August in Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the smoking section of the afterlife.

Crime Report: Robbed in Peru

    Policia Nacional del Peru—Policia de Turismo Cusco
    Date: 23 June 2013; hour: 12:10 p.m.

    In the city of Cusco in the Office of the Tourist Police, the tourist MARION LISA WINIK (55), a U.S. national, single, a teacher, presented herself without personal documents or papers of transit through the city. The aforementioned tourist had suffered the loss of her brown handbag in a cafeteria…

    Mallmanya Inn
    Date: 23 June 2013; hour: 6:10 a.m.

    In the unheated breakfast room of our hotel, I was writing a journal entry titled “Cranky in Cusco.” Though I’d been having a pretty good time on my educational tour of Peru with 25 seventh graders, their teachers, and some of their parents, Day Six found me in a snit. I’d broken a 55-year ban on organized travel to take this tour with my daughter, Jane, and I’d begun to remember why I might not like such a trip. I also remembered that I was not all that interested in ruins or the brutish ancient civilizations behind them. Machu Picchu, I admitted, was the best of the bunch. If you like mountain scenery. Which I don’t. Hoping to get the ill humor out of my system, I wrote at length about the smelly hotel, the boring food, the effects of the endless walking on my arthritic knees.
    When Jane came down with a group of six girls for breakfast, I suggested we skip the daily rolls and margarine and try our luck elsewhere. A few blocks away, we came upon a fancy pastry shop where I was only slightly surprised to find almost all the other members of our tour group already dining. Things were looking up, I felt. So much so that I pulled out my journal to note that fact. Cafe Valeriana. Good quiche.
    When I put my journal back into my bag, I saw I had a text message from the short-lived boyfriend who had broken up with me on the eve of this journey. I had just begun to reply, stabbing at the touchscreen keyboard, when the waitress brought our bill. I reached down for my purse, which had been wedged between me and the girl beside me on the bench. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t on the other side of me, or on the floor.
    Since none of us had even seen anyone approach the table, this was clearly the work of a magician.
    So much for Cranky in Cusco—the journal was now history, along with my money, credit cards, ID, and the novel I was reading. Jane’s iPhone was in there, too, but thanks to that texting ex, mine was not. Worst, I had lost my passport. I say “worst” because I had no idea what I was in for.

    During the time I was at the police station filing my report, four other robbery victims came in. Officer Juvenal Zerceda Vasquez regretfully explained that this was the weekend of the Festival of the Sun, when professional thieves come to Cusco from all over the country. I pictured a chartered bus, Oceans 11 on the DVD player, and umbrella drinks.
    He proceeded to type up a detailed description of every item in the purse, then printed the report using a dot-matrix printer and a sheet of carbon paper. My wrinkled copy is all that remains of the “estuche multicolor conteniendo lapiceros y maquillaje,” (multicolored pouch containing pens and makeup), the “cuadernillo personal” (personal journal), and the “billetera floreado” (flowered wallet. Actually, it was polka-dot but I couldn’t get that across.)
    Next, he let me use the phone to call the U.S. Embassy. The woman who answered brusquely informed me that I would need to change my flight to Lima, get passport photos, fill out DS-11 and DS-64 online, and by the way, the Peruvian immigration office closes at noon. Since all this would cost a pretty penny, I should immediately message my contacts in the United States to explain my plight and ask for money. (God, I thought, are some of those e-mails for real?)
    â€œWhen are you supposed to fly home?” she asked.
    â€œTuesday