In this moment of strife, war, and uncertainty, I’m going to take a little moment to recollect some things about a favourite country of mine, as I leave it.
In beginning of 1988, I was undergoing quite a lot. I was 16 years old, still picking up the pieces from my abuse two years earlier at the Curtis Institute of Music. I had somehow managed to get into the Marlboro Festival by only playing the entire Chaconne (I still don’t understand that – I even hired a pianist who just sat there) and I was pretty sure that I would be leaving the continent after the summer to get as far away as possible from my rapist and the enabling school.
In the end I did end up getting a visa for a year to the Soviet Union, and that’s another story!
(I actually did graduate from that Curtis school, though. I got a diploma, whatever that means.)
In March of 1988 I met a nice person from South America (Peru) who casually mentioned to me: “If you ever find yourself in South America, come by and stay for a bit!”
In April 1988, I tried to kill myself. I failed, obvs. But once I recovered, I thought: why do I never find myself in South America? I decided to change that, bought a ticket with some money I had won from some silly violin contest and showed up on this nice person’s doorstep in Lima. So, just after Curtis graduation, before the beginning of my first summer at Marlboro, and prior to moving to the Soviet Union, I took myself to South America for the first time.
I had turned 17 a few weeks earlier.
I will never forget exiting the airport in May of 1988 in Lima and breathing in entirely unfamiliar air. I had no idea what I was going to do or how to start, but it didn’t matter. It was the most exciting moment in my life till then.
I managed a taxi, showed up at this person’s house and most of his family was very nice to me. He introduced me to other musicians – some are still friends to this day – and early on I took a little trip with some of them to the jungle part of Peru (Iquitos). Children there thought I looked odd and called me “Yuca”. I didn’t find it rude because it’s true. I did and still do have the skin colour of the inside of a Peruvian starchy vegetable, and back then they can’t have known very many yuca-tinged people.
When I returned to Lima, I noticed that my friend and his mostly (*) nice family were quite busy because it was winter. Not that I needed taking care of, exactly, but I thought I’d get out of their way and go to Cuzco.
(I had grown up hearing Spanish and had done a few tours of Spain at 11 and 12, and if one speaks French, which I did thanks to my father, Spanish is not too far off. My Rs would have been French-ish back then, but I was likely quite understandable.)
Most folks who grow up speaking French are familiar with Les Aventures de Tintin by Hergé.
My constant favourite of the two dozen or so books was always Le Temple du Soleil – where Tintin, Milou and Capitaine Haddock go to Peru. I’d been reading all the books since I was about five, and it wasn’t lost on me that I landed in Callao, and I visited a place in Lima called Pachacamac (the ship’s name in the story) and way more.
So, Cuzco was a must. I bought a plane ticket and went. Plane tickets then were awesome – you could buy a return but keep changing it if you felt like it.
In 1988, the Cuzco airport was below the actual city. I guess it’s hard to find a place to land in the Andes. So, I got out and started walking upwards to the town, and things went wrong. It was my first time above sea level possibly ever (I’m a Great Lakes girl and had only been to flat bits of Europe) and I decided I was dying. No one had told me about altitude. So, I sat down on the side of the road, and thought well, at least I get to die in a decent place now. Way better than Philadelphia (I clearly remember thinking that and being so relieved.)
After I passed out for a bit on my backpack, a woman sort of shook me, and asked if I was OK. I told her that I was dying. She laughed, said I all I need is a bit of time and some manzanilla and I should come home with her. I recognized the word manzanilla from Carmen’s seguidilla (Chez Mon Ami Lillas Pastia) and had always thought that it was alcohol (it’s tea.)
I went along and stayed a day on her couch, helping to babysit her little ones. I was terrible at it, so eventually she somehow stuck me in a nice little hotel for free – it turned out that she was a good friend of the owner. Mistress, perhaps. Unclear. But I would not have been able to pay for a decent hotel room, so it was serendipity. I’m really unsure what I was expecting – I guess at barely 17, having lived alone for years already, I just kind of figured something would work out. What luck.
Of course, what is a trip to Cuzco without the big one – so I spent my last traveler’s check (those were a thing then) on a tour to Machu Picchu! At the time, one began at 3 AM, took bus, train, bus, train and again bus, and by the time I arrived I had spent some travel time with Italians, various Nordic folks, a French contingent, and I had no idea where my tour was. I thought I was late so I rushed in while everyone else was having breakfast, and for 20 minutes I was alone.
That taught me about the acoustics of the Andes. By the time others entered, I was already quite far down the mountain, and I heard every voice.
It was an extraordinary experience. I didn’t have a camera, but likely better that way. I fantasized that maybe they were all still there, and I would get pulled underground to live with the hidden Inca folk on some other mountain and I’d never have to go back north (probable Tintin influence there.)
By the end of my stay in Cuzco, everyone knew me by name. I got to see lots of dances, hear folks play various new-to-me instruments, learn a few tunes, and many told me – oh, we just pretend to be Catholic. We still go by our old gods.
I wonder if that’s still the case. I felt like a modern-day Zorrino.
I wanted to get some things for my father (who in 1988 would be alive another two years), because he was a Spanish teacher and had never been to Peru. I went into a bar and asked for what I thought was two beers – one dark, one light, but I messed up the gender and instead asked for two men from Cuzco, one dark, one light. I still blush at that, but the ensuing laughter and various young men presenting themselves to me was not meant in a mean way.
I never did figure out how to take a taxi in Lima, so I walked everywhere with my big map. Occasionally I would find folks following me, and if I turned around to ask them why, they’d just say “We’ve never seen someone who looks like you.” It never struck me as creepy – just curiosity. I was 5’11 then as now, with much blonder long hair, and, as discussed earlier, yuca-ish skin. I must have looked very strange.
There was (and surely still is) an incredible gold museum in Lima. I was fascinated by the art of the Incas (finally seeing it outside of a Belgian comic book) and I was backing up from one big room to just take in the breadth of it all. When I turned around I screamed so loudly some guards came running. I had managed to bump into the glass case of an Incan mummy who looked exactly like Rascar Capac from Les Sept Boules de Cristal – the precursor to my Temple du Soleil Tintin book - one I liked less because of the scary mummy guy.
More laughter. I could hardly blame them.
It was one of the best trips I have ever taken, and it was the beginning of leaving behind the abuse and school complicity I had been subjected to, and finally reclaiming my life.
I’ve been going back to Peru regularly since 2011, and I just finished what must be my 9th concert in 14 years, this one as soloist and leader.
I’m proud to say that I rehearsed the Sinfonía por el Perú entirely in Spanish, with only a few doozies (“Let’s start at measure 46 with the giant Amazonian water snake!” “Sorry you guys can’t see each other; I am a Little Fatty”) but mostly all went great. I tend to have respect for fellow musicians, and it turns out that when you treat them well, they do an amazing job.
I think I’m going to make a tradition of eating with friends at the Rosa Naútica on the last night of every visit. That’s what I did in 1988, and again 37 years later, this past August.
Every single time I step out of the airport in Lima (it’s now brand new, and really nice), there’s that same giant grin on my face when I smell the air. I will never forget that moment, and I thank the endlessly interesting country has that treated me so kindly all these many years.
Here I am modeling my Peruvian necklace (silver and carved gourd!) silver earrings and baby alpaca headdress.
Baby Octavius and his new fuzzy friend!
Footnote:
*mostly – there was an aunt who lived in my friend’s house who really had it in for me. Obviously, as a guest, I would try to be helpful here and there, but since I had grown up knowing pretty much only violin, severe trauma and I was barely 17, I had no idea how to do many normal things.
I did something wrong with the French press cafétière (which I had never seen before) and she finally lost it. She screamed at me “Tu no sabes hacer NADA” and although it hurt like hell and I ran out of the kitchen as she repeated it over and over, I realized that she was right (which made it worse), but also that I forevermore would understand the use of double negatives in Spanish. So, that part was helpful.
There isn’t any way an older woman in Peru could have had any idea about why I was terrible at helping in the kitchen. She decided that I was a complete idiot instead. That taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt, at least at first.
I can still hear that yell. And I still wince and recall my sobbing for hours. But all in all, a net positive!
Wonderful writing! So glad Peru helped save you.
Great story! Now I need to go to Peru, though.