You never realize how boring you are until you talk to a man who falls asleep mid-sentence.

I had squat down on the bare wood floor of my hostal room, sorting smells amongst my clothes into two piles: one pile for those whose smell was not immediately noticeable and/or I could wear inside out. A separate pile, accumulating much further from my nose, in which consisted clothes that could have been used to bait scavengers.

Having completed the division, I ventured down two flights of stairs to the lobby to inquire about whether or not the hostal had a laundry service. None of the lights had been turned on even though large shadows darkened much of the room creating the illusion of dusk and three in the afternoon. I found the front desk empty but continued around its side to where it hid a dark blue flowered couch. There I found one of the men I had often seen leaning tiredly and supporting his weight in his folded arms as he stood behind the greeting desk. He was sitting with legs crossed in the obscured light with a fleece lined jacket warming him from the shadowed cool.

"Buenas tardes," (good afternoon) I offered. He greeted me with the same. I asked if I could get my clothes washed there at the hostal. He mumbled something about them not being ready until tomorrow, and I said that would not be a problem at all. His focus on me seemed to wane and his eyes struck the ceiling. He gave an air of ennui as his voice trailed off as he tried to ask me when I would need them by.

I started to tell him that I would be heading out on a two day trip on Lake Titicaca, and, being that it was Friday, I wouldn`t need them until Sunday evening. Halfway through my answer to his question his head listed to his right, then back, finally coming to a rest bent forward with his chin hanging heavy on his chest. His eyes fluttered and rolled shut, and it was my turn for my voice to mumble imperceptibly. I stood looking at the seemingly and unexpectedly unconscious person sitting in front of me. I waited to see if he was just resting between fatiguing bouts of conversation. I held my breath, not wanting to disturb his concentration, and hoping he would remember I was there.

A few moments passed, he slouched over with his chest supporting his chin, and I stared blankly at the unconscious man, wondering what to do.

For a moment I was genuinely worried. He didn`t look terribly old, but he could have easily been in his fifties. Did he have a heart problem? Was he dying right before me? Did I need to call somebody? Should I attempt my six year old CPR training? Maybe I should just check for a pulse. I leaned almost imperceptibly closer to the man and focused on his chest. It slowly rose and fell with the air he was taking in on his own. I straightened back up, smiling an uncomfortably thin smile. He had fallen asleep.

I was ignorant as to whether he was narcoleptic or an extremely hard worker who made it a habit of neglecting sleep. Either way I tiptoed back up the stairs, careful not to wake him, lest we have to go through that eerie waking sleep conversation again, and returned to my room to write this. As far as I know he`s still down there, lost in the folds of his jacket and enjoying the cushion of the sofa, as he continues his dream where a young foreign kid asks him if there is somewhere he can do his laundry.

Puno, Peru