My last visit to Lima, though, was different and intentionally so. I did not go to Miraflores, where most tourists go, or to the coast or into any of the city’s museums, churches, or ruins. Instead I spent it with a Spanish woman, who I’d met hiking in the north and connected with as we trudged through the rain and wind together. After our hike, we exchanged numbers and promised to reunite in Lima the next day. She lives in the city and works as a social worker there. For hours she tolerated my bumbling language skills amidst the downtown noise and bustle. And we walked to places I’d never before thought to go, despite having already been to the city many times. First beneath the arch of Lima’s Chinatown district and the nearby hanging ducks. Then atop Cerro San Cristobal, an ugly dirt hill with views of a polluted panorama. That same night we spent illuminated at the Magic Water Circuit, a fountain complex that’s combination water park and laser light show. We shared a bag of popcorn, though she made it clear she preferred plantain chips, and discussed her obsession and my semi-fear of horror movies. When at last she boarded her bus to go home and I boarded mine for the islands less than six hours later, the sense of sadness I mentioned earlier materialized and settled. I’d had my least-traditional day ever in Lima and it had been my best.