Hoosier Prof in Peru

Where do women polish their shoes in Lima?

If you are a man walking through a park in Lima, you stand a good chance of being approached by shoe shiner. But in more than half a year in Peru, I can’t recall ever seeing a woman sitting down in a public place while her shoes were made spiffy. Do women polish their own shoes at home? Do they go to more discreet locations to have their shoes shined?

After putting on my own polish for seven months, I went to have my shoes treated by someone else for the first time, at a park near our apartment, and to find out if it’s really an equal-opportunity service they provide. The man who shined my shoes, Alberto, was very helpful. At first he told me that the shoe shine would cost 2 soles, and then when I sat down and he had untied my shoes, he said he really should use the high-end polish, which would mean the cost would be 5 soles.

Hmm. Things here often have a way of getting more expensive after the initial business deal is struck (Case in point: over the weekend I went to have my hair cut at the same barbershop to which I had gone a month ago. I remembered paying 15 soles. Today, after my buzz cut with a No. 4 trimmer, the shop manager drew up a bill for 20 soles. As soon as I said I had paid 15 last time, he quickly apologized and turned the 2 into a 1, and the 5 into a 0).

Anyway, I told Alberto that 5 would be fine as long as I could ask him a few questions. So where do women have their shoes shined in Lima? He assured me that they have their shoes buffed up in the park, just as men do. I asked him why I never see women sitting there. He said that’s because it’s summer, and most women only have their shoes shined in the winter, because now they’re walking in sandals or other light wear. Ever the alert businessman, he encouraged me to bring my wife along the next time I have my shoes shined.

He may be right, but there’s something unconvincing and too self-serving about that explanation. I think it’s time to get a second opinion — from a woman.

According to my source, a knowledgeable lifelong resident of Lima, women do not have their shoes shined in public, not even in the winter.

“I’ve never seen a woman getting her shoes shined,” the source said. “I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but it would be completely unusual. It would be like, ‘Oh, really. That’s interesting.’ “

Instead, women will shine their own shoes at home. And, while they’re at home, she said, they’ll also take care of the laundry and ironing for the family. “It’s expected that a woman will take of her husband’s clothes,” she said.

But not his shoes. By tradition, men will head to park for a bit of polish and pampering. “We have our nails done,” the source said, “and men have their shoes polished.”

One of my least favorite streets in the neighborhood is called “Pizza Alley,” a collection of restaurants that offer pretty much the same fare at the same price. Pizza is one of life’s treasures, but to walk down the street is to feel assaulted with it. Every restaurant has a salesperson with a menu in hand who tries to get you to stop and eat, even if you’re on your way to someplace else and not hungry in the least.

But on Sunday night I was grateful for Pizza Alley. Most of the restaurants have large-screen TVs, invariably tuned to fútbol games. On Sunday, they broke with tradition and put on American football. It was great. I had a seat by myself right up next to one of the biggest screens on the alley, and a few minutes after I arrived about 20 of the 23 students in the SST group happened to stop by and the waiters quickly set up a long table for them, right by the screen. Fox provided the coverage, with play-by-play in Spanish, from a Mexican affiliate; it was the first time I had seen U.S. programming in half a year.

To make things interesting, a few people in the group were cheering for the New England Patriots, but most everyone was rooting on the Giants, as the underdog team or as the team led by the only Manning in the game (we had some Indianapolis Colts fans there). For the first three quarters, it was pretty quiet.

I thought about leaving. The older I get, the less patience I have for watching teams that I like play miserably. As a kid, I suffered through summer after summer with the New York Yankees (they weren’t that good back in the 1970s), and winter after winter with the New York Giants. But then as an adult I discovered that if I turned off the TV or radio during a bleak game, I didn’t feel so bad afterward.

Even Ernie Accorsi, the former general manager for the Giants who assembled most of the team that took the field on Sunday, stopped watching earlier in the season. When the Giants were 0-2, someone came up to him and said, “Accorsi, thanks for leaving us this mess.” Calls grew louder to trade Eli Manning. He told The Times: “I felt so responsible for what he went through, because I’m the guy who put him in that situation. And all the booing. It got to a point where I couldn’t even watch it anymore.” But the Giants talked him into attending the Super Bowl.

With 2 minutes 39 seconds left in the game, the Giants were down 14-10, the ball on the 17. The Goshen group went wild as the Giants moved the down downfield, especially that one play where Manning broke free from a couple of pass rushers and tossed the ball 32 yards to receiver David Tyree, who had to wedge the ball against his helmet as he fell backward. Wow. It was nice to have so many students to celebrate the victory with — high-fives all around. After the game I was so excited that I forget to take along my leather satchel (I went back an hour later and the waiter, with a smile, pulled it out from behind a counter).

Most of our SST days are pretty serious: lectures, language classes, visiting museums and so forth. Yesterday, though, we took a ride on a yacht for an unforgettable presentation. We passed the islands of San Lorenzo, which was once covered with guano (bird droppings prized in Europe as a fertilizer), and El Frontón, site of a former prison. More than an hour outside of Callao, we reached Islas Palomino, the Palomino Islands, where sea lions rule.

From a distance, you might miss that fact that the rocky coast is covered with sea lions, since they blend in so well. Drawing closer, you can see that there are hundreds, if not thousands, all in blubbery motion: heads bobbing, flappers waving, bodies gliding in and out of the water. The most otherworldly element in the scene was their bark, which at times sounded sad and mournful, and at other times sharp and watchful.

It was time to get closer. With lifejackets on, we jumped into the ocean, like one colorful cork after the other, and started swimming toward the shore (all 23 students lept in). The cold was a shock to the system, at least to mine; I had trouble focusing for the first minute. Our lead guide, a trained lifeguard, assured us that attacks on humans are exceedingly rare, but he cautioned us not to try to touch one of the animals. It was still unnerving to swim toward the island, knowing that we were approaching their territory. But they were nice enough, keeping their distance, and we kept ours. We bobbed for a while, feeling an exhiliration in being so close to a wild habitat. Back on the boat, they served us tea and chips and Inca Kola. Back in Callao, the towels and blankets still felt good.