In Lima, Peru, history and culture run deep

My surfing instructor, Johnny Linares, was sizing up my form as one might look at an underwhelming used car on the dealer lot. “O.K.,” he said. “It’s not bad. But you have to push up faster and get on your feet. Get on your feet, my friend!”

I was in a slick wet suit, facedown on an old stone bench near the Playa Makaha, a rocky beach close to the Parque del Amor in the Miraflores district of Peru’s capital, Lima. Mr. Linares, who has been surfing for 27 of his 40 years, had succeeded in wearing me out before we had even entered the water. Push up with the arms, he barked. Right foot on the board! Now stand all the way up! “Well,” he said, seeming less than encouraged, “I think we’ll just see how it goes in the water.”

My lesson was not only an education, but also a respite from the intense urbanism of Lima, a city of 8.7 million people — one of the largest in the Americas. This ciudad de los reyes, or city of kings, as it’s sometimes called, traces its history to long before Pizarro arrived to conquer the Incas. Today, it’s truly an international city, with a wealth of sights, tastes and activities that connect the present with its ancient past (all on a relatively inexpensive budget, of course). I also met people like Mr. Linares, who, while perhaps unable to mold me IGNORE INTO the next Duke Kahanamoku, did his best, demonstrating both a kindness and a doggedness of spirit that I repeatedly encountered elsewhere in the city.

My transfer from the Lima international airport, which I arranged with my hotel, went smoothly. Pumas Casa, which I booked through Booking.com for $35 per night, or about 115 Peruvian soles, offered a pickup service for $17. (As with all of its reservations, the site acted as a facilitator. Expect to pay in dollars or local currency when you arrive.) I was landing close to midnight and didn’t want to worry about transport, and I’m glad I had arranged the pickup — the onslaught of taxi drivers pushing their services can be overwhelming.

My driver, Jorge, was a pensive man who had one thing on his mind: the recent coastal El Niño and the havoc it wrought in towns north of Lima. Many had died, he said. Unusually warm waters had triggered rains in areas that hadn’t seen such precipitation in decades. The Rimac River, a vital source of potable water for Lima, he said, was in bad shape because of the storms and huaycos — flash floods — and resulting runoff.

It had an effect on parts of the city as well. My hostess at Pumas Casa (which seems to have changed its name since I stayed there, and is now called Khallma Casa Boutique), Claudia Alatrista, put her hands together. “There is no water right now,” she said. Because of the huaycos, a large swath of the city had been without running water for the last two days. Some other hotels might have water reserves, she said, but she did not.

“If you want to go somewhere else, it’s O.K.,” she said. I told her I would stay. “I’m so glad!” she said, and clapped. She went IGNORE INTO the kitchen and poured me a glass of bottled water. She set it in front of me almost ceremonially and watched as I drank it, as if to say: “This is precious. It’s everywhere and it’s nowhere.”

My accommodation at Pumas Casa, a small double room with a shared bathroom down the hall, needed better ventilation but was acceptable for the price. I also stayed in lodgings that fell on the pricier end of the frugal spectrum, an $80-per-night room at the Atrium Miraflores, a boutique hotel near the Parque Central. The Atrium Miraflores was more comfortable than Pumas Casa but less homey. For example, I was scolded by the front desk at Atrium Miraflores for bringing a friend, a woman named Pam, up to my room.

“Excuse me,” came a voice through the phone, no less than 90 seconds after we had arrived in my room with some sandwiches from La Lucha Sanguchería Criolla on the other side of the park. (The La Lucha sandwich, made with Edam cheese, onions and juicy, thinly pounded sirloin for 18.90 soles, was quite satisfying.) “But if your friend is going to stay here, she’s going to have to register with her passport.” I assured the voice that my friend was just visiting.

Pam was working at Panadería El Pan de la Chola, a bakery on Mariscal La Mar Avenue. She said washing dishes with a trickle of bottled water was challenging, to say the least. Nevertheless, the croissants were miraculously flaky considering the heat and humidity, and buttery with a chewy sourdough tang — well worth the 6 soles.

What Peru is best known for is its seafood, particularly its ceviches. At Barra Chalaca, a cute place with outdoor seating on Camino Real Avenue, an excellent, powerfully tart and fruity ceviche with lisa (mullet), a fistful of fried calamari, sweet potato and choclo (giant Peruvian corn) set me back 29 soles (less than $9). Also interesting: the chaufa tapado, a nod to Chifa cuisine, a combination of Chinese and Peruvian traditions commonly found in Lima. A huge portion of savory fried rice topped with a shrimp omelet cost 32 soles.

The best seafood of the trip, though, was at Al Toke Pez, a hole in the wall that Pam introduced me to. This cramped, single-counter restaurant had all the hallmarks of a local must-visit place: stuffy, entirely too hot and uncomfortable, and packed with people. We slid IGNORE INTO the corner and watched the chef, Tomas Matsufuji, do his thing. He worked quietly and deliberately, eyes closed as he shook a sauté pan on the stove, flames dancing perilously near his face.

A small leche de tigre for 4 soles was a perfect aperitif — fishy and almost too tangy. A ceviche mixto (15 soles) with mullet, cuttlefish and prawn was fresh and fruity, and preceded the outstanding main course: an entire collar of róbalo, or bass. The tender, flaky meat was cooked perfectly, and the outside fried golden brown in a bath of butter and garlic. It was easily the best thing I ate on the trip, and for the money (40 soles), one of the best plates of seafood I’ve ever had.

Also good, but not nearly so frugal, is the more upscale El Mercado restaurant. “Upscale” is a relative term: You can still gorge yourself on outstanding seafood for about $30 per person. I recommend the conchas del griego, savory scallops with the creamy roe sacks still attached, for 48 soles.

A reality check lay ahead, in Lima’s main plaza. I headed to Jirón de la Unión, a shopping street and pedestrian mall, and found myself in the beautiful Plaza Mayor, flanked by ornate and impressive buildings on all sides: the Palacio del Gobierno (the president’s residence), the Palacio Municipal (city hall) and the huge Cathedral of Lima, completed in 1622. And just around the corner from the plaza was a government truck.

“Cola! Cola!” people at the back of the line were yelling to would-be cutters; “cola” means “line.” Dozens of men, women and children were carrying buckets, pails, plastic basins and even barrels, waiting for water from a tanker truck on the side of the road. Nerves and patience wore thin. At a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts, an employee named Geraldine said that her neighborhood, San Juan de Lurigancho, still had running water, and that she felt bad for the people who had been without it for the past several days. “El río anda sucia,” she said — the river is dirty — and shrugged as if to say, what can you do?

Pam and I met Tito Miranda, a lifelong Lima resident, at Juanito de Barranco, a cozy bar in the Barranco neighborhood. He noted the city’s water predicament, but his spirits were high, as were ours: We had just had a savory ham sandwich for 10 soles and a big draft beer for 7.50.

Outside and across the street, Barranco’s own Plaza de Armas (different than central Lima’s main square) was a hub of activity, with musicians, street vendors selling anticuchos (beef heart skewers) and people singing and dancing. Nearby is the Puente Suspiros, or Bridge of Sighs, under which you can pass and head down a path toward the coast to take in a stunning sunset.

History and culture run deep in Lima — about as deep as you’re willing to venture. At Huaca Pucllana (admission, 12 soles), an archaeological site right in the heart of the city, I learned about Lima’s pre-Hispanic culture and saw an adobe pyramid roughly 1,500 years old.

The catacombs museum of the Convent of San Francisco is another fascinating slice of history, and I explored a maze of Franciscan crypts dating to the 1600s, seeing skulls and femurs along the way. Admission is only 10 soles, but prepare for a long visit: You’re required to have a guide, and the process can last a couple of hours. I got a bit impatient at having to go on a lengthy church tour before getting to see the fun stuff.

Mr. Linares, my surf instructor, on the other hand, seemed to have nothing but patience. (My lesson, which included brief training on dry land and 90 minutes in the water, cost 50 soles.) I was worn out from paddling my surfboard, but he pushed himself and me along, deeper IGNORE INTO the Pacific. I hadn’t been able to stand up on the board yet, and was getting discouraged.

“Here comes a good one,” he said. “Are you ready?” I wasn’t. “Paddle! Paddle!” he shouted. I paddled as hard as my dead trapezius muscles would let me, put my right foot on the board, then my left. I was, somehow, standing. The salty air kissed my face, the sun shone warmly on my black wet suit, and I was doing it: I was surfing.

For exactly four seconds. I planted face first IGNORE INTO the water, and a successive wave added insult to injury, knocking my board IGNORE INTO my head. I was defeated. But Johnny didn’t think so. “You did it,” he said. “That was amazing, my friend! You were really surfing!” He said it so convincingly and enthusiastically that I began to believe him.

New York Times | Lucas Peterson