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So we spent the first hour or so trying to rest at the airport (though I wasn't actually able to fall asleep)..

..before heading out into the gray, drizzly morning and hailing a cab for Central Lima.

The half-hour taxi ride from the airport to the Plaza de Armas ranked right up there with the scariest of car rides I experienced in Thailand.  It actually might have been even scarier, considering I wasn't traveling with a local and we were at the mercy of a maniacally swerving Peruvian cab driver.  Not only did drivers pay absolutely no heed to the lanes painted on the road, they paid barely any attention to the traffic lights (a full twenty cars ran an intersection after the light turned red). 

After enduring this half-hour of horror, we somehow arrived safely at the plaza at 8:20 AM.  There was barely anyone around, and the falling drizzle was just on the cusp of becoming full-fledged rain.

The plaza serves as the front lawn of Peruvian president Alejandro Toledo, whose mansion is adjacent to the north side of the square:

Lima's cathedral is situated on the east side of the plaza,

and it features a series of massive doors:

Tammy's friends said these doors were the only thing worth seeing in Lima, but our next destination -- Barrio Chino (Chinatown) -- would quickly contradict that suggestion. 

After some slight misdirection caused by our Lonely Planet map, we found our way to the first Latin American Chinatown I've ever seen:

We needed to change some dollars into euros, and the money-changing dudes (wearing the lime green "Euro" signs in the pictures above) were evidently regarded by a host of customers as credible currency exchangers.  When we found that these guys' exchange rates were better than those of two banks, we decided to follow suit and change our money with them (certainly odd to see so much cash changing hands in broad daylight, and even odder to find that everyone around considered this normal).  

Other sights around Chinatown:

Having only had one meal during our final day in Arequipa, we were definitely ready for some food.  In spite of my illness, I wanted to take advantage of this singular opportunity to try Peruvian dim sum (or, in local parlance, "bocaditos chinos").  My book suggested two places: Wa Lok and Salon Capon.  After taking a look at both restaurants, we decided to roll with the latter:

Inside, we saw more Chinese people than we'd seen in the rest of Peru combined.  This included the clientele and the wait staff, though our own waitress -- based on both her appearance and her accent -- was of indeterminate ethnicity (she spoke a good bit of English, but we were still thrown off by and unable to identify her accent). 

The most important business, however, was the food.  We ordered an assortment of items off a checklist-style menu; many of the choices were translated roughly for us by our waitress, but we were still left with some guesswork as to what a few of these plates really were.  What was brought to the table, however, was an assortment of delicious aromas and tasty visual goodness:

The food turned out to be really good.  The soup was unlike anything I'd had in a Chinese restaurant before -- it's hard to describe, but it had whole peanuts (a nice touch) and really hit the spot in light of the cold weather and my illness.  The dumplings in the center were a lot sweeter than anything you would find in your typical dim sum in the States, but definitely still good.  And the hot sauce was real spicy -- I had a dab, and it had me wishing I could eat more of it; I didn't want to spend the WHOLE day in the bathroom though, so I held back.  As it was, my stomach turned out not to like the dim sum too much -- it was obvious I was still sick.  But the extra trouble caused by eating Peruvian dim sum was definitely well worth it.

Once we'd gotten our fill of South American Chinese cuisine, we headed back out into the hustle and bustle of Chinatown.  We poked inside one of the local indoor shopping malls, which essentially consisted of booth after booth of the same trashy trinkets and paraphernalia.  Seeing nothing of consequence, we made our way out of Chinatown and back toward the plaza.  En route, we made a quick stop at the Mercado Central, which featured long rows of produce and meat:

The market didn't offer much in the way of delectable post-dim sum goodies, but walking down the avenue, we soon happened across a big bakery that had earlier caught our attention while we were walking to Chinatown.  This time, we stopped to check it out -- and quickly found ourselves navigating our way through a huge crowd that was jostling to choose from a whole host of tasty treats:

Tammy bought herself two or three desserts

and we walked down toward the Church of San Francisco, which our taxi driver had recommended to us while weaving maniacally through the streets of Lima.  From his thick Spanish, I'd gathered something about there being some can't-miss catacombs at this church, so we thought it'd be an interesting final stop for our brief stay in the nation's capital.

We arrived outside

and were greeted by a courtyard full of pigeons and idle locals:

Pigeons even occupied the nooks and crannies of the church's outer walls

and served as the backdrop for an onslaught of eating.

We walked inside the church, paid the requisite fees (again, my old UCLA ID got me the student discount), and waited for the start of an English-language tour.  After a few minutes, a friendly Peruvian girl (whose English was limited but passable) greeted us, and the tour was underway.  Photography was prohibited inside the church, but what we saw was by far the most magnificent (or extravagant) interior of any religious structure we'd seen in the country.  One of the most impressive rooms was the library, which -- with its spiraling staircase and musty books -- looked like it'd been lifted directly out of a fairy tale (or Harry Potter film):

Nothing, however, could have prepared us for what lay below the church.  After we spent a half hour or so surveying rooms and paintings, the tour guide directed us to a once-hidden staircase.  We walked down the narrow steps, which descended below ground level and led us to a cramped, dusty chamber.  Stooping down to avoid bumping my head on the low ceiling, I followed a series of centuries-old tunnels and arrived in a room featuring possibly the most morbid scene I've ever seen firsthand:

Piled between the walls and in pits were thousands upon thousands of human bones.  As the above images depict, many had been arranged into bizarre (and unsettlingly creepy) formations and patterns.  Some were close enough for you to touch (of course, nobody did); all were close enough for you to smell.  It's said that the bones of as many as 70,000 people rest in these catacombs, and -- given the number we saw/smelled -- it wasn't hard to believe.  What was hard to believe was that, in little over a week, I'd managed to see something even more disturbing than the "mummies" of Cusco's Museo Inka.

After this haunting little experience, our tour of the church of San Francisco was complete.  We walked three blocks to the plaza, which was now busy with midday traffic and hubbub:

The morning's rain had cleared up a bit, so we snapped a few more photos of the cathedral

and Tammy took a moment to eat some more food.

After this, it was about time to head back to the airport and wait for our 4:20 PM flight to Iquitos.  We hailed a cab and braced ourselves for another wayward ride through the urban jungle of Lima.  Instead, however, the taxi driver took a route that was entirely different from the one that had left us fearing for our lives.  This guy got us off the surface streets and onto the freeway, where the traffic was actually a lot more orderly (and thus left us feeling a lot safer). 

A half hour later, we were back at Jorge Chávez Airport.  Once again, it was nap time

which I spent sifting through my bag and realizing that, somewhere along the way, I'd managed to lose my DEET.  Considering we were about to head into the thick of the [mosquito-infested] Amazon, this was rather unpleasant news.  I'd have to go looking for repellant in a local store in Iquitos (which, given the spotty safety standards in South America, was hardly any consolation).

Soon, it was 4:20, and we boarded yet another LAN jet, this time bound for our final city of the trip.  Deep in the rainforest, Iquitos is the largest city in the world that is completely inaccessible by road -- only boats (the slow way) and planes (the fast way) can reach it.

We arrived in Iquitos just past six, deplaning in the middle of the tarmac and immediately getting hit with the stifling humidity of the Amazon.  Even though the sun was fading, it was rather warm outside -- an expected, yet still surprising change of pace compared to the rather cold temperatures we'd experienced in Cusco, Arequipa, and Lima.  We walked briskly into the airport -- which was even smaller than the one in Arequipa -- into a room full of travel agent booths (not unlike what we'd seen upon arriving in Cusco). 

We first went up to the iPeru agent, who gave us an Excel spreadsheet with the names of reliable Amazon lodge agencies and a breakdown of the features offered by each.  Armed with this information, we then went up and down the row of booths, talking with each agent and haggling over prices and details.  The last person we talked to -- an elderly, very tan fellow named César Cárdenas, representing an agency called "Amazon Lodge and Safaris" -- offered us a deal we found hard to refuse: four days and three nights for the low, low price of 120 soles per person (for that same price, we'd been offered only three days and two nights by other representatives).  Even then, however, we didn't take César's deal right away; I had a gut feeling that something was amiss with him (he claimed he used to live in the Bay Area; he kept insisting that his lodge was the only one in "primary jungle"; and he said something about how we'd be extra-comfortable since there were three Chinese people currently staying at the lodge).  Ultimately, we decided to roll with his offer, but not without a fair bit of hesitation. 

What happened next got me even more worried.  César insisted on giving us a ride into town and taking us to a particular hotel that he'd picked out; we countered that we'd get our own cab and our own hotel.  After some back-and-forth, we finally relented (perhaps due to the potential convenience) and followed him out of the airport into what was now the humid night.  In the parking lot, two youngish fellows materialized seemingly out of nowhere to load our bags into César's car.  We piled into the car -- César in the driver's see, me shotgun, Tammy and one of the mysterious guys in the back seat, and the second guy behind the back seat (it was a station wagon).  After a couple tries by César, the engine rattled to a start, and we were off. 

In a peculiar moment, as we drove out of the airport, the guy in the back -- without any explanation -- flung the hind door open, jumped out of the car, and slammed the door shut.  We then drove off without him; perplexed, Tammy and I sat without asking any questions.  The bizarreness of the scene ramped up even further when César said he had a son (by one of his several ex-wives) who was living in San Francisco and working at the University of California (as a gardener, apparently).  When César said that he himself lived in Redwood City for nearly a decade, his claims to a past life in the Bay Area became a little more plausible. 

We weaved our way through the wide avenues, which were swarming with motortaxis: motorcycle-like vehicles with attached one-bench cabs -- big enough for two to three passengers.  César's driving felt a little unsteady, but after about fifteen minutes of navigating traffic, we pulled up to the side of the road.  Next to us was the front door of the Hotel Florence; I got out of the car and went inside to inspect our potential room -- a two-bedroom with a small television (the first we'd seen in any hotel room in Peru) and a bathroom (which, for once, was described as specifically having no hot water -- though César prudently observed that, given the Amazonian heat, we'd hardly need it).  After Tammy took her turn looking at the room, we decided it was good enough, and we took in our bags.  We talked some quick logistics with César -- we'd be picked up from the hotel in the morning -- and said our goodbyes for the night.

As it turned out, however, our dealings weren't quite done.  About a half hour later, the receptionist let us know we had a call waiting for us.  César was on the line; he said that his manager, who apparently had been displeased with the low price we'd been given, wanted half of our payment up front.  When I told that all we had left were hundreds, he responded with dissent, claiming that it was impossible to get change for a hundred in Iquitos -- though, upon his return to the hotel ten minutes later, he ultimately accepted our bill. 

After we were finally through with César for the night -- for real this time -- we headed down to Iquito's Plaza de Armas. 
 

With its unexpected flashiness and neon lights -- even the cathedral tower was illuminated in neon blue -- the plaza was reminiscent of a little Peruvian Vegas.  It was actually sort of a fun change of pace from the more staid plazas we'd seen in other cities.  The style of the surrounding streets also evoked this Vegas-like feel, and one restaurant -- a stop that had been recommended to us ever since the Machu Picchu trek, and our choice for dinner -- was even more overtly American: the Yellow Rose of Texas.

The face of the restaurant opened up to the street, with a front patio featuring outdoor seating (and lots of gringos).  We decided to sit just inside, with a clear view of both the street and the restaurant's quirky interior:

Adorning virtually every inch of the walls and ceiling were trinkets, news clippings, and other imports from Texas.  On the wall adjacent to us was a stack of reviews of various Amazon lodges, with "AVOID" and "DON'T TRUST" written in big letters across several (we didn't see "Amazon Lodge and Safaris" among them).  The menu was just as gaudy, featuring pages upon pages of choices -- some American, some Peruvian, and some uniquely Amazonian: Tammy opted for the alligator nuggets,

while I (still battling my illness) went for the less spectacular choice of vegetarian spaghetti.  Strangely, the spaghetti took an awfully long time to come out, and when it did, it was an unhappy surprise; instead of a simple spaghetti with marinara (which I'd been expecting), it was an elaborate dish, with vegetables, cheese, pesto piled on top of a bed of dry spaghetti.  It tasted good, but my stomach couldn't handle it, and I left most of it uneaten.  I did have one of the alligator nuggets, which tasted almost exactly like chicken, but had a tough rubbery texture that forced a ton of chewing.  I was almost glad I had as little as I did, because eating those nuggets seemed like a lot of work:

Once dinner was done, we walked down a couple blocks to a market (which turned out to be closed) before settling on buying supplies -- including my repellant, which included an unspecified percentage of DEET -- at a couple local pharmacies (there were no convenience stores in sight).   After this, it was finally time to return to the hotel and end a very long day with a very cold shower.  The Amazon awaited.
 

Map of Peru