The Misadventures of a Few Gringos in Peru by Adam Triplett

I thought it would be nice to take a break from the more serious, intelligent tone of the blog to give an insight into some of the smaller things that have happened on the trip.  I´d like to share with you the experience that has changed all of us, in one way or another.
      Hungry and homesick? What´s a better cure than pizza right?  The gas station about a mile away from the hostel in Pisco had, what appeared to be, amazing, American style pizza in the pictures above the oven.  Jimmy, myself, and Mr. Jarczyk were sent to retrieve said pizzas, so we ordered 5 nice, big, presumably tasty, pizzas and awaited their grand appearance from the oven in the gas station.
      Normal gas stations have some cigarettes, candy, some sugary drinks, and the nice ones might even have some liquor.  This was no normal gas station.  This was Peru.  It had a whole room stock full of nostalgia-enducing candies that were sure to make the palette of any American salivate in hopeful anticipation of the gratification of an Oreo cookie or a skittle.  This area would certainly be claimed in the name of Brophy in the days to come.
      Along with the amazing, yet seemingly out of place, candy, there were soft drinks, some Redbull, and other Peruvian sodas like Inka Cola (a trip favorite) and Peru Cola.  There was also a whole wall which I´m sure has only appeared to people in dreams.  Bottle after bottle of assorted liquors, wines, and beers, including a very large amount of Pisco, straight from Pisco.
      The absurdity of this gas station finally culminated in the pizzeria, which now holds the life line between Peru and the US for several Americans craving American food in it´s very ovens.  This is not to say that Peruvian food is bad, but there is a limit for chaufa and saltado, this said limit had been reached for some.
      The conversation between myself, Jimmy, and Mr. Jarczyk while we awaited our doughy prizes spanned topics from photography to what Brophy was like a decade ago.  This talk was just a side note for what we were all really thinking; it was just a matter of time until 5 pizzas, 5 pizzas which would fill the tanks of some very weary and sore volunteers, and would spring from the ovens only meters away.  These pizzas were the Ellis Island of our hopes and dreams, a gateway back home, even if just for one meal.
      I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my life.  She emerged from the haze of the wood burning ovens in the kitchen holding the Holy Grail to our Crusade in deceivingly plain, white boxes.  There was no disguise cunning enough to tempt us through the trail of us Templars.
      With the pizzas in hand, we hailed a moto taxi and within minutes were on our way to the hostel to deliver the captured prize.  That´s when disaster struck.  The sound was unmistakable; it was the death rattles of a moto taxi, our golden chariot across the skys, gave a very unwelcome ado just meters away from the gas station.  The frantic pulls from the driver to restart his moto were all but futile.  He quickly clambered out of the vehicle as he saw his passengers were growing impatient.  We watched his head bob around near the engine compartment from the rear window of the taxi as he struggled to breathe a new life into his once great stallion.
      At that moment, another miracle occurred.  After obtaining our cheesy, American goodness, I could not imagine that the night could get better, lest I jinx my luck.  But alas! The moto roared to life after the driving once again began to chug away on the pull start; roaring is of course relative to a 150cc scooter engine.  Once again our precious cargo was on it´s way to its final destination, the stomachs of our patiently awaiting comrades.
      We arrived at the hostel in a matter of moments and we quickly exited the moto, taking precaution to ensure the safety of the pies and pay the driver for his valiant efforts.  The 5 solitary white boxes were rushed to the second floor where a circle had gathered; a scene reminiscent of The Lord of the Flies ensued.  The boxes were torn apart, knives delicately, but deliberately, divided the slices, and the portal to our distant home opened.
      We each had a slice at the ready, ready to be chewed, ready to be enjoyed, ready to be digested.  We bit in.  It was delicio- wait, what is this?!  Aghast, we had been fooled!  This was not pizza, but a foul, sweetly flavored imposter!  It had suckered us in and made us to believe it was truly pizza.  We had been duped!  There was not even a faint hint of the marinara or rich mozzarella for which we craved.  All this buildup, only to be had by an inadequate, unsavory con to our taste buds.
      The portal had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the gates closed, the Grail once again lost to the sands of time.  This hack left us crazing American pizza all the more.  We went to bed that night with a lesson learned, a lesson about pizza in a Peruvian gas station.  Hopefully upon completion of this tale you too will realize our fated mistake.