Waxing and waning on sex tourism

'I see a lot of gringas in here, but you are like a yeti.’

I was in an awkward position to feign offense, given I had one leg over my head and nothing on but my alpaca socks and sweater. This is what happens when you wax in Peru – you get a frown and some sarcasm.

Jimena, my ‘technician’, was working in a very dimly-lit salon abutting a flute and fruit juice market where indigenous women chatted by the lucuma ‘eggfruits’. She furrowed her brow at me. Again. I suspected Jimena did not love her job.

She drew the thin white curtains, took a deep breath and went about her yeti work when a man walked in.

'He-hello?'

Hmm. He twanged strongly of North Carolina. I believed he was one of my people, getting out in the world! Yay my people!

'Sí señor, usted necesita un masaje?'

'Ohh, I uh... no speak Espan-yolo. English?'

'Marianela! Este hombre quiere hablar Inglés!'

A girl I suspected to be about 15 sped out of the back room at her auntie's order and said triumphantly, 'Yes, I speaking English.'

'Oh, wonderful!' The man wrung his hands together and through the curtains I could see he was short, grey and very nervous. 'I would like a massage please... but... um... do you do a... huh... happy ending?'

He whispered these last two words as if he were... ashamed.

His request was so inaudible that Jimena made him repeat it twice more before Marianela translated. Then the auntie and her niece began what I suspected to be very common conversation in Cusco: do we want to give this old white guy an orgasm for some extra soles?

After a very short discussion, Marianela said yes. Technically, Jimena did, and Marianela nodded in bewildered, uncomfortable agreement.

There are ladies all over the Plaza de Armas, the city’s main square, handing out cards for massages, pedicures, waxing and – wink – more. For a town swarmed with hike-happy Inca Trail-ers chewing coca leaves and popping altitude pills, a little pampering is actually a nice, uh, touch.

And an especially nice touch for the guy about to get touched. North Carolina was now disrobing and lumbering giddily onto the mensaje table. You know, the one only three feet away from mine.

As Jimena was only halfway done de-yeti-fying me, I realized I would be enduring not just the normal delights associated with hot wax and hair removal, but now I had to do it listening to an old man get rubbed down in every sense by an impoverished teenage girl at the behest of her own family?

This is the time to believe in the privacy and sound absorption capabilities of chiffon curtains, Jules. Do not vomit.

It would be easy to end the story here and write off this dude as a creep taking advantage of Peru's poor. But while one tourist made his intentions clear with heavy breathing and smarm, another sat wondering where the lascivious line gets drawn.

You see, amigos, I have a confession. The reason I was getting a wax that day was not because I love having hair ripped from my pores in sensitive areas. It was because I met a very charming and handsome local fellow who had taken me for hot chocolate at Jack's Cafe and told me over and over again how beautiful and intelligent I am, and what a fascinating life I'd been leading.

You guys, I am so fascinating.

Life lesson: when a cute boy asks you to make out on a park bench in South America, as per Latino tradition, you do it. Don't think, just beso.

My Hot Novio and I spent an amorous week together. We went for dinner, we went dancing, hiked to ruins, lots of fun things! And, as an unfortunately relevant aside, because he was rather poorly, I gladly paid. For everything. As in food, drinks, hotel, trips…

I mean, it was all very innocent.
I wondered if North Carolina thought his happy ending was innocent…

But my affair with Hot Novio wasn’t blatant! We were young lovers!
North Carolina’s affair was also very discreet – hello? There was a curtain! Okay, and a major age gap.

But Hot Novio was clearly willing, able and enthusiastic... obviously.
Marianela is also willing and able, though unenthusiastic... obviomente.

Oh my god, you guys. I'm a sex tourist.

But wait, I am not nefarious in my intentions. Is that a requirement?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the difference between a dirty old man from Raleigh and a dirty young woman from Seattle maybe wasn’t that great after all.

Very quickly, I wanted to leave. One man’s lechery was enough. My own was just freaking me out.

'Rapido!' I pleaded to Jimena, realizing the guy next to me was probably whispering the same thing.

Eww.

Eduardes

It seemed I was meeting Eduardes at the pinnacle of his possession.

Earlier in the day I had come across Vermont Lew, an affable carpenter trying to cope with the dissolution of his 25-year-marriage by traveling through the most remote villages of Indonesia and waving at every passerby and shouting, 'I'm Misterrr Lew! From Am-er-i-ka!'

Lew is a very proud Jew who picked Indonesia after the Israeli ambulance charity, to which he contributes annually, ignored his requests for two months of ride-alongs.

Lew was nonplussed and for the last two weeks, he has been driving around Flores, a lush island east of Bali, with Eduardes, a slight, 50-something Indonesian with dark skin and light eyes.

Eyes cursed by the devil, actually. No, literally, by demons, or at least this is Eduardes' self-diagnosis brought on by symptoms common to all possessed people:

1. inability to sleep
2. inability to eat
3. constant cough that could easily be mistaken for The Devil's own voice

To combat these problems, Eduardes took to obsessive Bible reading late at night, with the book 3 inches from his tired, evil eyes.

'See, it started out great the first few days, but then he just got weirder and weirder,' Lew said, his unkempt white mustache waggling from side to side while his eyes bulged from behind thickly prescribed glasses. 'I kept having to wake him up and watch the road! Kids! Dogs! Golly, he just stopped paying attention sometimes, and it was just the weirdest thing.'

I nodded, as if having a devil-gripped Indonesian insomniac operate a moving vehicle for 14 consecutive days in a hazy shade of Lucifer is totally normal. I couldn't really disagree, having no experience with possession myself.

After dinner, Lew invited our random group of German, French and Americans a ride into town to visit the Internet cafe. What's a girl to do when presented with an opportunity to ride with the devil?

I was the first to jump into the car. Eduardes ambled in, apparently perturbed Misterrr Lew had interrupted his meditation on speaking in tongues. It was dark at 9 p.m. and Eduardes peeled out onto the road and took us through a scenic tour of the ditch before we righted the wheel and he brought us back to the left side of the road.

Eduardes was coughing and hacking every few seconds now, making little retches and filling the car with the burpy air of would-be vomit, if there was anything in his stomach to regurgitate. Halfway to town, he became distressed for no apparent reason and started chanting.

'Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...'

All under his breath and between hacks, but it was loud enough. If anybody needs Jesus in this world, it's this guy. Being the seasoned traveler, the epitome of cultural respect and communication, all I could do was giggle. Luckily, he ignored me.

After some wrong turns, we ended up at the cafe, where Eduardes proceeded to pace for an hour before announcing to the group we would have to leave, he needed to do some *reading*.

The next morning, I heard him promise Misterrr Lew he'd seek a doctor and a priest to help exorcise his demons, or at least give him some cough drops.

I hope the devil lets him rest.

The knee creeper

You know when you get that gag reflex when the mustard in the fridge you want to put on your tater tots is really sour and moldy, or you're cleaning the bathroom and a mess of clotted hair and shampoo has been clogging the drain, making you wonder for ages why you've felt like you're taking a shower in a foot of water?

Well, the DF subway was like that for me a couple days before I left, and not a spore of mold was involved. There I was, minding my own business attempting to meet friends in DF's main square to look at murals (when I say DF, it means Districto Federal, which is the same thing as Mexico City). Julie (me), advised by her DF hosts (Manny y Maria!), sits in the car designated for women only for added security in the world's largest city. Creepy Random Dude enters women-only car and sits perpendicular to Julie.

Glances become stolen. Julie notices, but ignores. Stares become stared. Julie - still not 100 percent certain glances/stares are aimed at her - continues feigning ignorance. However, when Creepy Random Dude's hand starts trembling, Julie notices said glance/stare is unapologetically fixed. On her knees. Meaning, my knees.

Now, let's just take a moment here to recognize how incredibly fabulous my knees actually are. I, too, have always admired the way the joint moves with ease and they never get too sore, unlike their cry-baby neighbors to the south, my feet. At the moment, they are tan, and the bones don't stick out too much like other people's knees. I have always enjoyed them, and while it's nice for my knees to get the recognition they deserve, I knew in my heart of hearts Creepy Random Dude was not silently praising my superior cartilage, but entertaining more lascivious thoughts in his middle-aged, upper class creepasaurus mind.

Concern was had that creepy trembling hand might be tempted to touch one or both fabulous knees.

Cue gag reflex.

I sat there thinking of all the words I could muster that were rude in Spanish, but assembling them in a sentence just sounded like a disjointed laundry list of synonyms from my dictionary, including 'mean', 'weird', -'heart with cold' and, of course, 'motherfucker'. Veronica, my college roommate and a Mexico City native, taught me that one. Thanks, GF.

Instead of saying anything, though, me and my knees just got up and changed seats - but with a loud sigh and my best eye roll, which probably doesn't translate anyway.

But the problem didn't stop on the Pink Line. It's knee season in Mexico, and I felt hombres undressing my undressed knees all day. I've heard about this whole machismo leering thing before, and how it's all cultural. But hey, in Oaxaca, I didn't get leered.

And anyway, I would prefer it if the hombres interested in my knees treated me they way I'm used to: ignoring my very existence, avoiding eye contact in favor of socially awkward body language, and throwing me a bone with an occasional, apathetic grunt. Then they may proceed to tell me their theory on why wrestling is not a homo-erotic sport. I mean, it's the American way!

I feel I should clarify my outfit before anyone jumps to blame the leer-ee here. Blue dress, cut just above said heartbreaking knees, rather boxy, frankly, and nothing compared to the low neck/high heel combo so many Mexican ladies favor.

So my solution was to put on my sunglasses (it was not sunny), add my rain jacket (nor was it rainy) and glare back. I channeled Crazy Sandra. I stared down potential knee offenders with a wild, arched brow and furrowed my hair. Big hair always scares people off. I got even more slouchy than I normally am, and held my hand on my belly, thinking creepers don't check out pregnant chicks' knees. But they do! Then, when someone would have the absolute gaul to strike a conversation, I'd tell them I was Israeli. "Habla Hebrew?"

My ode to the 'don't fuck with me' charm of Israelis continues (see posts from Guatemala).

This is also what I told to Leatherface the Organ Harvester, a 7-foot-tall 'basketball player' on the Oaxaca basketball team with very suspicious skin (I later learned Oaxaca does not actually have a basketball team). Leatherface skulked around the city and the salsa clubs, looking, in my opinion, like the type of person involved in the black market organ trade. I always felt him eyeing my spleen. He did not habla Hebrew either, which is an excellent way to end a conversation.

On the epic journey from Mexico City to Quito yesterday, a CSI Miami episode centered on illegal organ harvesting which is just another sign that one must be extra vigilant when protecting one's innards. Which, in my book, includes kneecaps.

Lewd and lascivious - thanks, Spain

After nearly a week in Spain I have several tales to tell fine art, street hustlers and public masturbation.

I spent four full days in Barcelona after a tumultuous train ride from Nice (which is another story altogether, involving a Frenchman on speed). My first day in Barcelona I devoted to Gaudi, zipping around the Sagrada Familia -- the church that has been under construction for nearly 100 years, don´t have to cover up your shoulders to go in there, haha -- and poking around Parc Guell, both equally awe-inspiring works if architecture and art. I am officially a Gaudi fan, so it was a good thing I went to Barcelona because he´s everywhere.

The next day I did Picasso, visiting the museum and being somewhat impressed by his transformation from a classically trained painter during his teenage years to a complete nut by the end of his days. That was the fine art portion of this posting.

I took a third day to pop around Las Ramblas, the main market street that has a lot of FBC (that´s Barcelona futbol for you ¨football¨ fans) jersey shops adjacent to Cartier and Louis Vuitton. An interesting mix.

Las Ramblas has the best street performers I´ve ever seen. I think I´ve found a new calling in life because the job is simple: dress up like your favorite historical character, don´t move and people give you money. Jesus and Mary were particular favorites of mine, as well as a man painted white, sitting on a toilet reading the paper. Give him 50 cents and he mimicks constipation. Genius.

The people in Barcelona are smart -- they know stupid tourists are easy to rip off. There was a street game that always started as randomly as it ended involving three boxes and a little ball. You are supposed to find the ball, the catch is you have to pay 50 Euro each time to do so. Sometimes you win; often you lose because the other people playing with you are not in fact tourists, they are in on the scam. It looks like they´re winning all the time, and to the average joe, that means you could win too. I watched a poor Polish guy get suckered out of 150 Euros this way.

All in all, I really enjoyed Barcelona and met some very nice Australians to scout out the city with. The shopping there has so far been the best I´ve found, the mom and pop stores are unique and cheap, lots of jewelry and tapestries.

I must note that the Barcelonans are pioneering the fight to bring back the 80s. I´m calling it the Mullet Movement, because men and women alike, clad in striped 3-inch headbands and one-shoulder sweatshirts paired with stretch pants were walking around everywhere in Barcelona. Without realizing how horrible they look. I was thoroughly disgusted to see this trend, which should be quarantined in Sweden, infiltrating the rest of the world.

From Barcelona, I decided to travel to Madrid. But sometimes the journey is more important than the destination...

I hopped on a train thinking with my Eurail pass, I wouldn´t need a reservation.

Wrong.

I was quickly kicked off the train and told to make a reservation for the next one, which was coming in an hour. Fair enough, said I, but the next trains were booked solid until 11.30 at night. I would have to take an overnight train to Madrid and waste about 10 hours in a city called Tarragona, also on the Mediterranean coast.

Being the resourceful girl that I am, I decided to spend the day on the beach doing some ¨tan maintenance¨ after it dared to rain in Spain during my stint in Barcelona. After about an hour of basking near the rocks on an otherwise sandy beach, a huge wave came and threatened to draw my unsuspecting purse, clothes and lunch into the warm Mediterranean water, never to be seen again.

Being agile as usual, haha, I managed to catch all of my things but not before they were sopping wet with saltwater and sand. During the whole process, I managed to smash my knee into a rock and was gushing blood (I apologize if this is too graphic, but it gets worse). Disgusted with the day´s events thus far, I managed to collect my things and lay them out to dry. My camera doesn´t work anymore, my railpass and passport were soggy and my poor journal was dripping.

Well if that was the worst that could happen, I would be okay, right? God, who has a really sick sense of humor by the way, heard me say that to myself and decided to teach me a lesson.

Not more than five minutes later, I was nursing my knee and a dodgy man in a speedo emerged from his tent from down the beach and plopped down ten feet away from me. Being the sweet, innocent flower of a girl you all know and love, I wasn´t sure WHAT he was doing. At first I thought he was massaging his inner thigh with his fist; upon further inspection, I realized he was massaging a very different muscle. Definitely NOT something Don Juan would do.

Completely fed up with the whole day, I glared at the nasty old man, grabbed my wet stuff and headed for the hills. People were staring at me all day thinking I was a vagabond but I didn´t care. If they dared look me in the eye, they pretty much got my best ¨look of death.¨ I was in no mood to be friendly.

Finally I arrived in Madrid this morning and found a very lovely hostel to stay in. Madrid is lovely, the people here have been very nice so far and I have spent the day looking around the Sunday flea market and getting lost in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which has a Degas from his ballet sequence (whoopee!!!).

Tomorrow I will take a day-trip to Toledo and Tuesday I am heading up to Burgos to stay with a relative of a friend. Am looking forward to eating a home-cooked meal and being surrounded by actual Spaniards -- not more tourists.