A couple of years ago we had the opportunity to visit Iran. It was an amazing experience that I will never forget. A place that made me realize again, that people are just people no matter where they live or what religion they practice.
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Over the years I’ve grown fond of visiting farmers markets whenever I travel. The harvest of the local land is an intrinsic component of the community. It not only nourishes people physically but psychologically. They take pride in the goods they’re providing, as they should.
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I had been looking forward to this road trip along the renowned Blue Ridge Parkway just outside of Asheville, NC for a long time. I was so excited to finally see the infamous show of color from the trees in the Smoky Mountains. We stopped for a quick breakfast at a diner down the street from our Airbnb and headed towards our first stop, the North Carolina Arboretum. I had seen pictures of the park online and thought it would be a nice way to start the day. In essence, a preview of what we were about to experience.
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A few years back I was talking to a friend about the places we loved to visit when she mentioned Asheville, North Carolina. Home to the renowned Biltmore estate, hundreds of artists and quintessential farm to table, before farm to table became a thing, Southern cuisine and more hiking trails than you could ever imagine exploring. She grew up in North Carolina about 4 hours from the artsy town nestled in the Smoky Mountains and raved about how beautiful it is especially in the fall. I grew up in Rhode Island and am familiar with fall. Yet while living there, I never quite understood people’s admiration of fall foliage. Yes, it’s pretty but it signals the impending approach of winter, the dreariest, coldest part of the year. I recall wondering in the midst of winter when exactly the last time I saw sun was and couldn’t remember. The endless dreary days got to me even more than the cold and snow. I just couldn’t get on board with the celebration of fall. Now that I’ve been living in South Florida for 12 years my heart is singing a different tune.
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By the time we arrived in Lima we were ready for some city comforts, a cozy bed, warm shower, you know the simple things you find when not camping in the mountains. After a quick flight from Cusco, we hopped in a taxi and told the driver our destination, Second Home Peru, a hotel I found in the Fodor’s Peru guidebook. Once we got to the general vicinity, the Barranco neighborhood, our driver wasn’t exactly sure where the hotel was. We drove down a dead end street and found the address of our destination, a Tudor style home surrounded by a wall and heavy-duty bronze gate.
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