Trujillo is balmy palm trees and white-gray skies. I sip 7-up from a glass bottle with a straw and take a sweaty nap in my hostel with my hiking boots on.
Too many men are cat-calling, telling me hallo in heavily accented English, buenas dias chica linda. The tour guide who tells me all about my options kisses me too close to my mouth.
If I have to see another Plaza de Armas (main square) I might puke. If I have to eat in another menu I might puke. And the next dude to whistle at me is getting punched in the nose.
The End.
P.S. The cutest seven year old in the world (dark lashes, black plastic wrist watch, cowlick, sober expression) is playing Grand Theft Auto in the internet cabin next to mine and it is slowly, but surely, breaking my heart.
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