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By Root 454 0

have any mules. They shrugged their shoulders and walked back to school. When I turned to find out what Justo and Edgar were up to, I saw that perhaps a dozen mules had arrived and were consuming whatever small islands of weedy vegetation remained on the soccer field. The logo of a luxury travel outfitter whose all-inclusive trips I’d checked out online was emblazoned on their gear bags. The tents their muleteers were setting up next to the general store looked like they’d been bleached, starched and ironed. A distinctly American voice, the first I’d heard in weeks, drifted toward me:

“Offer them fifteen-five. You’re authorized to go to seventeen.”

I had overheard enough self-important financial conversations in Manhattan to know what to expect as I walked up the small hill that led back from the school yard. And sure enough, there he was: Mr. Super Deluxe Travel Guy. I recognized his boots as the most expensive kind available; the sales assistant at an outdoorsy shop near my home had recommended I buy them only if I were trying to summit Mount Everest. Solo. Without supplemental oxygen. The American was shouting into a cell phone as he walked around trying to find the spot with the strongest reception.

“What? Can you hear me? I’m in the middle of bumfuck Per-ROO! I may not be able to get a good signal until tomorrow.” He turned to look for his guide. “Antonio! Do they have cell phone service at Machu Picchu?”

“Claro! Of course! Like a crystal!”

Mr. Super Deluxe Travel Guy breathed deeply like he’d taken a hit from his asthma inhaler. “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as we get off the bus to Machu Picchu.”

Sitting cross-legged on a rock off to the side was a slim, pretty woman with a ponytail. Her nose was buried in a book. The book happened to have been written by someone I knew, so I asked if she was enjoying it. When she said that she was, I introduced myself and told her a very embarrassing story about the author. She laughed and invited me to sit down. Her name was Katie.

“Any idea what they’re doing up there?” she asked, pointing up at the men lighting the vegetation afire.

“I think they’ve run out of land to plant on. My friend told me that the easiest way to clear the brush off these mountains is to burn it and hope it doesn’t get out of control.”

“Seems a shame,” she said. “It’s so beautiful here, everything is so green. When it’s not on fire, that is. Have you been to Machu Picchu yet?”

“I think we’re going day after tomorrow. You?”

“We’re going tomorrow. I can’t wait. Jason and I have been talking about doing this since we were in college.” Katie glanced at her husband, who was devouring a PowerBar and shouting a string of numbers into his phone as he continued to pace like a Buckingham Palace guard. “I swear I’ve had a Post-it that says ‘go to Machu Picchu’ stuck to my computer screen for about a million years. And finally, we’re here. Did you go to Choquequirao? Isn’t it incredible? I love it here. Of course he’s going crazy because he can’t get Yankee scores or real-time commodities prices.”

“I haven’t been online for a few weeks,” I said. “Have I missed anything?”

“I doubt it. We stopped to check e-mail in Santa Teresa. The biggest news story was about some kid who flew into space holding on to a balloon or something. Except maybe his parents made the whole thing up? It was kind of convoluted.”

After weeks of conversations that had centered on rocks and mules and bowel movements and the occasional tendency of mules to have rocklike bowel movements, a few minutes of urbane adult chitchat felt like slipping into a hot bath with the Sunday New York Times. Katie and I talked about books in which no one freezes to death or falls into a crevasse. We talked about countries we had both visited, and restaurants we had both eaten at, and movies that she had seen and that I hoped to watch someday when my children left for college and I was again able to stay up past eight-thirty at night.

“Hey,” Katie said, “we usually have cocktails before dinner, after we wash up. I’m not sure if I’m authorized