by Angela Smith Kirkman
“Meet us at El Embrujo in 30 minutes,” the voice on the other end of the line says in Spanish.
“Gloria?”
“Yes, I’m here with Marlith. We’re sending a taxi to pick you guys up. It’s your last night in Peru—our last chance to boogie down.” [My translation.]
“Thanks for the invite, Gloria, but I’m sorry, we just can’t do it.” I say, glancing toward my husband, Jason, who’s busy making sure all of our passports are in order.
I still haven’t quite figured out how to dance to Peruvian pop music, but I’m giving it my best shot.
