I come down to the Coast -- it has the seducing curves of my
morena, who sings, tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!! Through
the streets of my city on Saturday nights I hear the voice
of my cholo, with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud,
my color. My Inca whistles at my door. Miraflores.
I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full-bearded
Europeans. The cafe 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, the blue uniform, hat,
white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:
The cowboy and the girl Miraflores.
I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito
to El Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca. It is there where our mothers bought Chantilly Creme to decorate birthday cakes, and still serves butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump through the intersection of' Larco and Pardo, five blocks in diameter, with a rainbow of flowers in its center. Walk to Schell St. where my school, San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta St. that saw my growing up years. El Terrazas Club still a block away, looking forward to its next Carnavales Festival. 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. Miraflores, my Miraflores.
Camincha is a pen name for a writer living in California.