Cusco’s impossibly narrow streets and sidewalks are worn smooth from hundreds of years of traffic: foot, hoof, automobile. Spanish meets Inca around every corner, a constant reminder of one nation’s merciless pursuit to destroy all that was good of a once great empire.
This ornate door belongs to La Catedral, located on the northeastern side of Plaza De Armas.
We happened upon this lively market. Here locals buy fabrics, fruits, odd animal parts, vegetables, and much more. The smells are intoxicating. The selection, unbeatable.
You might know this as the “bulk bin” back in the States. Please, no nibbling.
My first glass of chicha (or spit beer, as my wife calls it) was surprisingly tasty.
I drank two glasses of coca tea and partied all night. I kid, I kid.
The people of Cusco love a parade. At this very moment, I am calculating the very real possibility of the late JC’s hand splitting my skull, as you’ll notice the men carrying him are having quite the difficult time.