What a great party!

What a great party! Wednesday night was the Grandpa Titto-Villacorta’s 75th birthday. We three were the only ones outside of the family lucky enough to gain invitations to the exclusive event. We arrived fashionably early so we had time to visit the recently excavated Incan ruins just a couple of doors down from casa Titto-Villacorta. Upon arrival, I was served a homemade, and very tasty, alcoholic beverage known as corn chicha fruitillada in one of only two communal glasses in the room. The process, which I of course followed so as to not appear rude, was to drink your chicha (and then later beer, and then later beer with a dash of Kola Real) and then to fill the glass and pass it on to someone else. Although we had only met two of the family members before, we were made to feel incredibly welcome. Other attendees included Aunt Doris, her husband Cleto, and their kids, Camilo, Carolina, and Carlo. The father of the family was also in attendance, he apparently sleeps in another house, either because it is closer to his work or because of space constraints at this house, I was not able to determine. I am honored to, however, announce here publicly that, according to father Titto-Villacorta himself, as a result of some type of artificial insemination (you should have seen me try to figure that out with my limited knowledge of the Spanish language), he is, in fact, the last of the Incas and he extended to us a personal invitation to visit Machu Pichu and Ollantaytambo, and Pisac, which I knew as Incan ruins but he knew as the houses of his grandparents. This house consisted of four small rooms, two above two below. Access from one level to the other was achieved by an outdoor dirt path. The house was plastered but in places one was able to get peep-show glimpses of the sort of hippie-chick sexy earthiness of the mud bricks of which the house was constructed. The kitchen consisted of a stove and a sink outside the back wall of the house and was sheltered by a plastic tarp in case of inclement weather. There was no indoor plumbing. Many windows were covered by plastic sheeting and decorations were minimal, the most prominent of which was an advertisement for cookies which hung from the ceiling and was much admired by Maya. Three generations of Titto-Villacortas lived in the house, ranging in age from two-year-old baby Marcella to 75 year old Grandpa Titto-Villacorta. The lower level consisted of the bedroom of grandpa and grandma and the common room in which the party was conducted. The party room looked as though it may have served as a small store at one time. The older daughter had her own room upstairs. The other upstairs room was furnished with two beds which were shared by: Mama, 19 year old son Percy, daughters Rosia (11), Paola (8) and baby Marcella (2). There was also a mama cat with two kittens in a cardboard box under one of the two beds. However, in spite of (or in part because of?) the meager surroundings, by U.S. standards, this was one of the happiest and closest families I have ever met in my life. As the new ingredient in the old family batter (if Maya was the sugar and Zak the spice, did that mean I was the dough?), we were the focus of much attention and I was the recipient of many glasses of both Chicha and beer as well as many questions by all except Grandma who only spoke Quechua. However, as the evening rolled on and I participated in my share of toasts to Grandpa’s health, I found it more and more difficult to communicate in Spanish, my command of which is pretty minimal to begin with. After a dinner of Mama’s roast cuy (guinea pig), which, according to more than one family member, is the best roast cuy in Cusco, the table and chairs were pushed against the walls, the quechua music was cranked up on the boom box, and we started to dance. Just like that. No hemming and hawing, no “oh, I couldn’t possibly”’s, someone would just grab your hand and you would waltz around the room. Periodically water had to be sprinkled on the cement floor to keep down the dust that was kicked up and we all went to it. I have to admit that Grandma was among my favorite dance partners. As we did not share a common language we were not able to communicate verbally but all 4 ½ feet of here were incredibly charming. She wore her hair in two long braids, Quechua style, and she would often look up and smile but then she would cover her mouth with one of her hands or look down as she seemed to be embarrassed about the condition of her front teeth (missing teeth, gaps between teeth, etc. are not at all uncommon here). This was one of the best parties I have ever been to and not once during the whole evening did anyone acknowledge or compliment another on their fashionable clothes, the attractiveness of the granite countertops, or the size of the stainless steel appliance. I´ve since learned that a fiesta here means dancing and not just drinking which, frankly, adds a really nice touch to the evening. In addition to a beer run to the local market with a horde of kids in tow, I contributed the cake and after it was served the party wound down as the kids had school the next morning. Zak was exhausted but Maya the party girl was, as always, ready for more. On the way to a street busy enough to find a taxi, we admired the incredible view of the lights up and down what is, in my opinion, properly known as The Sacred Valley; what an incredible evening.