Cuzco is a city built on the bold shoulders of memory; white washed hotels and tumble-down cafes are crouched upon the puzzle-like remains of Inca stonework, their paint dripped and clotted at the foundations like iced cakes.The colonial churches and balconied houses are like beautiful masks which, at their bases, reveal an older and wiser face; the remains of a people who worshipped the sun, who dedicated temples to the moon. Everwhere the forgotton arches of an empire are bricked in and blocked; angles are turned into squares, curves into corners. Footsteps echo on the smooth stone paths down narrow side streets, expertly built for the Inca messengers to quickly deliver their news by foot.
The city is spread within the basin of a mountain valley. By day it is as though we are all contained inside the lining of some giant cosy pocket. By night, I feel like I'm in a huge snow globe being showered by invisible wishes, the lights dancing around the the curve of the valley like falling glitter.
I have moved into a house at the top of a cobbled hill which feels as though it must be the beginning of a story. The view below is full of red roof tiles, wandering dogs and a cluster of traditionally dressed ladies asking passing tourists for one Sole to take a picture. I am indulging in my first hot showers for seven months in my very own and very pink bathroom. It is such a comfort to be back in a cosy bed, especially one with a tartan blanket! The small pleasures of life are all around and shining brightly.At the San Pedro market there are stalls for about pretty much anything. I wander between the isles of fish eggs and seeweed, cheese wheels and dried fruit, taylors and tinkers- this is where life seems to happen in the city, between the walls of the market and between the people. Through and among the colours and and chaos there is a order that brings me peace, and I can spend hours searching the stalls for curiosities and inspirations.
