Peru Part 1: Of course my love life heats up – I’m leaving the country! (Peru)

And so the adventure begins: my first major trip with my mother.  Sure, as child we had done some southern Ontario farm weekend getaways and, in later years, long-weekend urban treks to Chicago and New York, but nothing with this scope or duration.

We were off to tackle Peru.

Mom (we’ll call her… Flobie) and I made it safely to the plane, got space for our carry on (no checked bags!) and our empty middle seat strategy worked.  Of course, the goofiness had already begun well before.

Just as we were passing the signs to direct us to the correct terminal at the Toronto Airport for Continental, Dad (who shall be named… Flerb) panics.

“Wait!  What terminal are we going to???” Flerb yelps suddenly.

I look up from picking my cuticles just in time to see “Swissair” flash quickly by.  And my mother tries to blame it on me! I quickly deflect, pointing out that *she * had the tickets.  And not only were they in her possession, but locked in the trunk at that. So Flobie suggests we go to the terminal that has USA departures, and my father, in classic Flerb, exasperated hand gestures and all, sputters,

“They *all * have USA departures!”

Luckily for Mr. and Mrs. Seinfeld, their calm, relaxed daughter was already mentally recalling the various airline alliances.  She remembered that Continental was part of One World, as was Canadian Airlines [RIP, my sweet] which used to depart from Terminal 3. She led the sheep. Presto! And with plenty of time to spare.  One hero point for Amy.

My friend Wanda once sagely remarked, “If you want the boys to appear, buy a plane ticket.” My love life had been exceedingly dull since the beginning of the year (let’s face it – it was dull well before that).  But with the trip to Peru on the horizon, things started to heat up.

An old friend of my parents went on a Passover retreat (don’t ask) and met someone named Mitchell Goldfarb, originally from Ottawa but now in High Park. At this retreat apparently he sells Mitchell on me.  Meanwhile I get the nervous pitch from Flobie and Flerb (one call, two receivers) that their friend knows a guy who “works for FedEx, is into sports, has a good sense of humour, is not religious and has a hairline like your father’s.” Would I be interested?

Although not overwhelmed by this description, I agree, only to be told a couple of weeks later that Mitchell has started dating someone and wanted to see how it would go.  Fair enough.  But lo and behold, he phones Wednesday, a call which I return once it is pretty much assured that the Leafs will be polishing their golf clubs and that the Raptors and even Blue Jays are seeing the wrong side of the score.

The call got off to a good, comfortable start, but eventually it became clear to me that he was not as “unreligious” as was sold (reminder: he was discovered at a Passover retreat) and that if I had to listen to his annoying laugh and (this is going to sound brutal) Jewishy accent much longer I wasn’t going to be as pleasant.  With a mammoth yawn and a “boy, am I tired!”, I bid him good night and promised to call him upon my return.  He wants to see pictures, too. All of them. Yikes.

Thursday was Radio Shack Day where I got chatting with my sales person for quite a while as I went through the excruciating process of deciding which mini portable radio to buy.  He had the most unusual colouring. He had strange coppery hair which blended almost seamlessly into his red eyes. Seriously, his eyes were red. He looked like he had rabies. Turns out he was more than just a Radio Shack schlep. He managed a rock band and was using the sales gig to fill in until the next tour. (Wait – I know why his eyes were so red!  Must be all the stars.)  He wants me to drop by with pictures and tell him how the trip was.  At this rate I should prepare a PowerPoint presentation.

So then last night, Friday, big night.  It was my friends’ Jack and Jill party before their wedding next month, and I was supposed to meet The Famous Ted to whom I had been described as something like “an active girl who is a cross between Elvira and Cher.” (Ok, I’m kidding about the Elvira part.) Despite promises that he had been looking forward to meeting me, he was not there. Harumph.

During the evening my friend Cal came over to chat with two buddies in tow. At first glance I didn’t find the tall blonde one particularly attractive – I couldn’t see past his protruding ears. On closer inspection, however, there was something appealing about him. I tired to catch his eye, but to no avail. He seemed far more intent on speaking with my girlfriend.  I shrugged my shoulders and turned to consoling my poor friend Drew who explained that his Peruvian fiancée was going mental and had broken off their engagement, so perhaps under the circumstances it might not be wise to call her when in Lima.

I heard my name. Cal was telling the blonde that I would be a good salsa dancing partner. Before I could say, “con much gusto mi rubio tan guapo y alto con brasos del acero y ojos azules tan como el mar en la puesta del sol” he had me locked in an embrace trying to demonstrate his creative dance manoeuvers. As he spun me in Cal’s direction I frantically whispered, “What’s this guy’s name?” to which Cal whispered “John!” just as centrifugal force released its grip.

John was very forthcoming with his personal details as I danced in his arms. Thirty-seven, German descent, separated from his wife for two years following a one-and-a-half year marriage preceded by a five year courtship.  He was still having a hard time fully accepting that it hadn’t worked out (emotional baggage alert) because he believed that marriage should be for life. They still loved each other but didn’t get along in a couple sense.

Hmmm.

Then he gave me a big hug. “Is this good bye?” I asked, rather surprised and unable to think of a good reason for it.  “No, I just wanted to give you a hug,” he answered.  I realized the guy was drunk.  No wonder he made a big show of wanting me to get in touch with him when I got back.  We’ll see.