Our flight home leaves at midnight. But we’re in denial. It’s only noon, and it’s a beautiful day in Lima - hot, sunny, humid. Cindy, Aa and I are in a cab on our way to our last ceviche. We’re pretty sure it’s going to be the best ceviche so far too. One reason for our confidence is that Rafael’s dad immediately knew about the restaurant when Aa and Cindy mentioned it to him yesterday. He pulled a business card out of somewhere for the place, and that card is what we’re using as our beacon. But even with the little map on the back of the card, our cab driver can’t find it. Not that it's a terrible ride. The driver’s really funny and a good storyteller. We speed down the road next to beach, making each other laugh. After circling where the restaurant is supposed to be, our cab driver stops and asks a guy pedaling a little jungle taxi where to find it. The jungle cabbie directs our guy, who is so happy to get better directions he yells a Spanish slang word that is the equivalent of “Fucking awesome!”. Cindy starts clapping and laughing – she’s only ever heard and used “awesome”, but not “fucking awesome”. Ten minutes later, we’re happily in the restaurant, ordering beers. We’re awesome, we tell each other in Spanish. But the cab driver? That guy was fucking awesome.