I can never find this cafe, no matter how many times I’ve been there. I know it’s on the second floor facing the cathedral with the fountain in between. There it is; the big window with the black railing. I hope Jody’s already there.
I walk through the small corridor with vendors on either side and under the length of the café to get to the stairs, which are in the back.
Cusco is an amazing city no matter how cliché it becomes with pan-flutes sold by boys reciting the presidents of the United States, Inca Cola t-shirts, and all manner of mysterious fur sold as alpaca. I love it. The town is overrun by Europeans wearing plastic clothes and Americans in vests of numerous pockets. But it does have the healthiest beggars outside of Istanbul and this café, Trotamundos.
Remembering the narrow staircase with old railing, I knew I was in the right place; same smell of hard wood and tacky music, and the old cork board with random concert ads and two-for-one beer nights. I walk up the creaky staircase; five steps then left, six steps then right. As I step onto the well-worn slates, my leather shoe slides a few inches forward on the café floor.
The place is poorly lit, as all good cafés are. It’s simple and its only boast is the piano player squeezed between the seats and sidewall. The exchange of smells is unmistakably Peruvian: the decaying city, fresh bread, propane gas, and the coffee—peruvian coffee. Its floors, panels, and ceiling wrap us in hard woods of various ages and shades.
Meseros move from bar to table in only a few paces. Not that it makes the service any faster, but there’s a closeness like sitting in the home of a new friend.
The size of the café makes every conversation common. Patrons recognize their own accents among the others and start to talk (except for the British, which avoid each other when traveling). “You must be American.” “Vos soi Chileno, no?” “Un'altra Italiano.” It’s a community depot of travelers as the name implies. The bar to the left. Seating to the right. And straight ahead, the smallish balcony set in the large window and Jody.
“Hey Jody,” I shout, as I walk pass the bar. Pulling a chair from the table, he dusts off the seat with his hand. I take my seat and a light skinned young man comes to the table.
“Bueno. Qué le gustaría?”
“Un café con un menú por fevor,” Jody quickly said.
“Oh, you’re Amaricanos?
“Si”
“My father’s from Huston. What’s jor name?”
“Jody Hungry.”
I felt the comical tension and had to interject for my own amusement.
“Does your father still live in Texas?”
“I don’t know. He was tourista.”
“Really?”
“Yes, my Grandfather also tourista. And some day go to America and I will also be turista.”
“Well, may María bless your travels.”
“Gracias. Oh, Something to drink or eat?”
Jody spoke up.
“Yes, Un café con un menú por fevor.”
“Ok, one momento.”
Two steps and the mesero was behind the bar pouring Jody’s coffee into an american size tazón.
“Jody, you’re a piece of work.”
“Me? You don’t even realize he didn’t take your order.”
“I do now. Amigo, café con crema pada me.”
“Ok, Bueno.”
I place my bag at my feet, looping the strap around my foot, and look a Jody. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the plaza. Lowering my voice, I slowly say, “Jooody what cha looken’ at?” Raising his pointed finger past his face, brushing his nose, he points to middle of the plaza. “In a few seconds you’re gonna to see a crime committed.” I follow his stare to the end of his finger and into the plaza beside the gaudy yet grand fountain. There, a middle age women, likely American, is talking with a young Peruvian boy about the age of 10. The boy is showing her a variety of finger puppets. He seems quite entertaining to the lady as she laughs awkwardly.
“So, what? A kid selling puppets to a tourist. Where’s my coffee?”
“Espara! Look at the other kid.”
I made out a few words by the movement of her lips. Slowly, she counts in English as if teaching an ESL class; 21, 22, 23, 24. Suddenly, I realizes Jody’s interest is in the younger boy sitting to the back of the women. As she faces the older boy and counts her souvenirs she drops them into a large canvas tote bag tucked under her arm. About every fifth number, the younger boy to the back of the lady gently slips his small hand into the opening of the bag protruding from the back of the lady’s shoulder. He removes a handful of the puppets and puts them into a black plastic bag by his side.
“Que, intelligente,” I comment.
“Que, criminals, you mean.”
“Jody, this woman's stupidity is criminal.”
“So, now we should rob all the stupid people?”
“No. But this is funny. You don't think it’s funny?” I think it’s funny.”
“So, give me all your money. Is that funny? Would it be funny if that was your mother down there?”
“Relax, Jody.”
“Relax?”
Our attention is drawn to the fountain as the lady is waving her hands and yelling at the boy. Maybe she’s not as stupid as I thought. I’m wrong. “I paid for one-hundred puppets. ONE-ZERO-ZERO” (as if loud English is easier to understand). The boy looks puzzled for a moment and then says something to the smaller con-man as he, looking equally confused, passes his freshly stolen bag of finger puppets to the first boy.
“Good. No problemo mi small amigo,” she says and continues to count.
“61, 62, 63, 64, 65,…”
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