I have been roughing it for so long, but I'm sat in a modern hotel restaurant, with complementary, or included, same difference, dinner with two glasses of Pisco Sour, although philosophically one is no longer a glass of Pisco Sour, and the taste of bread with herb butter has sent me into trembling palpitations.
I may be thoroughly corrupted. Food that is a sensory delight, rather than refuelling. I'm a sensual creation as well as practical, perhaps more so as I age (rather than ripen or mature).
Ok, the third Pisco Sour must be strong, I'm falling in love with the world again.
I have to get up at 4am tomorrow, or earlier. Strictly speaking I need to be walking at 4:30, if I decide to walk to Machu Picchu, rather than taking the bus and, despite my feet, I'm inclined to (inclined, geddit?).
Maybe having a fourth and fifth cocktail (it's Happy Hour) isn't such a great idea) I can't even punctuate properly.
On the other hand I can still feel my legs.
On the other leg, they managed to take me to the bar where my voice colluded into ordering another two cocktails. This is going to end well!
As long as I manage to collect my ticket!
The next course has arrived: tasting the mashed sweet potato, blended with he juice of the pan and the juice, almost made me weep.
My next conundrum is, can one cook in the field, or in a field and I mean cook; not just create sustenance, but also sensation.
I'm schizophrenic, seeing double, seeing the then and the now.