The Inca-berry-slathered alpaca filet on my plate and the narcotic coca leaves in my teacup can only mean one thing: I'm in Cusco. Sitting cross-legged on a llama pelt at the Blue Alpaca cafe. The steep cobblestone lane outside has Quechua women in bowler hats coming in for the market while tourists head out for nearby Machu Picchu. This recalls local history.
