Lima

My room was sunny this morning, and I woke late to the music coming through the window. Looking outside, I saw that someone had parked along the street outside of the house, and he was sipping beer and making a telephone call. I settled back into bed, classes finished yesterday. I've read a few books, but I regret not having written more since I've been here. My flight home is less than two weeks away.

Lima has been my home now for a couple of months. I live in a big house in the Salamanca district with my friend and his family, including his sister, mom, uncle, grandparents, and a maid from Iquitos, as well as our other two American friends. Somewhere a family system emerged, operating in two languages and sometimes none at all. Every morning Abuelo waves at me and says, "Hola Hola," and that is probably the only thing he will say to me all day. Everyday I go down to the first floor where the family owns a Bodega, and I buy chocolate and beer from Uncle Manolo. He sits behind the counter and at night he drinks with men from the neighbor who stop by to tell jokes and talk about fútbol. In the evenings we go to the little park a few houses down. It’s a public park, dark and identical to dozens more scattered in this neighborhood, and it has flowers and a big cross and a Virgin Mary shrine. "Vamos a la cruz, para tomar." We drink on the bench under the cross, making runs for cigarettes or more beer. All of the friends live on the same street; they've known each other since birth, since baptism. Their abuelas are friends. As they walk down the street, they whistle to the windows of each house to ask for each other.

I am looked after, told to eat more, made sure I'm comfortable. No one bothers me for smoking. I come down in my pajamas for morning avocado and lime, and sometimes walk a couple of blocks for fresh juice. I say buenos dias to the neighbors, and at night buenas noches, and fall asleep to my friend's sister watching TV and smoking her cigarette. We smoke in the bed. When I go to class I wave an arm and pay a Chino, jumping into a minivan with 20 people to take me thirty minutes across the capital to class. I chat with taxistas about my favorite Peruvian food (Pisco), and they shake their heads sadly and ask me about Bush. "Y Obama?" My lungs breathe the grey air of Lima, and my eyes have grown used to the winter clouds.

I am happy here, I am lucky. I'm going to miss Lima.

Happy Birthday Siraj.