From the bar, we took a cab back to our hostel, half-aware of tomorrow's decisive commitments. This is the night I learned to accept my vulnerability for the French. I don't remember the reason for leaving our room; perhaps we acquired the urgency sometime during dinner. We were in bed when the decision was reached: to introduce ourselves to others, to socialize. I put on jeans, a shirt and jacket.
The walk to the bar challenged all attempts for nocturnal reliability. I had not known the appearance of empty streets in Cusco. We continued walking and talking, sometimes simultaneously.
Twenty minutes passed with no sight of the main plaza or sight of the local grandeur, which at that point had become strict folklore( the lost, hungry dog inspecting garbage ushered convincing images of a new reality) I remember feeling vexed by my own sympathy for stray animals.
For the first time in life( though I can't be certain) these nights revealed to me a hidden freedom. I don't think either of us wanted to admit our unfortunate sense of direction. Was the enjoyment of each other's company sufficient to mitigate feelings of anxiety? I loved breathing the cold air of the night, which, thanks to the resilience of dim street lights, assumed a distinct nuclear color like that of recent evenings in Southern California.
