It's raining outside, cold, dark, and it doesn't seem to want to let up. In the past 6 months I've fractured both my feet, gotten 2nd degree burns on my left hand from butternut squash soup, and managed to build the seeds of hatred in most of the men who have gone out with me. All and all, a pretty awesome 6 months.
Last night I felt melancholic for the Peruvian-ness in me. I don't know how to convey this. It started when I was walking down Manhattan Avenue, and the mixture of humidity and sweetness reminded me of the suburbs I come from in Lima. Unfortunately, two seconds later, I had a whiff of something funky and I was brought back to reality. I won't tell you what exactly that smell was, but I'm sure it was human in nature.
When I go back to Peru, it takes less than 24 hours to rinse the American off of me. Just putting on old records, and having a nap on the sofa in front of the satin curtains, looking at the avocado tree in the garden, seeing the same little birds chirp, the ones with the different colored chests. Where house guests, while always unexpected, always make you happy and have stories to tell. Cafecito, con tamalitos, con pan, con con con. Always something to offer. I feel my smile is different, it's fuller, it's pure, it's isolated from the past. My voice, my accent comes back, the friendly up-and-down tones that sing to you.
I think the part I miss the most is going up to the roof of my grandpa's house, where I can see all of San Miguel: the church my family helped build, the water tower, the palm trees. The sun going down, and down, turning everything tan and beautiful, like old pictures one keeps in drawers. I kneel down, next to my old fuzzy dog with two extra ears (but the neighborhood kids love him all the same), and watch the sun set, as I put my arm over man's best friend, and feel the sandy dust coat my calves, and the wind picks up, and the lights go on, and the church doors open.
I don't know how I got to this point, but here I am. Writing.
