Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [36]
Lima was sweltering when we landed. It was summer in South America, far warmer than it had been in Guatemala. As we boarded buses, TCS handed out bottles of water, and introduced the local tour guides, who would speak to us about the culture and history of the places we visited. We were also given a radio and earpiece, which we turned to the same frequency as our guide. Thus, even up to a hundred feet away, we could always hear what was going on.
The central plaza was crowded when we arrived. It was one of the few open areas in the center of the city, colonial in design, and crisscrossed with curving sidewalks lined with freshly planted flowers. Kids played games in the grass and played in the fountains, trying to keep cool in the summer heat. Others did their best to sell us souvenirs, and crowded around our group the moment we stepped off the bus.
We took photographs of both the Presidential Palace and the cathedral where Francisco Pizarro was buried. Pizarro, I knew, was one in a long line of historical figures whose reputation largely depends on perspective; while known in Spain as an explorer, he had also captured Atahualpa, the leader of the Incas. When he demanded and received as ransom a roomful of gold for his release, he promptly executed the king anyway before enslaving the natives. I couldn’t help but wonder what the descendants of the Incas thought about his church-sanctioned burial place.
From there, we made our way to Casa Aliaga, which was located just off the main plaza. Literally, “Aliaga’s House,” it was one of the most striking examples of early Spanish architecture in the city, yet from the outside it blended into the other structures on the block. Unless you knew it was there, a person could walk by without noticing it.
Beyond the doors, however, was a home that boggled the mind.
Casa Aliaga has been owned by the Aliaga family for over four hundred years, and is still occupied by the Aliagas today. Designed in typical hacienda fashion, rooms surround an open courtyard, complete with a hundred-foot-tall fig tree stretching to the sky. It is also home to one of the finest art collections in South America. Because the house is so large and expensive to maintain, the Aliagas open the house to tourists, and Micah and I wandered through with wide eyes. Everything, with the exception of the plaster walls—the banisters, door frames, crown moldings, and railings—had been intricately carved, and paintings covered every available wall space. The furniture, mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was so ornate that it was impossible for us to bring our cameras into focus.
As we were walking through the house, Micah finally turned to me.
“Can you believe this place?”
“No. That tree . . . well, everything really . . . it’s incredible.”
“I’ll bet you’re getting some good ideas for the next time you remodel, huh?”
I laughed. “I have to admit that it would be nice to have paintings of famous ancestors.”
“You mean if we had any.”
“Exactly. While the Aliaga family was building this place, our ancestors were probably putting shoes on horses and working the farm.”
He nodded and looked around. Our group had dispersed throughout various rooms in the house.
“Be honest though—would you want to live here?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s . . . unbelievable, but it’s not really my style. And the upkeep must keep the owners awake at night.”
“I know what you mean. I mean, can you imagine how long it takes to dust this place? Christine would die.”
The TCS crew began herding us together, counting heads, and making