The streets of Lima are a never ending flood of buses, combis, empty taxis and trucks painted in yellow, black and red. They honk past the 5 different tiendas selling the same foods: lomo saltado, chicha morada, or, if it's breakfast time, quaker (pronounced huakar - very runny Quaker Oats.) The women of Lima teeter across eight lanes of traffic in platform heels and men sell ice team from styrofoam coolers, weaving between idling vehicles. Dogs sleep in the median, or die in the median, it's hard to tell. Meanwhile, at the Maracón, couples kiss and fondle explicitly and publicly, chicos race on long boards and soccer moms gossip while their hijos play. A street cleaner braces her back as she bends yet again to brush minor blemishes from the sidewalk. This is Miraflores, after all, one of the wealthiest districts in the sprawling, and still growing, city of Lima. A woman directs her Gardner about her pristine front lawn. A homeless woman on avenida Angamos lies asleep, or dead, on her trash mattress.