Permission
Life in Arequipa, Peru feels simple. In the city’s historic center—a UNESCO World Heritage Site—white colonial buildings glow against the Andean light, their iron balconies twisting into delicate patterns above cobblestone streets. Families fill the plazas and walkways—children chasing pigeons, grandparents resting on benches in the shade. The people seem content with the uncomplicated—no Apple Watches, no fancy handbags. Their clothes are modest, their smiles unhurried. They savor the little things: ice cream at any hour of day, gathering in the Plaza de Armas to sit in the sun, lingering over late lunches that stretch easily into afternoon.
When I arrived, the city was alive with celebration. October in Peru is Mes Morado—the Purple Month—when priests and worshippers honor the Lord of Miracles. On that Saturday afternoon, they spilled out into the historic core, their violet robes bright against the white buildings, fireworks echoing through the streets. Even in daylight, the loud flash-bangs sent birds scattering from the trees in the plaza and the rooftops above—a soundtrack of devotion and disruption that carried through the city.
I’m amazed by the street food—chocolate-dipped apples, churros, other sweet and savory things I can’t even name. I’d been advised to stay away from street food in Peru, so I didn’t experiment much this time. But one thing did intrigue me: queso helado. Despite its name, there’s no cheese involved—it’s made from milk and cinnamon, with a slightly grainy texture that just looks like cheese. Apparently, it’s an Arequipa specialty, so I may not see it again once I leave. Should I take the leap? And as for the local delicacy of guinea pig—that might just be a story for another day.
And then there’s what I call the alpaca lady. At first I thought she was everywhere—how could she appear so quickly, in front of me again and again? Until I realized there were at least three. Each dressed in traditional garb, leading an adult alpaca on a leash and usually carrying a baby goat in her arms. Ready to sell you a handful of alfalfa to feed them—and, of course, to pose for a photo. I was tempted, naturally.
One of the alpaca ladies — Arequipa, Peru
Of course there are the tourist trappings—the shops selling excursions to Colca Canyon, Machu Picchu, Cusco, and everywhere in between. Arequipa is usually the stop before or after Machu Picchu. I had planned to visit Colca Canyon, too, until I started reading the reviews. So many people mentioned the same thing—a 3 a.m. start, a 12-hour day full of stops, constantly getting on and off the bus, and by the end, a level of exhaustion that made it hard to appreciate what they’d come to see. I could already feel that kind of fatigue creeping in, the same one that dulls presence. I’d already seen incredible canyons in Atacama and green valleys in Patagonia. I wasn’t feeling any real pull to go. That told me all I needed to know.
So I chose differently. Arequipa became my pause—a weekend to rest, to wander slowly, to catch up on the small rituals that keep life steady. Maybe this was Slow It Down: Part II. A reminder that it’s okay to do nothing. That rest, too, is part of the journey.
I realized, though, how much I still seek a sort of permission. There’s a lingering fear of being judged—for doing less, for wasting time, for being silly or lazy or indulgent. Old perfectionism dressed in new clothes. But when I thought of waking before dawn for another bus, I felt no spark of excitement. My gut stayed quiet. That quiet was my answer. Silencio. Of course, curiosity eventually nudged me back out. Old habits die hard—I did, after all, Google “what to do in Arequipa if you only have one day.” And that’s how I found myself at the Monasterio de Santa Catalina.
What first caught my attention was that it’s still an active monastery. Inside, the architecture stopped me in my tracks—bold mud-brick walls painted in vivid red-orange and cobalt blue, their curves and angles catching the light in unexpected ways. Coming off the riot of color in Valparaíso, I was surprised by how peaceful this palette felt—vibrant yet simple, like clean design rendered in stone.
Despite the “Silencio” sign at the entrance, tourists filled the courtyards with chatter. Yet the farther I wandered, the quieter it became. The air warmed; sunlight drifted across archways and stone walkways, and rows of terracotta pots lined the paths, each filled with red flowers bright against the walls. A small community of nuns still lives here, continuing a rhythm of quiet devotion that has carried through centuries—soft footsteps, hushed greetings, an unbroken thread of peace echoing through the walls.
Eventually, I left that silence for another kind. I went to see Juanita.
In 1995, explorers unearthed the remarkably preserved remains of a 13-year-old girl, sacrificed as part of an Inca ritual centuries ago. Her discovery—and that of other children like her—is now preserved in the Museo Santuarios Andinos at the Universidad Católica de Santa María. The guided tour explained what was found alongside them, what DNA analysis revealed, and what their stories continue to teach us about Inca life and belief.
I admit I’m drawn to history in its tangible form—the actual things left behind. I wanted to meet Juanita myself. But only a replica is displayed; the real Juanita lies behind the wall, protected in a temperature-controlled space. Still, standing there, I could feel her presence.
Our guide explained that such sacrifices were considered an honor, chosen for the good of the community. Yet I couldn’t help wondering—did these children have a choice? Did they truly believe this was their destiny, or were they afraid? What does it mean to surrender to an expectation you never questioned—to give your life to what society asks of you?
As I stepped back into the sunlight, the air felt heavy. I kept thinking about those children—how their destiny wasn’t really theirs to choose. And yet, maybe they still had some choice. Maybe not in what happened to them, but in how they saw it—a sacrifice for the greater good instead of something to fear. My therapist always reminds me that even when we can’t control our circumstances, we can still choose how we see them. It’s not always easy, and it’s often unfair, but perspective is a kind of power. Maybe that’s what I was relearning here, too—that choice doesn’t always mean freedom; sometimes it’s simply how we decide to see the world.
So what did Slow It Down: Part II teach me? That sometimes doing less allows you to see more.
By not forcing myself to chase the must-sees, I found my own way of seeing. I wandered Arequipa’s streets, lingered in the monastery’s shadows, joined an evening cathedral tour—moments that felt calm and enough. My photos reflect that shift: doorways, shadows, flowers, walls, faces. Details instead of vistas.
Maybe that’s what this whole journey is—learning to notice what’s already there, and trusting that when I follow what feels right, the path continues to illuminate itself.
Follow my journey on Instagram @odiseabyemmy. For more photography, visit Emmy Photography.