1. It doesn’t matter how packed the bus is—there’s always room for one more. And by “room,” we mean theoretical possibility, not actual space.

2. Don’t expect to sit. Those seats are reserved for people who boarded in 1983.

3. Personal space? That’s now negative space. You’ll be closer to strangers than you’ve ever been to your therapist.

4. Take a wide stance—sumo style—and grab something stable (ideally a handlebar, not a person).

5. Have your 1 sol ready before boarding. You might not be able to find your pocket while pressed against your new four best friends.

6. Flex your knees to absorb the lurch when the bus driver speeds as close as possible to the car in front, then stops.

7. If you do get a seat, congratulations! Don’t be alarmed at the pelvises thrust against your head. It’s a new social reality. Don’t take it personally. You’re really not their type.

8. Yell ‘Baja!’ before your stop otherwise the driver will not.

9. When it’s time to exit, channel your inner salmon. Wedge yourself through your new best friends (whom you will never see again), push for the exit doors (front or back) like a landed fish gasping for the open water and sweet, sweet freedom.

10. Hurl your 1 sol into the assistant’s hand as they shout at you to hurry—while 15 new passengers climb aboard using you as a ladder.

Bonus Tip: You’re free! And possibly very lost. Because you have no idea what stop this is, and you’re now 8-blocks away from home. Enjoy the walk. You’ve earned it.

Most of my life, I’ve heard about fasting—abstaining from food or water for a time. The goal is to become more sensitive to the voice of God through the Spirit.

I’ve never been very good at fasting. In my younger days, when my body could do without, I lacked the discipline. Now I’m older and daily medications limit my ability to go without food. (Take this pill with food….)

Did you know that there are more than 19 different named fasts in religions around the world? There’s Lent in the Catholic tradition, Yom Kippur in Judaism, and Ramadan in Islam. The Daniel Fast is one used by churches of various denominations. It’s not just abstaining from food completely. Many of the fasts are about striking selective foods from your diet for a specific time. I was taught that when you crave a certain food during a fast you’re supposed to turn attention toward God with a prayer or scripture reading.

I learned later to broaden my definition of a fast. It might be food, but it could be media or TV or your favorite social app. (Not looking at you, Facebook!) Let me introduce you to the idea of a cultural fast.

I didn’t come to Peru looking for a “cultural fast,” but it found me. Somewhere between the altitude and the Andes, between my broken Spanish (but improving!) and the shrill sound of flutes in parallel fifths and fourths echoing through Cusco’s stone streets in daily parades—a sound both ancient and dissonant to Western ears—I realized: I had stepped outside my culture. And more than that, I had stepped away from my self as I normally know it.

In Mississippi, I am saturated. Saturated with sound, media, notifications, and the inertia of my own routines. I swim in a culture that prizes speed, productivity, updates, cleverness, and convenience. Even faith, in that context, can become another form of performance.

But here, in this old city of Inca deities and Catholic saints, I feel the absence of that culture. And in that absence, I begin to see priorities in a different light.

This sabbatical isn’t just a break from work. It’s a fast—a willing abstention from the cultural diet I’ve grown used to. Vacations are meant to be relaxing getaways from your normal routine. A sabbatical is much more intense. You’re away for a longer time. It takes a week just to adjust, to get through the jet lag of travel and waiting in airports. It takes a week to learn your way around the public transit system. It takes a week to become acclimated to a new routine.

The second week, you’re still a tourist. You’re still on vacation in a way. Your native culture hangs around your neck like a signpost to the locals. But by the end of the second week, something changes. I have a favorite little store around the corner for some fruit and snacks. (They have Cheetos here!) I have a market within a slow walking distance that has the most marvelous variety of potatoes. There’s a café across the street from the language school that sells the best fresh roasted coffee.

By the end of the second week, I’m over the rush of travel and tourism. I can stop and listen.

Like the psalmist wrote,

“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

Stillness is hard to find in my ‘normal’ everyday life. But here, when you're removed from your native rhythms, your priorities are unmasked.

Being in a different culture brings a mirror up for you to observe yourself with a more objective eye. Seeing myself reflected in a new culture shows my blind spots, shows the things I take for granted, shows things that I thought were important, but perhaps should never have been.

And maybe that’s the truest purpose of a sabbatical—not escape, but recalibration. To be disoriented just enough that we re-learn how to walk with intention. Like the apostle Paul, I want to

“not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of [my] mind.” (Romans 12:2)

This fast is helping me find that renewal.

Back home, I know the algorithms will still be there. So will the emails, the pace, the performance. But I hope I return not just rested—but changed. Leaner in distraction. Richer in clarity. Anchored in something deeper.

“Incline my heart to your testimonies, and not to selfish gain.
Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things;
and give me life in your ways.”
—Psalm 119:36–37

I may not be very good at fasting from food, but this cultural fast is kicking in high gear.

This may be the most unique celebration of Corpus Christi in the world. Here, the population blends Incan music, food, and costumes with a deeply Catholic procession celebrating the Body and Blood of Jesus at the Last Supper. The parade of saints and virgins lasts for hours, winding its way through packed streets and a cloud of incense and color.

The special meal of the day is Chiri Uchu. It’s hard to describe. Imagine half a guinea pig (cui), a giant chicken leg, cheese, a kind of bread that tastes like a cross between sweet cornbread and hushpuppies, roasted corn kernels, seaweed, fish roe, and a few other things. It’s served cold, piled high on a plate, and eaten with your hands. Wham—you’ve stepped into an 800-year-old Incan tradition.

I won’t comment on the deliciousness of the plate. Some things depend on how you were raised. My Spanish teacher, for example, was appalled to learn we eat fried catfish (bagre frito) in Mississippi. I guess we’re even.

This is the most immersed I’ve ever been in Catholic traditions. Cusco is a spiritual crossroads: ancient Incan roots, Spanish Catholicism, and a relatively new wave of Protestantism.

When I met one of my teachers, I introduced myself as a professor and a Pastor of Music. She asked, “Catholic or Christian?”

The question surprised me.

Later, I asked her more about it. I clarified that I’m Baptist. She clarified that she wasn’t implying Catholics aren’t Christians—or that I was something else entirely. It was, admittedly, a bit confusing.

Protestants of all kinds make up only about 14% of the Cusco region. The earliest Protestant missionaries arrived in the early 19th century, and while they planted some congregations, today there are only a handful of small Baptist churches. Most of that 14%? Pentecostal.

As I reflect on the history here—the Spanish colonization, the growth of Christianity in its many forms—I’m reminded that God is bigger than any denomination.

When Baptists first came to Cusco, they were marginalized and even threatened by the Catholic establishment. And yet, when any group claims to hold all the answers, perhaps it’s leaving out the mystery of God’s infinite love.

Paul writes in Romans 8:

For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Doesn’t that speak to the greater mystery of God’s love?

Later, my teacher Martha told me it’s a heart issue for her. “Jesus lives in me,” she said.
As a good Baptist, that sounded just right to me.
We found common ground—not in a building, but in a Person.

The sun is hot, but I’m seated comfortably on a plush stool at a small table, squeezed into a shady corner. Today is another desfile—a parade. These people love their public parties! But it is June, a month of many celebrations. Judging by the packed stadium seating erected just for the day, not many others are in church either.

The sunlight at this altitude is no joke. Though it’s only 63°F, it feels more like 90° on a beach in full sun. I notice many people in hats, but very few wearing sunglasses. The entrepreneur in me imagines a sidewalk stall selling shades in colors to match the brilliant costumes in the parade.

The Pope and the Potato

Today’s main attraction is a parade of floats from various university art departments. My hometown of Starkville could take a few lessons in creative float design.

My favorite? A float that interpreted the new pope. He has dual citizenship with both the United States and Peru and is beloved in Cusco, a predominantly Catholic city. Across the world, the pope is lovingly called Papa—meaning “father”—but papa also means “potato” in Spanish.

So what did they do?

They built a “pope mobile” float featuring a giant potato as the pope, complete with a papal mitre.

Above: A papal float in Cusco’s university parade features a giant “papa” (potato) crowned with a mitre—a clever nod to both the Pope and the Spanish word for potato.

Creative. Hilarious. So Cusco.

Streets Alive with Motion and Color

Despite its ancient roots, Cusco today is anything but sleepy. It’s a city alive with motion, sound, and striking contrasts.

The streets around the Plaza are a constant buzz of activity: taxis dart between buses, horns blare, and pedestrians weave through tight gaps. Cars and people share the narrow cobblestone roads in a kind of organized chaos.

And the people—a wonderful mix of generations. Grandparents walk with grandchildren and great-grandchildren tagging along. So many are young, bright-eyed, and vibrant. Students in uniform—black trousers, black shoes, pale shirts—add their own flair with vivid ponchos draped over their shoulders. They look like blossoms balanced atop tall stems, their colors a striking contrast against their beautiful brown skin and black hair.

Shops line every corner of the plaza, except where the imposing Basilica stands. Each shop offers a glimpse into local culture. Down the side streets, upscale boutiques cater to tourists, but I skip one candy shop when I remember a cheaper one just a block away. Alpaca wool is everywhere—vivid reds, oranges, and blues for locals; muted tones for travelers hoping to bring home a piece of Peru.

A Few Steps, A Small Everest

I’m here for language school—at a place called Máximo Nivel. Getting there requires a crowded bus ride and, once off, just a few steps and a few stairs. But at over 11,000 feet above sea level, those stairs feel like a small Everest.

I find myself winded, plodding up like the old man at the beach trying to hold in his stomach while the flat-bellied locals breeze past. Still, my bald head and grey beard seem to earn a little respect.

Even in the shortness of breath, there’s a fullness to the experience.

Modern Cusco is vibrant, challenging, and alive—just like the people who call it home.

The city of Cusco is ancient—its origins stretch back more than 3,000 years. It’s one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in South America, and its bones still show. Like an archaeological dig, you can see the strata: original Incan walls at the base, topped by the Spanish colonists’ rougher stonework, and finally capped with today’s mix of brick, mortar, and steel.

Even now, massive stones carved by Incan hands around 1200 AD remain perfectly fitted together, without mortar. These walls have withstood centuries of earthquakes, colonial conquest, and modernization. Their craftsmanship feels like a quiet defiance—solid, intentional, enduring.

On a street called Siete Culebras—“Seven Snakes”—you’ll find, at one unassuming corner, seven serpents carved into the stone. Their shapes slither subtly across the masonry. It’s not a museum exhibit; it’s part of the living skeleton of a city still in motion. Urban planning here wasn’t just functional—it was symbolic, spiritual, and artistic. From the planners of 800 years ago to today’s GPS systems, the street names endure.

Cusco’s past is also embedded in its street life. Along the narrow cobblestone alleys—some with sidewalks barely wide enough for one person—shopkeepers peer out from open doorways. One store sells modern pharmaceuticals, the next bursts with alpaca wool garments. Another offers paintings inspired by the surrounding landscape; the next hawks plastic trinkets and bottled water. The layering of centuries happens block by block, breath by breath.

The Spanish left their mark with cathedrals, plazas, balconies, and baroque facades—but indigenous identity is far from buried. In the heart of the city, in the Plaza de Armas, teams of dancers in traditional Quechuan attire perform just outside the great cathedral. Its doors are closed, but the celebration is alive. Culture doesn’t need a permit to survive.

Today, I met a man who spoke almost entirely in Quechua—the ancient language of the Andes. His words, though unfamiliar, carried something deeper: a cultural memory still very much alive.

In Cusco, the stones speak. And if you’re still enough, you can hear them.

As I flew in from Lima, I kept my eyes peeled, gazing out the window at the majesty of the landscape. Almost immediately, we were above the clouds, soaring over the Andes. At times, jagged mountain peaks punched through the cloud layer like pods of whales breaking the surface of the sea.

The land seemed barren, inhospitable — but here and there, life appeared in tiny villages perched on the edge of valleys. How could this place sustain a city like Cusco, a city with over 350,000 people?

We landed in Cusco just at sunset. The plane circled wide, offering a view of both the rising full moon and the setting sun. We dipped between mountain peaks on the final descent into this stunning, wide valley — a city suspended at more than 11,000 feet above sea level.

This Mississippi boy felt the difference immediately.
Walking up a flight of stairs took longer.
Changing dollars to soles required hiking (uphill both ways, of course).
My breath came shorter. My steps, slower.

But the Andes — massive, ancient, and glowing with life — welcomed me, along with its people.

I woke this morning at 6 a.m. and finally felt grounded after days of travel. Time had returned. I woke in a new bed, with a new host family, unfamiliar foods, and unfamiliar rhythms.

The threshold season — the liminal journey — is over.
Now, the adventure begins.

My host, an amiable retiree, cooks breakfast and dinner. I do the dishes. This morning: a banana smoothie made with homemade yogurt. He and his wife have been hosting international students for years. His English is broken. My Spanish is worse. But he communicates with food and hospitality — like any good Southerner would.

For now, it’s all about the language.

Remembering things I forgot.
Learning words I never knew.
Listening more than I speak.
Guessing more than I understand.

But slowly, I’ll learn.

The air is thinner here, but the experience is thick with newness. And I know I’ll learn more than Spanish — I’ll learn their food, their customs, their stories, and how they see the world.

The journey continues — but now, it has a pulse.

Waiting space. Shadowed space. The in-between.

I sit in layover. I ate dinner at 1 a.m. on the red-eye from Atlanta to Lima. Around me, people drift — coming and going in singles and family groups. Language lines are blurred. No one cares where you started; now you’re part of the shifting tribes that wait in line, follow unfamiliar signs to gates unknown, and flash passports a dozen times.

Is it lunchtime? Who knows. Eat when you want.

A Korean family sits next to me for a while. Their shared language is incomprehensible to me, but their shared laughter connects us. I nap. The lines blur again as a husband and wife argue (a bit too loudly) in Spanish next to me. I’m learning a few new words.

For me, this liminal space represents a threshold — a passage to something new. I’m on my way to a four-week sabbatical in Cusco. I’m one airport away from the high altitude of the Andes. One airport away from language school, cultural immersion, and inevitable mistakes. A journey of learning. A journey of self-discovery.

I left Mississippi on Sunday. I’ll arrive in Cusco on Monday. But everything in between blurs like wet ink. The journey has begun, but the destination hasn’t yet arrived. I’m moving, but not arriving. Waiting in motion.

In anthropology, a liminal space is the threshold phase in a rite of passage — the moment when a person is no longer who they were, but not yet who they will become. The middle ground between identity and transformation.

The awkward part.
The holy part.

And there is something holy about sabbatical. (Does that word come from Sabbath — the day of rest?) I’ve stepped out of a season of overfull calendars, staff meetings, and countless rehearsals. I’ve left the comfort of roles I know well — musician, pastor, teacher, conductor — to become, for a little while, a student again. A stranger. A beginner.

Another liminal space in the Christian tradition is the wilderness. Forty days for Jesus. Forty years for Israel. These aren’t vacations. They’re not even respites from normal life. They are crucibles where transformation can happen — sometimes in big ways, sometimes in quiet, unnoticed ones. But it’s in the waiting and the wandering that something new is born.

So I’m paying attention, even in the layovers.
I’m eager to get to Cusco, but there’s something sacred in watching and listening.

It’s amazing how many people will have loud, private conversations on their cell phones in very public places. Half the story is all I get — and it’s often the most dramatic half. What a strange, human symphony.

Maybe the layover isn’t just a place to wait. Maybe it’s a place to learn to wait. A place to listen. A place to let go.

I’m not in control here. The airlines are steering my path today. But maybe that’s part of the invitation. Maybe the sacred isn’t only found in Cusco’s ancient walls or the ruins of Machu Picchu.

Maybe it’s found right here — in the threshold.
In the waiting room.
In the layover.