Deep

I'm in deep. 

Figuratively but at times quite literally. 

I am deep in the Gringo Trail that's makes up the southern circle of Peru moving like parts on a conveyer belt from Lima, Paracas, Huacachina, Arequipa, Puno, then Cusco. I'm at a hostel staffed by burnt-out hippies from San Francisco. I've been asked to wear a wristband. For God's sake, I have a guidebook. And it took me a couple of weeks in Peru to cement my notion that I hate Travelers. 

Mr. Cactus and I aren't impressed by your quest to find the Real Peru. 

'Cause here's the thing. What is the Real whatever? Is the Real Vegas off Strip? Bad example.  Is the Real Rome found in the suburbs? Is the Real Flint where you drink the water?

There is some sort of appropriate symbolism here with the rusty, folksy pick-up in foreground and the owner's SUV in the background. 

Who the Hell cares about The Real? I don't wander about to find The Real. If I want The Real, I can stay home, wherever home is (referring to an earlier post where I mention I don't think I have a home and... moving on), and just see that. Or, if you wanna find The Real, it's going to be found in both great little mom-and-pop shops as well as McDonalds. Get over that. I've already disparaged my hate for Authentic Experience Collectors (TM) before, but I realised it's more than that. 

Yes, but is it vegan? 

I've met a couple of people who have quit in heir jobs, sold their homes, and are just Seeing The World "until the money runs out." Dear Lord. Seriously? Does...does that sound prudent to anyone? Until the money runs out? Well, damn, then what? Go back home, start from zero like your 18 again (except now you're in your 40s), and work your way back so when you are in your 60s you'll be where you were last year? Assuming you have no health or other major issues. Good luck with that. 

Past experiences does not guarantee future success. 

And then, of course, you have your Gap Year'ers. Your recent graduates. Your Finding Themselves. Which is all great and good and I only mock them 'cause I envy their youth and ability to travel the way they do at that age. All fresh-faced,cheerful, intrepid, and immune to the after effects of alcohol.  

"Drink it," the Devil said. "You'll be fine." 

I recently did a trek (mostly) through Colca Canyon and decided it was worth discomfort (ha, naive Mary had no idea what was waiting for her) to run ahead of the group so I didn't have to listen to all their conversations. The where you from/where've you been/where you going/where do we have in common exchanges taking place in French, Dutch, and English. It's a bonding thing, and everyone really seemed to get along, but I was quite happy to be the odd one out the 36 hours we were together. Silence isn't space waiting to be filled, yet filled it was with what really felt like posturing. 

So when do I meet people that I like? That I click with? I know it happens. I have memories of pools and pubs and parks where I am surrounded by people who... are on vacation. They don't call themselves "travelers." When I think about places like Rome and Boracay, I met people on timetables with jobs. We talked about our work, politics, current events, our lives, families... of course there was swaggering and boasting, but it was the ribbing between brothers and sisters. And, aside from the few trying to get a leg over, none of us were looking for new friends. No need to exchange contact information.  Almost like psychopaths at a party, everyone just using others for amusement without risk of attachment. One-time-use acquaintanceship to be disposed of when no longer a pleasant distraction.  

We both know why we are having this conversation. Entertain me or leave."

You wonder if there might be something too honest about yourself if, minus any potential criminal potential, you long for the company of charming psychopaths over well-meaning explorers. 

"Let's take a funny photo together and then go back to ignoring each other! Yay!"

Whatever. I'm on holiday. I do what I want.