Dreams in Lima.

I had a very vivid dream last night. I dreamed that I was in Lima, walking down Avenida Malecón with my father. He held my hand to cross the street and we were trying to decide where to have lunch. My sister was with us, but she was a child, the same age she was when she last went to Peru with us. A little close to the last time she saw our father.

My sister suddenly leaves the scene and I'm left alone with my dad.

We're not close to Larcomar anymore, we're walking down a street I don't recognize, but I know I'm in Miraflores. The trees, the combis on the street, it's all so familiar. All of the sudden, he falls in my arms and it's evident he's dying. I'm trying to save him. To help him, but in a matter of seconds, he's gone.

Dreaming of my father dying in my arms must signify something. I wasn't there with him when he died. He was alone. He died alone. I remember the last time we spoke, how he said he was so very ill. I called everyone I knew in Peru, I wired funds, I started packing. Then, in no time, it was all over. The family he successfully pushed away, the family who loved him so much, wasn't there with him. I know his secret though, he did love us. He just didn't know how to be loved.

When I think of Lima I think of the ocean and the cliffs that border it, the little streets over-crowded with mini-buses, taxis, men in bicycles covered with baskets and death-inflicting traffic... You move out of the way or you get hit by a car. I remember the open market where we'd grocery shop on Sundays and the trattoria that served his favorite veal parmigiana. I remember ordering pisco-sours while he'd order a scotch and sitting on the patio of a cafe in Barranco watching the pretty euro-peruvians walk by with their surfer looks, long legs and wavy blonde hair.

I remember the marked difference between social classes. There is no middle class in Lima. You have much, or very little. That's just the way it is. Just by crossing a street, you find yourself in a totally different world. Then there's the pollution, for those who know me well, imagine my hand-wipes and hand-washing habits being at its peak in Peru.

Lima enchanted him. He fell in love with the love affaire that Limeños have with food and drink. Through his love of food, he fell in love with anticuchos, cuy al horno (guinea pig), ceviche and the chicharrones (different from Colombian); he fell in love with Lima, he never returned to Colombia, he never returned to us.

One day, perhaps, I'll return to Peru. I'll go visit Lima and visit his grave. I never think of it. In fact, I hadn't thought of Lima in a positive way in years. But the truth is that I did understand his love for this place, I did see it too. When my one-month stay expired it was me who decided to stay longer, to stay with him, to stay in this magical place. I had decided I would hate Peru for taking him away from me, from us. But this magical place isn't to be blamed.