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We arrived in Lima at what I (and the World Time Server and my Lonely Planet book) thought was 6:47 AM, but actually was 5:47 AM (two hours ahead of Pacific time).  The good news was that this meant we didn't have to rush to make our 7:40 AM flight to Cusco.  We instead had enough time to find out about local Peruvian cuisine:
Needless to say, Papa John's is not the first restaurant you'd expect to see in a visit to South America.

We made our way to Gate 13, which is strategically located next to a Soho Cafe -- purveyor of such Peruvian specialties as ham and cheese croissants (to their credit, the one I got was very tasty).  At 7:25 AM, we boarded our plane -- without any delays, thankfully -- and for the first time all trip, we weren't on a full flight.  Curiously, the in-flight entertainment was a video showing highlights of various cities in Peru (including Arequipa, which we would later visit), even though at least 90% of the passengers appeared to be locals.

The real entertainment, though, was outside the plane.  The jet seemed to ascend to a much higher altitude than most flights.  The reason for this soon became clear.  What started off as an endless field of clouds was soon pierced by a mountain peak

which, along, with the blanket of clouds, quickly gave way to an entire sky-high mountain range: the Andes.

My Lonely Planet book had talked of spectacular views of the peaks for those sitting on the left side of Cusco-bound planes.  This was the view from my window:

With most flights, you ascend, then descend to your destination.  This flight, however, was different -- in mind-boggling fashion.  The Andes peaks gave way to flatter (yet still unbelievably high) ground.  Upon this lofty terrain, I soon spotted a farm.. then a series of farms.. then, incredibly, full-blown towns -- true civilizations in the sky. 

Cusco, 3326 meters above sea level (10,912 feet, over two miles), is one of these towns (yes, it's a full 5,632 feet higher than Denver).  Our plane barely had to descend before it landed onto the airstrip of Cusco's Aeropuerto Alejandro Velasco Astete at 8:45 AM.  After nearly 20 hours of flying and waiting, we were finally about to start our trip in earnest.

The first order of business was to book our trek to Machu Picchu.  We had heard question marks about the reputability of some of the trek sellers in town, so we decided to book ours at the airport.  We certainly had no shortage of options, as customs was followed by a baggage claim room lined wall to wall with travel agent booths.  We approached a friendly-looking agent who introduced herself as Elisabeth, and we talked over a five-day trek via the Salkantay mountains.  The more famous path to Machu Picchu -- the Inca Trail -- is consistently fully booked about three months in advance; we had decided to go to Peru in June, so the Salkantay looked like the best alternative.  It is, in fact, reputably more difficult than the Inca Trail.  We booked a trek leaving at 4:30 AM Tuesday morning and returning late Saturday afternoon.  Calling our attention to the dangers of Cusco's altitude, Elisabeth warned us to relax, do nothing, not drink or smoke, not eat red meat, and drink plenty of soup on our first day in town. 

The next order of business was to book a flight out of Cusco, to our next destination, Arequipa.  Oddly, of all the airlines represented, only one -- LAN again -- offered a CUZ-AQP flight.  We waited 20-30 minutes for an available agent, only to be told that, due to the hustle and bustle at the LAN counter, they were only booking same-day flights out of CUZ.  The agent told us to visit the LAN office in town, but warned us that, because it was Sunday, it both opened and closed at noon.  Convinced that I had misheard, I asked another agent, who said exactly the same thing.  Baffled, we figured it was time to head into town. 

We turned away from the LAN counter and were immediately accosted by a taxi driver.  We questioned him regarding his credentials (as is the norm; fake taxi drivers and violent robberies in taxis are a common local problem), and he started conversing with the LAN agent to demonstrate he was legit.  Unconvincing as this display may sound, we thought he was an okay guy, so we haggled out a price of $3 US and 1 nuevo sol (the Peruvian currency, equal to about 0.31 US dollars) for the ride (again, negotiating taxi fares up front is the normal local practice).  We walked outside the airport, and the driver led us to a parking lot.  We got inside his parked taxi, he greeted a couple police officers -- more proof of his credentials, he said -- and we were on our way.

I'll say up front that on that first day in Cusco, I think I spoke more Spanish than I had during all the previous years of my life combined (that certainly was the case for the Peru trip as a whole).  The taxi ride gave us our first up-close look at Cusco, but the real highlight was the conversation between the driver (who spoke little English), me, and Tammy (who spoke virtually no Spanish).  We talked about the abundance of tourists in town, the way to identify a legit taxi cab, and a few hotel options.  The driver introduced himself as Willor, and in a way that sounded genuine, he said he was pleased to meet us both.  Finally, after weaving the cab through the haphazard traffic, he stopped at a location next to the Plaza de Armas, which he said had been blocked off from road access for some sort of march.  We said our goodbyes, and he wished us safe and enjoyable travels.

We walked a block to the Plaza, and true to Willor's word, there was some sort of military procession going on.  Hundreds of troops marched past us:

 

We walked up a steep path from the Plaza to find lodging.  Carrying our bags, I really noticed the thinness of the air; it quickly became apparent that being in shape at sea level meant nothing when you were two miles high.  After some huffing and puffing, we reached the Amaru Hostal, which had no vacancies.  We continued trudging uphill, soon arriving at the Hospedaje Sanbleño.  Here, a friendly non-English speaking receptionist showed us a small two-bedroom with its own bathroom (and, she claimed, 24-hour hot water -- a rarity in Peru).  Once she told us the rate -- the equivalent of $8 per person per night -- we decided to take it.

Having trudged so far uphill to get to this place, our first order of business was to enjoy the view.  We walked up a few flights of rickety steps

and saw this panoramic view of Cusco:

It was almost noon, so we headed back downhill, toward the Plaza,

and first went to the LAN office on El Sol (Cusco's main thoroughfare).  We got there at about ten past noon, and the sign revealed that the "hours" on Sunday were actually noon to 12:30 PM.  We went in and talked over our flight options.  Turned out there was just one flight per day -- at 2 PM -- from Cusco to Arequipa, so our plan to fly out the morning of the 14th -- the second day after Machu Picchu -- would not work.  We instead decided to leave the 13th, so as not to miss the big Arequipan anniversary celebrations of the 14th (August 15th is the actual anniversary, and it's marked by a three-day fiesta -- headlined by fireworks on the night of the 14th). 

After booking our flight, we headed down El Sol, back in the direction of the Plaza.

At this point, I was feeling really tired (from some combination of minimal sleep and the thin air), so while taking pictures of Coricancha (at one time, the richest temple in the Inca Empire),

I was baited into taking pictures of some locals who walked right into my frame:

The first guy walked directly in front of me, started playing a flute-like instrument, and basically gave me no choice but to take a picture of him.  When I did, he stopped playing and came after me, with an arm outstretched right at my camera (or so my numbed mind thought).  I walked away and up the path, toward Coricancha -- and then the two girls also got in my way, posing right in my path.  Not until they came up to me with outstretched hands, calling out propina (Spanish for "tip"), did I realize that all this posturing is apparently seen by locals as somehow worth a tip, like some sort of photographical intellectual property rights.  The two girls were clearly in cahoots, and probably even related, yet one followed us and complained vehemently when we only had one small bill -- a US $1 -- for her partner.  Share the money, we told her.  We don't share money, she said in Spanish.  I felt genuinely bad that we didn't have any more change or bills for her -- till we walked by the first fellow, whose picture I had snapped before even realizing he had wanted a tip.  He was seated on a bench, and when we walked by, he launched into a huge faux-sob -- one of the poorer acting jobs I've seen.  It became pretty clear that all these displays, including the girl's complaining, were acting jobs, carefully calibrated to extract unknowing/delirious travelers' money.  Needless to say, it is sad to see what extreme poverty will do to people and their self-respect.  I wish there was a way to help them all, but that's a task far too tall for one student traveler. 

At this point, it was time for lunch.  We headed back to the Plaza de Armas -- stopping for a few pictures --

and went to Inka Grill, a place that had been highly recommended by both our travel books.  However, these recommendations quickly became curiosities, as we opened the menus to find that all the items were listed and described in English.  As if the menu didn't make it obvious enough, the clientele -- an assortment of gringo-looking folks -- made it clear that this was not an establishment preferred by locals.  I felt some disappointment, but decided it was better to just let the food speak for itself.  Following Elisabeth's advice, we both ordered soup -- Tammy got an Andean soup, and I ordered a soup with onion over gruyere.  The first thing we got were chips with some sort of green sauce -- considering we hadn't eaten since getting off the plane, these were heavenly.  After a bit, our soups came out; mine was good, but it tasted just like something you could get at a decent French fusion-type restaurant in San Francisco.  This was an early lesson that the guidebooks can tend to lead visitors to safe food -- not only in terms of cleanliness, but also as far as adventurousness (or the lack thereof).

After lunch, we tried to track down a place where we could purchase boletos turisticos -- tourist tickets that grant entry to major sites in and around Cusco.  After this search proved fruitless -- tourist offices, like many vendors, are simply closed on Sundays -- we went for something just as touristy: shopping.

We first hit up Coricancha's Feria Artesanal de Productores

where the bargaining skills and ability to say no, gracias quickly came in handy.  I got a small duffel bag and some souvenirs amidst the market's many stalls: 

We then visited Cusco's Centro Artesanal

a larger market with more vendors (many peddling the same wares we'd just seen at the Feria Artesanal). 

After this, we headed back down El Sol -- making a quick stop by this mural --

and pausing to see the Plaza de Armas at night:

We wandered a bit, finding a restaurant that seemed to have some early (for Peru, before 7:00 is early for dinner) business.  I got trout with garlic; Tammy, a so-called "river fish" (which looked, but did not taste, like salmon).  Then we made a beeline for home and I went directly to bed.

Map of Peru