Miraflores

By Camincha

I come down to the coast that has the seducing curves of my
negrita, who sings, "Tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!!" through
the streets of my city on saturday nights. And the voice
of my Inca with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud.
My color. My Inca whistles at my door. Sharpens my knives and
scissors big and small.


I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full bearded
Europeans. The café latte skin of my criollas and criollos. To
flat streets that roll to the ocean. To its white foam. To the heat
of its shade. The tears of its garüa. The corner of La Picaronera.
The callejon next door. The European chalet. The Gardens of
La Diagonal Ice cream from D'onofrio. The church across
Parque Central. The benches of Alameda Pardo. Sunday's
promenades. The British-Peruvian school, blue uniform, hat,
white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:
The cowboy and the girl.

I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito
to El Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca where our mothers
bought Crema Chantilly to decorate birthday cakes and still serves
butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump
through the intersection of Larco and Pardo, f'ive blocks in diameter,
with a rainbow of flowers in its center. I walk to Schell where my school,
San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta that saw my growing up years.
El Terrazas still a block away, looking forward to its next Baile de
Carnavales. Would you like to dance? sounds in my head. Dance? His
eyes full of adoration. EI Malecón gives me his cliffs that roll to the
Pacific while the scent of jasmine, dahlias, sweet peas, honeysuckle,
sweet narcissus, stalk my steps . . . .


Camincha is a pen name for a California-based writer. The San Francisco Bay Guardian praises her work saying: “Camincha frames the ordinary in a way that makes it extraordinary, and that is real talent.” Visit Camincha's website to read more of her writing!