I wake up to the humid and bone-stabbing winter in my cozy bed. I don’t have to check the weather to figure out what to wear; we have two definite temperatures - hot and cold - and no precipitation except for quiet winter drizzles that go unnoticed.
I look out my window and salute
What was a catastrophe to most was considered an oh-my-God-unbelievably-awesome experience in my social bubble - What were you doing on August 15th, 2007 at 6:41pm? – Some fortunate ones were vacationing in Miami, a few others fulfilling responsibilities at home, school, or work, but most were at the gym, playing sports or surfing at the exclusive beach club Regatas Lima, eating at a restaurant, reading subtitles in a movie theater, having a drink at a bar, or shopping at the trendiest malls for ridiculously high prices – all, most likely, in the hip and upscale district of Miraflores: a very cosmopolitan town where you can get anything from a $15.00 coffee in one of the nearby Starbucks, to a designer’s bag, to an STD from the gringo-friendly bricheras at Calle las Pizzas who seduce the innocent tourists in order to party for free or take advantage of their money in one way or another.
Some of the bricheras fall in love with the gringos though, maybe for their money, maybe because their beautiful whiteness is reachable, unlike that of the European-descent Peruvians who want nothing to do with these low-class mestizo girls –unless it’s a guys-night-out-let’s-get-really-wasted-and-fuck-these-girls-we-actually-want-to-fuck-sober-but-can’t-because-it’s-unacceptable-in-our-uptight-society – although they might also fall in love with the possibility of being rescued from their miserable lives. Whatever the case may be, gringos love it, so bricheras do no harm, except to most of that fifteen percent European-descent Peruvian population who watch horrified, particularly old conservative women who wonder how a handsome and young white man can hold hands with such a worthless, greasy girl.
But today is cold and the sun hasn’t shone, so it should be a good day. I put on a pair of jeans, an old shirt, a sweater, and my black Converse, and I look stunningly beautiful as I walk down the street where I grew up – or so have always said the perverted men out there –Mmm mamasita! Princesa! – I now respond with a - “Papasito!
The traffic light is on red but I still look at both sides of the street before crossing. Most drivers don’t mind the law, and the law doesn’t mind most drivers as long as, when pulled over, they are willing to cooperate with it by providing the crooked cops with a couple of dollars to ease their thirst with one of our “golden” national prides: the internationally known soda Inca Kola. I turn into Las Gaviotas, a street that leads to Avenida Aramburú, an avenue whose traffic lights are particularly attractive for hungry street-kids juggling and flying around the air in order to make some money by panhandling car to car, saving their cents and counting them carefully scared of their angry mothers waiting around the corner to collect their earnings. I passed a couple of news stands and a bunch of street merchants selling everything from bootleg DVDs for $1.00 to a variety of delicious nuts for $0.25 and I saw Julio, the car washer. Julio would ring the bell of my house every day around 2PM, pushing into it and letting go off of it slowly: - D-I-N-G, D-O-N-G -, all it took for us to know it was him carefully following Adela’s instructions, the angry cook at my house, who ordered him to ring the bell that way because, under her rules, only family members were allowed to push the button more than once. “Quién es?” - Adela would ask - “Julio!” - he would respond, while carrying the same dirty red bucket and cloth and wearing the same old stained khakis, bleached blue shirt and light blue hat with which I met him many years ago. I waved at him and continued my journey.
Five minutes later I arrived at the supermarket, characterized for its distinguished customer service. The security guard greeted me while biting his bottom lip and checking out my butt: “Buenos días señorita,” my response was just silent upset frown. As I entered the modern supermarket chain I felt calm again (maybe because of the classical music playing loudly through the speakers to cover up the sheep hubbub). The workers helped me find what I was looking for with a smile on their faces, always treating the customers kindly and nicely despite their fifty-dollar-per-month salary. After paying for what I got I left the supermarket hopping and whistling like a little kid which reminded me of when I was younger and the supermarket used to be a street market full of people and small stands. It was in this market where I first got mugged by a
