I could be feeling sorry for my possession-less self and frustrated at having had to stay in Lima for longer ... ]]> I write this whilst seated in the Migration office, Lima’s International waiting room. Looking around at the other hapless Gringos, one might assume that every traveler finds themselves in Peru’s smog-filled capital, through obligation rather than choice. Either like me they’ve had the misfortune of being robbed or are merely here on a swift ticket to Machu Picchu.

I could be feeling sorry for my possession-less self and frustrated at having had to stay in Lima for longer than planned; for the hours in endless queues at the embassy, and the rows with well-meaning bank clerks, awaiting the postal system to perform a minor miracle and deliver me a new credit card.

But after nearly a month of planning my escape, it seems today I will in fact be free to leave Lima, armed with a newly stamped passport and an onward ticket. How is it then, that I can hardly stand to leave?

Had I never been mugged, I wouldn’t have known the kindness of the waiter at the Buen Sabor Cafe, who gave me a free meal, or the two women passers-by, who took pity on my panic-stricken state and took me to the Police station. Nor of Carla at the Tourist office who bought me a phone card so I could phone my Mum. There would have been no Fransisco the Angelic Taxi Driver, who whisked me away from my woes and lent me some money in nothing but good faith. Who then deposited me at the bus station, where above all I would never have bumped into Jeru, my host for the last month. She insisted on inviting me to her family home, where I’ve had the privilege of staying, in sharing their conversation, their food and learning rude words around a seven-strong family meal table. The home that brought me to her cousin, Jackson and ultimately to falling in love.

How ironic then, that the soulless, dirty city that at first glimpse stole my most valued possessions, would be the same one to steal my heart!