Miraflores district, Lima, Peru — September.

The accommodation was abysmal. Thomas opened his Lonely Planet guidebook — now dog-eared — and re-read the review.

'Bienvenido a Casa:

High recommendation, medium price range. A funky hostel with a vibrant and social atmosphere — solo travellers won't have any trouble making friends here. Close enough to the action for you to breathe in the essence of Miraflores, but far enough away to get a good night's sleep. The friendly staff will point you in the direction of local nightlife and inter-hostel parties. Clean and tidy, with breakfast included, it is worth paying the extra few sols.'

Thomas peered down and inspected the peeling linoleum floor. Well, it certainly was clean — as were the patches of cement peeking out beneath it.

Water slopped nearby. He glanced up in its direction and saw a young man down the end of the corridor moving his mop back and forth with rhythmic efficiency. Heavily scented steam rose out of a bucket. Thomas grimaced as the taste of artificial pine flooded his throat. Does the boy want to get high?

As if sensing Thomas' eyes on him, the kid looked up with a petulant glare.

Damn it, Waterhouse, it's not okay to stare!

Thomas flushed and decided it was of vital importance to inspect the room to his left. It was a small living room. The late morning sun filtered through lace curtains as they danced in the breeze. With the window open, he could hear the incessant honking of horns and a screech of tires all the way from the Centerville. Don't they understand road rules here? An eclectic mix of colourful pictures hung on a yellow feature wall. The Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus, Jesus wreathed in a crown of thorns, a silhouette of a man on a mountain pinnacle with a cliché travel quote and Bruce Lee. Below, an immense apricot modular filled most of the floor. It housed a variety of mismatched cushions and the sprawled body of a snoring backpacker. A spindly coffee table covered by a stack of pirated DVDs completed the scene.

Thomas raised his eyebrows. It was clear the residence had been lovingly cared for. Unfortunately, it was also decrepit and stuck in the 1990s. He realised his decision to listen to Richard and 'wing it' had been a mistake. He couldn't do it. This just wasn't for him — Beatrice had been right. He should just go and find a nice hotel.

Thomas took a step back with every intention of a hasty exit. The so-called bus had passed a Belmond on his way here; he would go there.

"Buenos!" called out a feminine voice.

He jumped, then spun around to see an olive face peeking around a corner. It was dominated by large brown eyes and topped with a mass of greying black hair.

"Hola. Español, English o Français?"

Thomas blinked. "Oh, good morning. English please."

The head disappeared, followed by the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard, a moment's silence, and then, "I'm waiting."

Thomas moved his balance from one foot to the other, teeter-tottering on the brink of indecision, uncertain of which way to turn. Left would see him out the building and towards soft carpets, crisp linen and room service. To the right lay peeling linoleum and God knew what else. Was there even room service here? Unlikely. His balance shifted.

What will you choose, Thomas? his subconscious said in a voice surprisingly close to Richard's. Will it be the status quo or adventure?

In his mind's eye, he imagined the experiences he could have. Friendships forged in proximity, the camaraderie of shared hangovers and roughing it.

Come on Waterhouse, take it as it comes.

There was a lurching sensation in his stomach as his mind swung to a final choice. Thomas turned right, boots clipping on the floor as he moved with resolution and purpose. He could do this.

The woman sat in an alcove that served as an office, the space filled by a cream melamine desk. A laptop hid most of her petite frame. Her face and neck popped above it and big, white teeth grinned at him like a Cheshire Cat.

"Bienvenido. Welcome." The woman glanced down at the screen and moved her upper body around the computer, leaning forward with forearms on the desk, hands clasped and eyes regarding him intently.

"Do you have a reservation?"

"Er, not exactly. My name is Thomas Waterhouse. I called from the airport about an hour ago."

"Ah, si, I remember you. I'm Jacqui. Sorry, we couldn't pick you up. We need a minimum forty-eight hours' notice. But you can't trust the taxis there. How was the colectivo? Good fun, no?"

For a moment he shivered as images from the ride surfaced. An old red van swerving in and out of traffic, picking people up and dropping them off at random locations. The sensation of being a human sardine, sealed in a metal cube, tightly squeezed between an old woman and a young boy as he tried to maintain the precarious purchase of both his bottom and backpack on the seat. The stale smell of his sweat mingling with that of others. Dust in his eyes. The various conversations spoken in rapid Spanish. An infernal honking of horns. Fear that the driver had not understood his destination.

As the memory engulfed him, his heart started to beat rapidly. He licked dry lips and, drawing upon all his etiquette, forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Yes, the er ... col-ec-tivo." He stumbled on the word, grimacing. "How kind of you to recommend it. So well-priced ... and such an experience — ahem." Choking on his words, he cleared his throat. "I shall endeavour to ride in one again." When pigs bloody fly!

Jacqui scrutinised him and quirked a brow. Clearly having heard the unspoken loud and clear, she launched into a tirade. " Típico gringo. You know people come to places like this to get a 'real' taste of the culture. Necesitas ayuda para eso! I was providing it ... and I keep you safe. Last month a man arrived at a hotel in this city minus a finger!" She pointed at the gold signet ring on his right hand. "That looks muy caro ... and stuck. You never can be certain if you are getting into a registered taxi. Humph!"

While the woman ranted, Thomas' stomach plummeted. God, it had taken less than two minutes to offend as many members of staff. He had flown halfway across the world and right into dangerous, derelict chaos.

Leave! his mind shouted in a voice that sounded like Beatrice's.

Jacqui looked at him, waiting. His heart pumped. A runnel of sweat snaked from nape to spine. He gulped, clenched his fists, and donned the mask of an aristocrat.

"There are unregistered taxis?" To his relief, the words came out in a steady voice.

"Sí! Mucho." Jacqui nodded her head emphatically, seeming to take this question as an act of contrition. The whites of her eyes shone.

"Then my finger and I thank you." This time, his smile reached his eyes, and it was reciprocated.

"Ahhh, no hay problema. Don't worry too much. No taxi to the airport unless I call it, eh? And no taxi alone — not in my city."

"I defer to your wisdom, Jacqui." He combed his right hand through his hair, and it flopped to the right. The movement brought his nose in proximity to his armpit. He cringed.

Jacqui noticed and stood. "Necesita una shower and rest." She yanked on his arm. "Come, I show you the rooms for you to choose," she said as she pulled him along.

"La cocina," she indicated the kitchen. "You wash your dishes, hey!" This last comment was directed at a man, a peculiar shade of green, who sat slumped at a table before an untouched bowl of cereal. A whiff of coffee and fresh toast caused Thomas' stomach to rumble. "Breakfast from seven to ten."

He checked his Rolex, 10:10, and sighed.

"Don't worry. I make you a welcome breakfast."

He smiled back at her and let himself be dragged further into the building. They passed the young man still cleaning. Jacqui coughed at the fumes, snapped something scathing, and continued around a corner to a door. She opened it.

"Four-bed mixed-dorm con baño, forty-eight sol per noche. You check out by ten and bring your sheets to me."

Thomas had a brief moment to look into a sparse room that contained four single beds, four lockers and two sleeping figures before he was yanked away to inspect another room.

"Eight-bed mixed-dorm sin baño, thirty-five sol." This room had bunk beds. Each lower bed held a sleeping figure or rumpled bedding.

Jacqui faced him. "What do you think?"

He thought both rooms were on a sliding scale of terrible. A stale tang of beer and cigarettes permeated through the skin and clothes of the comatose occupants, and a loud snore made him flinch. The dormitory at Eton was like Club Med in comparison to this. Then he thought of Beatrice preening over his mistake and ground his teeth.

Actually, the inhabitants looked like they'd had a brilliant time the night before — even if they were paying for it now. Maybe he could join them tonight. He could manage here — or at least would have an honest-to-God crack at it. He sniffed. Not in this room, though.

Another piercing snore caused him to jump. Perhaps it would be best to build up to dormitory life.

"I don't suppose you have something ... a bit more private?"

"Solo the matrimonial suite."

A matrimonial suite, here? Good Lord, why? He considered the green paint that flaked from the concrete bricks, a colour that had no place in this decade — nor several earlier ones. The notion was ludicrous. Silk sheets and room service — now that was the stuff of honeymoons.

This time he didn't bother to hide the disbelief in his voice. It was well beyond his powers of dissimulation. "People really come here for a honeymoon?"

Jacqui smiled; she did not appear in the least bit offended.

"The dormitories do not offer much privacy, no? We have a policy: no sexo."

She jerked her head towards a bed containing a young couple entangled in a small bed, fully clothed, and then tugged on his arm and led him to the first corridor and unlocked the door at its end. It was spartan. A double bed with floral sheets, a set of towels and a chest of drawers. At least the walls weren't green. Though was peach an improvement?

He walked in and peered into the en suite. It was spotless and yet incredibly dated like the rest of the hostel.

"One-hundred-and-sixty sol — no need to bring me the sheets."

Thomas pulled his head back. Jacqui's eyebrows were raised in a humorous expression. "No guests, eh. You meet a lady out there — you can go home with her!" They were wiggling now. "You find a lady here — todo bien."

Thomas was taken aback at the woman's forthrightness. Surely, she didn't think he would do such a thing? But then again, who knew what might happen?

"What do you think?"

He thought this wasn't five-star accommodation. Not even one star. But it was hygienic and safe. A base for him to decide what whim to follow next on this almost-unplanned trip. Most importantly, he could get to know people here without preconceptions or prejudice. Perhaps even a travelling companion.

"I'll take it".

Jacqui put out her hand. "Pasaporte, por favor."

Thomas exited his room half an hour later. Freshly dressed and scrubbed, he felt reinvigorated. Jacqui returned his passport and ushered him into the kitchen like a mother hen.

Soon fresh-baked bread crunched in his mouth. The tip of his tongue darted to the corner of his lips and retrieved a dab of strawberry jam. A seed caught in his teeth and he used his nail to dislodge it, then picked up the cup of coffee and breathed in the aroma.

Jacqui looked at him expectantly as he took a sip.

"Mmm, delicious. Thank you."

The crow's feet around her eyes deepened.

He took another sip and closed his eyes for a moment to savour it. It was the best coffee he'd ever had.

He started to ask about the local area. "I thought to look around the neighbourhood and wondered where —"

A young woman in baggy sweats shuffled into the kitchen with the painful gait of subacute alcohol poisoning. Her face was hidden from view by long waves of light-brown hair ending in sun-bleached tips. She approached the bench, and there was a tinkle as coffee poured into a cup. He heard a delicate sip followed by a moan of appreciation that sent anticipation rippling across his skin. All his senses tingled at the sound.

Unnerved, and uncertain why, he fidgeted in his seat. Then the woman turned, and he almost dropped his cup. Piercing eyes settled on him, grey as storm clouds and set in a sun-bronzed face dusted with freckles. He inhaled sharply. She was striking, no doubt about that, but there was something else. He didn't know what it was exactly. Perhaps that she was the exact opposite of Beatrice — or his recent abstinence. The sleep deprivation might explain it too. Whatever it was, he knew he wanted to get to know her.

The woman lifted her cup in a toast and quirked her lip in a sad smile. "Muchas gracias, Jacqui."

Jacqui waved away the courtesy. "De nada, Nadia, todo bien."

Nadia sighed. " Sí, Jacqui, todo bien." She exited the room, shoulders slumped.

Thomas' gaze followed until she disappeared. He turned back and found Jacqui smiling at him.

"She cooks at seven-o'clock — generalmente pasta. Esta noche, there is a party at another hostel and people will meet here." Her head nodded sagely. "She will go."

Thomas's heart quickened. He needed to go to that party. He needed to cook pasta at seven-o'clock. But how in the hell did one cook pasta?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bienvenido a Casa — Welcome home

Hola. Español, English o Français? — Hello. Spanish, English or French?

Colectivo — A small, collective bus/ taxi. Cheaper than a regular bus or a taxi. Technically, this term isn't used in Peru, but I decided to use it here because it's commonly used around South America and by backpackers.

Típico gringo — Typical foreigner (who is not of Hispanic or Latino origin) 

Necesitas ayuda para eso!  — You need help for that!

Muy caro — Very expensive

Sí! Mucho — Yes! Lots

No hay problema — No problem

Necesita una shower and rest — You need a shower and rest

La cocina — The kitchen

... con baño, forty-eight sol per noche — ... with a bathroom, forty-eight sols (Peruvian currency) per night

... sin baño — without a bathroom

Solo  — Only

No sexo — No sex

Todo bien —  All good

Pasaporte, por favor — Passport, please

De nada — You're welcome

Generalmente pasta — Usually pasta

Esta noche — Tonight

Image sourced from http://aimperu.blogspot.com/2011/11/limas-insane-traffic-can-order-be.html