5:00AM rolls around far too quickly as we peel our bodies out of bed, straining to open our lead-laden eyelids, as we make our way to the only train to Machu Picchu. Panting its way up the side of the mountain, the train dodges flavellas, dogs, and gangs of kids throwing rocks. Watching my breath, I survey the interior of our car for any signs of heating vents that might make our breath invisible once more. As if our train found a hidden donkey trail, we slowly traverse the side of the mountain, slinking forwards and backwards with a grace too delicate for this lumbering, clacking machine. Oddly enough, musak plays ceaselessly from groups of holes in the ceiling posing as speakers until we pass over the mountains and onto the frost covered countryside.
