Trujillo, Peru, 17/6/7
My dear Claire,
As I'm writing this, I'm sitting on a thin hard mattress on a wooden bed in a sad small room on the second floor of an old hotel of the Centro de Trujillo.
The hotel must had its days of glory in the past - it has, still, a kind of grandeur about it - but this time is certainly over for decades.
A look at the doorless bathroom lighten by a 30W yellow lightbulb or at the 24 inches neon balancing from the old and dusty intricated round wooden fixture on the ceiling in the middle of my room gives it all.
But that room certainly has a lot of stories to tell, I'm sure of that. A huge wooden wardrobe with a scratched mirrored door that would cost a fortune at any store on Granville Street is taking pretty much all the space beside the bed. The nine feet high ceiling was painted years ago in a creme tone that almost doesn't contrast with the pale beige used on all the walls.
The corner table doesn't fit near the single bed, so it sits alone on the other side of the room, useless.
Strangely enough, they managed to put a desk and a chair under the only window on the wall opposite to the door. Beside the wardrobe, one of a three set of hooks is missing, another one is all crooked. The window itself is a tiny hole covered by a dirty paneglass and offers, if you could figure out how to open it - which I doubt anyone did for months at least - it offers a view of half of the dusty rooftop's building next door. The only thing on that roof is an old paint can which slightly moves in the late afternoon wind.
As I glanced behind me, I realized that there is, actually, another window, above the bed, giving a peek at the large brownish hallway, pierced in its center by the interior court.
And I spare you the bathroom visit, I'm sure you won't mind.
Because what matters most, is that in spite of the sadness of the walls surrounding me at the moment, I feel really good. It feels good writing to you, dear.
Trujillo is an interesting, not too big, yet quite busy, colonial city - I can hear the numerous honks from its streets even if my room sits on the very back of the hotel. I really enjoyed taking a stroll in its cobblestoned streets boarded by these colorful houses, centuries old churches and its wonderfully charming and palm tree surrounded main plaza.
I stopped at a small restaurant for lunch and I ordered the only thing I wasn't able to figure out from the spanish menu. It turned out to be an entree of delicious sliced potatoes covered by a rich and creamy egg and mustard sauce. The main course, a tender breaded steak with a ham and melted cheese filling center was just as tasty. The local Inca Kola soft drink completed my culinary experience of the day.
I left Quito about two days ago. There, I met two girls from Australia and one of them - Melina her name is - has the exact same voice as you. Of course, she's not as excessive as you can be - no one is, dear, since you are unique, as I'm sure she is too. But I was truthfully happy to hear your voice thru her words.
It made me a little sad as I realized how much I've missed you and how much I still do, but as I closed my eyes once in a while, I was able to see you as well as if you'd have been there with me. It was quite an interesting experience and I like to believe that you were, in a mysterious way, with me all this time in Quito.
So that's mainly the reason why I took a pen and a few recycled pieces of paper to write while the sun is setting its farewell until tomorrow morning.
And I will let you go with its last ray, leaving Trujillo and me under this darker blue-gray sky of near summer night.