that I can see outside my office window as I type this) I’d like to focus on the brilliance.

At the end of our trip to Peru, we were talking about our experiences in the country. I noted that Peru was much cheaper than Italy, yet seemed to be just as culturally rich. Even though we got ripped off a few times, it wasn’t nearly to the degree that we might have in Rome or Naples. It was far less costly to see Peru.

Rand nodded. And unleashed his occasional brilliance.

“Italy is the pretty girl who knows she pretty, and will make you pay for it. Peru is the pretty girl who has no idea that she’s beautiful.”

Boom. Brilliant.

And nothing we saw in Lima exemplified this more than the Larco Museum (or the Museo Larco, as it is known locally). Though we spent a good chunk of time online researching things to do in Peru’s capital, we found little information on the museum. Even the gals who worked there looked shocked when we walked through the door. One stared blankly at us – a group of pasty Americans, before asking, “How did you hear about us?”

I told her we had read about the museum online and that it came highly recommended from those who had visited it. She looked shocked.

Like the pretty girl who was just told that she’s stunning. And she had no idea.

The Larco Museum is privately owned. Having visited the Barnes in Pennsylvania, I know that this can usually make for fantastic (if unconventional) collections. This is true of the Larco, which isn’t particularly big, but is nevertheless home to the largest collection of pre-Columbian artifacts anywhere in the world. If you associate Ancient Peru with just the Incans, you are merely scratching the surface of the country’s history. There are pieces from the Moche, Nazca, Chimu, and Inca peoples. What’s that? You’ve not even heard of most of those groups? Well, that’s not really surprising. They had a habit of conquering and subsuming one another. The Incas were perhaps the most prominent group up until 1532, when the Spanish arrived.
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Notice how, in 1532, the reigning group over all territories became "Colonial."

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The impact of Colonialism seems (at least, in my opinion) to have left a lasting mark on the psyche of Peru. One of our tour guides – a native to a small village near Cuzco – told us that he had recently given a tour to a group of Spaniards that didn’t go particularly well. Whenever they asked him questions about native peoples, he always added at the end, “But then you guys showed up, and killed and raped everyone.”

I can see how that might make things a weensy bit awkward, no?

And while I don’t think that we can hold present-day members of an ethnic group accountable for what their forefathers did (I’m Italian, Russian, and Catholic. I’d have a lot to atone for), it’s hard not to feel anger on behalf on the native peoples. Their temples were torn down and desecrated, their homes destroyed, their children enslaved. Their culture was so devalued, that even today, when you enter a museum dedicated to it, the employees who working there look shocked that anyone would be interested.

“You … want to learn about what was here before the Conquistadors arrived?” they seemed to ask, wide-eyed. And we did.

We learned that in Ancient Peru, a few recurring symbols were used again and again. A condor represented the sky, a cat (or jaguar) represented the earth, and a snake represented the world underneath the soil. Used together, these three icons represented the world.

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Pitcher at left representing the cat/condor/snake trifecta. Look closely and see if you can spot all three.

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Rand peers at some pottery.

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We saw plenty of gold and silver – the former representing the sun (which, I am pleased to say, is still shining out my office window. Really, Seattle, WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?), the latter representing the moon. While gold may be considered much more precious by today’s standards, in Ancient Peru they were valued equally.
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I know just the outfit that I would wear with this.

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Seriously, I'm beginning to think I don't own enough jewelry.

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The exhibits we saw weren’t terribly big – we covered that portion of the museum rather quickly, but there was still plenty left to see. The Larco is one of only a handful of museums worldwide that lets you browse their storage area (most museums only ever display about 20% of their collections at a time). We walked through large rooms lined with artifacts up to the ceiling.

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Megan checks out the storage area.

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There's a joke here. Something about the REAL Pottery Barn. I'll work on it.

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We didn’t have much context for many of the items in this part of the museum (after all, they weren’t officially on display) but it was nevertheless mesmerizing. We were kids in an archaeological candy store.
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After the Conquistadors arrived, the Incans depicted many of their gods in chains to symbolize the ravages of Colonialism.

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I kept expecting to see the Ark of the Covenant nestled in some corner Sadly, I did not, but I did see this guy, who was almost as cool:

In this instance, they've actually created a Conquistador (noted by the facial hair) in a submission position.

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But perhaps the most entertaining part of the Larco is the section of erotic pottery.

Yes, you read that right. EROTIC POTTERY: now no longer just a class at a community college in San Francisco! It was a real, permanent exhibit in the museum. And, all jokes aside, it was rather … extensive (hee).

Keep in mind, the following photos are solely of pottery – but for those of you who live or work in puritanical or conservative environments, you might want to skip the rest of this post. It features a lot of terra cotta genitalia.

Okay …

Don’t say I didn’t warn you …

Here we go …

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Someone add this to my Amazon wish list (GET IT? AMAZON?)

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SHAZAAM! That’s the money shot. Or money pot, as it were.

I have to say – I’m actually quite proud of us. We held it together pretty well, despite reading informative signs (in both Spanish and English) that said things like,  Water pot depicting couple in missionary position, or Fruit bowl featuring couple partaking in anal sex.

I imagine Ancient Incan dinner parties must have been a total trip.

“Sweetie, can you please get the nice pitcher out for me?” 

“Which one do you want? The one with the tiny dude wielding a penis as large as he is, or the one with the woman reluctantly performing fellatio on her husband?” 

“Honey, PLEASE. My parents are coming over! … The one with the woman performing reluctant fellatio. OBVIOUSLY.” 

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I bet you thought I was kidding before, huh?

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I suspect part of the reason we were able to behave so well was that we were in the company of a tour group of folks who were old enough to be my parents, and they were saying things that were positively raunchy. They were misbehaving for us – making cracks like, “Goodness, she doesn’t seem to be enjoying that at all,” and “We need to try that one at home.”
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I like this one, because everyone involved looks so darn happy.

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Keeping up with the Joneses.

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Looking for the perfect Christmas present for your boss? Look no further.

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Nothing to see here, folks. Just move along.

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The comments coming from the tour group were positively dirty. It was delightful. In a perfect world, I would get to hang out with those folks every day.

Having had our fill of erotic pottery (I know – I, too, was surprised such a thing was possible), we enjoyed the gardens of the museum before heading out.
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The hubby took this of me, and I think it's kind of cute. Like I said before - moments of occasional brilliance.

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This photo, like so many things we had seen that day, is overexposed.

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We’d spent the better part of an afternoon at the museum, seen priceless treasures, and stifled some serious giggles. The total price of admission? Roughly $12 U.S.

In Italy – or even in the states – we’d have paid twice that.

Rand really was right – Peru is the pretty girl who has no idea she’s pretty. Once you get to know her better, you’ll find that in addition to her loveliness, she’s truly entertaining and a lot of fun.

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Yowza.

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And she has one heck of a naughty side, to boot.

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The Essentials on the Larco Museum, Lima, Peru

• The Verdict: YES. Admission is only about $12 U.S., and the Larco has a collection which is literally unlike anything you will see anywhere in the world. If you are in Lima, it’s a must-visit.
• How to Get There: We cabbed it over. Check out my post on how to haggle for taxi cab rates in Peru if you want to go this route. And when you are leaving the museum, be sure to wander a few blocks away before hailing a cab: the ones waiting outside the Larco will try charging you much more.
• Ideal for: Anyone who loves archaeology or ancient cultures, or who’s interested in learning more about the pre-Colombian groups in Peru.
• Insider Tips: Give yourself at least an hour to visit the museum. Don’t forget to take a look at the erotic pottery section, the gardens, and the storage area. The gift shop was also quite reasonably priced compared to the ones you’d find in the U.S. or Europe. And keep an eye out for the Peruvian National Hairless Dog, which usually stands guard near the museum’s entrance.
• Nearby Food: The cafe at the museum is supposedly pretty decent, but we didn’t go there. Instead, we found ourselves at the Antigua Taberna Queirolo. It was a little hectic and our server spoke no English, but we got along fine (you will be okay – people are friendly in Peru, and the menu has photos).
• Good for kids: Children with some knowledge of the pre-Colombian civilizations of Peru would probably get a kick out of this (I was in fourth grade when we first started learning about South America), though there’s a risk that younger ones might get bored. Everything is behind glass, so there’s little that even the smallest guests can damage, and they can run around the gardens, too. Plus, a good section of the place is stroller-friendly.

The city of Lima: plenty of cabs, plenty of chances to haggle.

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Haggling is an art form, and my mother is Picasso. Analyze her technique too closely, and it will fall apart, but stand back far enough, and a masterpiece emerges. I’ve seen her haggle in retail stores. RETAIL STORES. With success. She will take an item up to the cashier and note that a thread is coming loose – would they mind giving her a discount? Or she’ll point out a popped button, a fraying hem (all things which she can fix in a matter of moments) and ask for a ludicrous percentage off.

AND SHE WILL GET IT.

I thought about her a lot when I was in Peru. Not only is haggling a way of life down there, it’s institutionalized – nothing seems to have a fixed price. Not even the cabs. That’s right: you haggle for cab fares in Peru. None of the vehicles have meters. You simply talk to a driver and negotiate the price before getting in.

For me, this was incredibly nerve-wracking. I didn’t inherit my mother’s knack for seeking out a bargain. I tried once to get a deal on a sweater that was – I kid you not – coming apart at the seams. The cashier offered me 10% off. I stared at her blankly before putting it back on the rack. My mother would have been paid to take it off the store’s hands.

I’m just no good at fighting over money. I hesitate to even point out when I’m overcharged for fear of an embarassing exchange with a store clerk. And besides all of that, my Spanish is not perfect. Not even close. In Italian or English, I’d be fine. But how on earth was I supposed to tell a Peruvian cab driver that I knew he was charging me too much when I could barely speak the language?

Miraculously, I managed to do it. Here are the lessons I learned from my week of hailing and bargaining for cabs in Peru – both in Lima and Cuzco. Hopefully it will come in handy if, like me, you lack my mother’s amazing bargaining skills.

1. Negotiate the fare beforehand. This is the most important thing to know before you hail a cab in Peru: you and the driver agree on a price before you get in. Once you are on your way, you can’t renegotiate – trying to short change your driver after you’ve established a fare is unacceptable. And getting in without setting a price is just a recipe for getting ripped off.
   
2. Don’t be afraid to walk away. If a proposed fare too high, don’t hesitate to say “no” – you are not going to offend the driver (and if you do, really, WHEN are you going to see him again?) During our trip, everyone had piled into a minivan to head back to the hotel. Seeing this, the driver came at me with a ludicrous number. Fortunately, Casey had seen my face, and was willing to drag everyone out of the vehicle at a moment’s notice. Seeing that we were willing to say no, the driver came down on his price – by nearly 50%.
3. Be wary of anyone who approaches you (especially in the airport). Odds are they are going to come at you with a number that is much higher than what you’d get if you just step outside on to the curb.
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   These cabs were lined up outside a museum, just behind a tour bus.

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4. Ask to see the vehicle. This will give you better negotiating power. Rand and I spoke to one driver who wouldn’t take us to the airport for less than 45 soles (about $20). It’s not a bad rate for tourists, but still much heftier than that of his colleagues. But when we saw his car – a pristine vehicle with A/C and leather seats, we figured it was worth the splurge.
5. Watch out for drivers that work for your hotel. Many places will offer to pick you up from the airport as a complimentary service (check ahead if you want to do this – it helps alleviate a lot of stress, particularly when you’ve just landed). But be cautious if you want to travel from your hotel out into the city – the driver, knowing you are out-of-towners, may try to rip you off (ours did, claiming our destination was really far away. Even his colleague looked at him like he was full of shit.) Instead, ask the bell hop to hail you a cab off the street, or better yet, walk a block or two away from your hotel and do it yourself.
6. Move away from tourist destinations before hailing a cab. If you are standing right outside the Larco Museum, odds are you’ll be given a much heftier price than if you stand outside a cafe where all the locals are congregating. Consider wandering a little bit down the block to grab a cab.
7. Tipping isn’t customary. Since you’ve already set a price beforehand, that is all you are expected to pay. Rand couldn’t break the habit of adding a tip, which was sweet, but unnecessary (a few drivers gave him an appreciative slap on the back when he handed them an extra 5 soles – roughly $2)
8. Guard your valuables. Peru felt surprisingly safe – even in the sketchier areas. Still, there’s no need to tempt fate. We’d heard a horror story or two about cab windows being smashed in and bags being snatched (it’s rare, but it does happen). The best way to avoid this is to make yourself a hard target. Wrap your bag strap around your arm, tuck your backpack between your legs, or out of site. And lock your doors.
9. Ask a local. Since we had no frame of reference about how much cabs should have cost, we checked with the locals. They gave us broad tips which proved helpful (a ride from Lima to the airport – which took nearly 40 minutes – was about 40 soles – or $15 US. Any cab from one part of Cuzco to another shouldn’t cost more than 4 or 5 soles – $2 U.S.)
10. Most drivers accept U.S. currency. In fact, most places in Peru accept U.S. dollars – so be sure to clarify what currency you are paying in, and don’t let a driver try to charge you more if you paying in dollars – they won’t have any trouble getting rid of their cash.
11. Don’t be afraid to use your rudimentary Spanish. Cab drivers want to understand you – after all, you’re going to pay them. You’ll be surprised at how far you can get with just a few words. Grab a phrasebook and learn how to say things like, “How much?” and “How long will it take to get there?” Try to commit some numbers to memory, but don’t worry if you can’t – you can always write down some rates and haggle that way.
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    Since no one else on the trip spoke Spanish, they had to put up with me.

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12. Bring a map. Like I said, very few drivers will speak English. A map will help you communicate where you need to go, and give you an idea of how long the journey will be (and consequently, how much it should cost). It will also show that you aren’t totally clueless – something which comes in handy when trying to negotiate a fare.

I’m pleased to say we only got really ripped off once. The hotel driver told us that the destination was far away, and the trip would cost 20 soles ($7 U.S.). I told him that seemed unreasonable but he insisted that it was very, very far and unwalkable. I gave in, and he proceeded to drive us a few blocks away. I was infuriated, and tempted to scream at him (while I’ve forgotten most of the Spanish I’ve ever known, I’ve committed to memory choice words like “thief”, “liar”, and “son of a bitch”. I am slightly concerned as to what this says about my personality) but thought better of it when I realized IT WAS ONLY SEVEN FRIGGIN DOLLARS. That’s the thing to remember about Peru – even when you are ripped off, you’re still getting a pretty good deal.

And hey – it’s waaaay cheaper than the cabs in Bulgaria. But still – next time I go to Peru? I’m taking my mom.

"Don't hate me because I'm hairless."

(Okay, fine – so today is actually Thursday, and not Wednesday. But I’m sure you’ll agree – “WTF Thursday” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ve been on the road this week, and blogging’s been a little slow. Cut me a weensy bit of slack and I’ll love you forever.)

Allow me to say something which, though painfully obvious, we tend to lose sight of more often than not. Ready? Here goes:

Looks aren’t everything.

I know, I know. This isn’t shocking news, right? You’ve probably been told this since you were a kid. But the more I watch television, and see countless tanned beauties with veneers (because at some point as a society, we started to think it was cool for people to have chiclets instead of teeth), shaking their glossy locks as they parade around in skin-tight jeans- AND YES I AM TALKING ABOUT BOTH MEN AND WOMEN – I begin to wonder if we’ve lost sight of this.

I’m so committed to proving there’s more to a person than their physical appearance, that I dedicate hours to making myself look disheveled. If you bump into me on the street, I may be, at any give time, rocking at least one of the following:

• a prominent zit
• something weird going on with my hair
• something weird in my hair
• jeans that were purchased without the benefit of a three-way mirror
• a cupcake (or the remnants thereof, somewhere on my person)

And poor thing – it was really, really ugly.
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My travel buddy Meghan tries to get the hairless pup's attention.

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It looked like the lovechild of a doberman and an old leather ottoman. As I got a closer look, I realized that the dog had the teeth of an NHL hockey player. This is common for the breed – apparently the same genes that cause the dogs to be hairless also leave them in want of a couple of molars. On top of all that, they’re prone to sunburns, acne, and clogged pores.

A while back, when the Obama family was shopping for a new dog, Claudia Galvez, president of the Association of Friends of Hairless Dogs of Peru (I am kind of dying with joy that such a thing exists) offered the first family a hairless dog. The offer was declined, because the Obamas are clearly superficial types who want the sort of dog that wouldn’t give their children nightmares.
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Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, right?

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Fortunately, in its native country, the Peruvian hairless dog is appreciated much more. One of our tour guides smiled brightly as she told us about them – explaining that they resembled big, hairless bats. The breed has been around for literally thousands of years, dating back to Pre-Incan times. Though once nearly extinct, the Peruvian government has placed special protections on the animals, requiring every archaeological site on the coast to have at least two of them (which explains the one hanging around outside of the museum).

And despite their looks, they’re supposedly great pets – affectionate, intelligent, and, being hairless, allergy-free. According to folklore, being in contact with one of the dogs can help cure all sorts of maladies.

Given the number of twee poodles and designer dogs running around the planet, it’s hard not to respect Peru for their decision. Not only did they pick the hairless dog to be a symbol of their country, they’ve made sure it can be found in dozens of tourist destinations. It may be homely as hell, but its distinctly Peruvian.

It’s a sentiment that, if you think about it, is really … well, beautiful.

"You killed my father ... prepare to die."

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I was a vegetarian for 6 weeks when I was 19. It was a confusing, misguided time for me. I was dating a young man who didn’t eat meat, and, well … who hasn’t done something stupid for a boy? When he broke up with me, I treated myself to a dinner out: bacon-wrapped shrimp followed by a rack of baby-back ribs. I might have had a pork chop for dessert. I don’t really remember (it was, after all, ages ago).

The thing I realized as I nibbled on those ribs- or the thing I had started to realize at least (because I wouldn’t really get the message until I met Rand) is that you’ve got to be yourself, and you have to find someone who will love you for it. In my case, being myself involves eating meat. It’s not something that I hide from, it’s not something that I’m ashamed of.

I’ve understood from a tender young age what the consequences of my actions are. When I was four or five, I told my mother I wanted some of my aunt Maria’s chicken, and as we drove away from my auntie’s house, I saw her catching the bird in her front yard that we would later eat. Later, she brought it over to our house, cooked and cleaned and cut up, in an old margarine tub. I peeled back the lid and peaked inside and I understood: this was the chicken that I had seen running around before. Even the feet were in there, and this didn’t alarm me at all. In fact, they were favorite part.

There was no denying it: my desires had ended that chicken’s life. I had literally asked for it, and I had gotten it.

That’s how it went in my family. There was no pussy-footing the matter. My grandmother was constantly defrosting enormous blocks of meat which were threatening to overflow our freezer. She and my mother would cook up animal parts most Americans toss out. Pig’s feet. Snout. Tripe. I ate it all. There was no such thing as a vegetarian in my house. I had never even heard the word applied to a human until high school (before then, only certain animals could be vegetarian. Not people).

From snout to tail and everything in between, including entrails, I’ve eaten it. Over the years, I consumed a veritable Noah’s ark of creatures. Duck. Rabbit. Gator. Goat. Quail. Tiny baby squid and octopus. Caribou. Partridge. Elk. Kangaroo. And, most recently, guinea pig.

Yes, guinea pig. Or, as they are known in Peru, cuy.

They came right up to me and sniffed. "I can smell the corpse of my brother on your lips," one seemed to say.

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Thanks to Anthony Bourdain, I knew before arriving in Peru that guinea pig was part of the traditional cuisine, especially in rural areas. The guinea pig originated in the Andes. And I did not think twice about eating one while I was there. When in Peru, eat like a Peruvian.

Yes, guinea pigs are often kept as pets in the states. But so are rabbits, and I eat those. And I eat loads of chicken – which was my mother’s pet of choice when she was a little girl (odd duck, that mom of mine).

Besides, my philosophy on meat-eating is pretty simple: you can’t be hypocritical. You can’t eat chicken breasts, individually packaged and sealed (so far removed from the animal it once was that you can almost pretend it was grown like a plant) and then refuse to eat meat on the bone. You can’t eat cheeseburgers and then turn up your nose at tripe. You don’t have to like everything, but if you eat meat, you have to at least be willing to try everything. It’s all or nothing (with exceptions, of course, for dietary restrictions and religious beliefs).

Plus, how can you say you visited a country until you eat the regional cuisine?

So I tried cuy. Twice no less. I ordered it at Cicciolina, an upscale Peruvian restaurant in Cuzco. I was slightly disappointed that the cuy came picked off the bone – it could have been any type of meat, really. Still, it was delicious. My dish had shredded guinea pig meat spiced with mint and apples, placed upon a terrine of mashed Andean potatoes.

Mmmmmm ... guinea pork.

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The same entree after I dug into it a bit.

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The dish was fantastic. Savory and sweet all at once. The acidity of the apples cut the potatoes and meat perfectly. The cuy itself was moist, sweet, and mild in flavor. It reminded me of shredded duck, or dark meat turkey. I found it wasn’t particularly gamey – guinea pigs aren’t the most active of animals, it seems.

We enjoyed that meal at Cicciolina so much, we went back a second time, and I ordered cuy again. This time it was roasted on the bone, atop a paella-style rice dish. It had less flavor that the other cuy I had tried, but the texture was fantastic – a crispy and crackly exterior and moist inside.
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I ate the whole thing.

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Did I think about the fuzzy animals that died in order for me to enjoy these meals? Absolutely. But it’s something I think about before I consume meat. It’s something I make myself think about. It’s my modern-day equivalent of watching my aunt catch that chicken. I know it was once alive, I know it’s dead, I know I’m the reason.

And I keep doing it. I try to honor the sacrifice the little creature made by making sure that the bones are picked clean, that the meal is enjoyed (though that probably brings them little comfort). I think about it and I appreciate it, but I don’t really feel guilty. At least, not enough to stop eating meat. Perhaps it’s wrong. But it’s who I was raised to be. It’s who I am.
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And fortunately there’s someone who will love me for being exactly that.

The great pyramid of Huaca Pucllana.

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Heading down from the top of the great pyramid.

We did not know what Huaca Pucllana was before we got there.

That was one of the nice parts about Peru – on many days wandered aimlessly, and without fail, we found something to see. It turned out that Huaca Pucllana is a large collection of ruins in the posh Miraflores district of Lima. Admission was about $3, and includes a guided tour (which is the only way you can see the ruins).

The structures – which consists of a tiered pyramid and several large, walled rooms – were originally built sometime around the year 500 C.E. Over the centuries, many of the adobe bricks began to decay. Our guide (who in addition to speaking fantastic English was a bit of a pill) explained to us that the only reason the bricks had survived as long as they had was because Lima gets virtually no rainfall. The bricks are little more than clumps of dried mud – water washes them away.

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The indentations left from adobe bricks that have since washed away.

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I am, of course, positively dying to create an adobe structure similar to Huaca Pucllana in Seattle, to see how long it lasts. I’m guessing it would probably survive at least 30 or 40 minutes before turning into a puddle.

The ruins have been described repeatedly as an “important ceremonial and administrative center” for the early inhabitants of Lima. This description both baffles and delights me, and when I hear it I imagine a Dwight Schrute type character milling around the pyramid and filing paperwork while people built around him. I’ve taken to regarding Huaca Pucllana as one part church/holy ground and one part community center. Stuff happened here. Offerings, sacrifices, ceremonies, and budget meetings (probably). The mood is both humbling and somber.

Rand did not get the humbling/somber mood memo.

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As we walked around, we noticed groups of men working on the side of the pyramid. The guide explained to us that they were repairing areas that had eroded or been damaged. This was perhaps one of the most surprising things we discovered about Peru. Often, when artifacts are discovered in the states (or Europe) they’re left as is – damaged and worn. But in museums and archeological sites around Peru, we found repairs had been made. The guide pointed out to us where the old bricks met the new ones.

New and old.

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The old bricks are the right, the new ones at left.

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In the distance, you can see some construction workers wearing yellow shirts and hardhats. (You may need to squint.)

I cannot imagine this working in other parts of the world.

“What in GOD’S NAME are you doing?!”

“What? I’m reattaching the arms on the Venus de Milo. I thought she’d look cool giving a Vulcan salute.”

We climbed to the top of the Great Pyramid – the largest and most dominant structure at Huaca Pucllana. The guide showed us several tombs that had been unearthed in this section of the ruins. Human remains were found inside, along with offerings. Those pictured here are obviously reproductions:

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See the bundled packages on either side of the tomb? The guide explained that they found one like that on-site, and inside they discovered the remains of an infant.

The top of the pyramid unfortunately doesn’t offer great views of the city, but it does give you a great vantage point from which to appreciate the entirety of the ruins.

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And it makes a good back-drop for the obligatory kissy-face photo (in case you were wondering, no, nothing is sacred to me).

We're kinda heathens.

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The guide led us back down below for the end of the tour, to a small area that illustrated how the adobe bricks were originally made. There’s even a statue of what someone native to the Lima area would have looked like centuries ago.

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“He’s very handsome, like me,” our tour guide said (it was allowed. He was adorable.) He noted how people were much shorter back then.

"Notice how much taller and stronger I am."

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He explained to us how mud was mixed in baskets, and the bricks were formed by hand.

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And with that, our tour concluded. I found myself feeling conflicted. I’d more than gotten my money’s worth – the admission price of $3.50 had given us a 40-minute guided tour around Peruvian ruins. I haven’t found too many bargains like that in my travels. But I left wanting to know more. I felt like we’d only scratched the surface. Fortunately, our trip to Peru was only beginning.

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The Essentials on Huaca Pucllana:

Verdict: Recommended. While it pales in comparison to famous Incan ruins like Machu Picchu or Moray, if you are in Miraflores, the site is worth seeing.

How to Get There: We were able to walk from our hotel, but you can easily take a cab. Be ready to haggle – there are no meters, so you and your driver need to agree on the fare before you go (don’t worry – I’ll do an extensive post on this later). More seasoned travelers may want to try the Peruvian bus system, but I don’t recommend it. Unless you know the area very well, speak excellent Spanish, and are good at haggling, it’s best to leave this to the locals.

Ideal for: History and archaeology fans, and anyone interested in the indigenous cultures of Peru.

Insider Tips: Huaca Pucllana requires a lot of walking, so wear comfy shoes. Consider sunglass and sunscreen – even on an overcast day (of which Lima has many), it’s easy to get burned and there is ZERO shade. Bring cash to tip your tour guide – ours was incredibly knowledgeable and certainly earned it. And you might want to ask if the back gardens are open to visitors. We snuck a peek at them as we left, but they’re not part of the official tour:

Did I mention the back garden had llamas? It did.

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Nearby Food: There is a restaurant located on site at Huaca Pucllana, but it’s a wee bit fancy. Consider eating before you go to the site (if you are looking for a reliable, delicious chain, I recommend Pardos Chicken).

Good for kids: Yup (at least, according to this childless travel blogger, yes) – but do be careful. Keep an eye on very little ones, as there isn’t any railing at Huaca Pucllana, and they could be tempted to wander off the path or tumble over an edge. And some of the sacrificial stuff might spook them a little bit, but odds are they’ll be fascinated.