Good Friday in the Crowd

The bus transports all kinds of things. Abuelita sent a sack of potatoes and avocados with us for family in Lima. Along the route, the bus drops off packages. I’ve never seen a mail truck here. The one package we received at the casita also came by bus—Abuelita picked it up from the bus stop. A friend of ours waited at the bus stop in her town; when we arrived, she hopped on to hand us honey, crackers, and napkins for our trip.

It felt like Christmas when my parents arrived. They brought gifts for all of us—new toys for the boys, books for me, hardware for Leifer, and clothing for the whole family. Enzo was the first one up that morning. He walked into the living room with his arms outstretched and a huge smile on his face.

Yesterday was Good Friday. We headed to the main square—Plaza de Armas. Every town has a plaza, but in Lima the buildings tower above us. We were dropped off far from the plaza, as the streets were closed for the holiday. There were people everywhere—lines outside churches, vendors weaving through the crowds with cotton candy, popsicles, and little toys. We moved shoulder to shoulder with the masses. Thankfully, my mom’s silver hair made her easy to spot. We zigzagged our way through the streets, with Leifer stopping repeatedly to check directions.

We stepped into a church, which was completely packed. Four men were carrying a wooden platform; on it lay a body covered in a purple silk sheet—part of a procession. We kept moving. Leif, expecting an Easter egg hunt, was crying. There’s no drinking or partying on Good Friday, yet somehow it still felt like a giant celebration.

We exited through a side door and saw another procession. Men in black robes were moving solemnly, one holding a giant gold cross. Once they reached the church entrance, they stopped. A band played beside them. We stood and watched before continuing on our way.

We’re staying two blocks from the ocean. A boardwalk runs along the edge, with steep cliffs dropping down to the sea. There’s very little beach, and it’s mostly rocky. The streets and boardwalk are clean. There are no wild dogs, and the ones we see all have owners who clean up after them. We got a crepe at Parque del Amor.

“How is it so clean here?” I asked.
“People pay taxes,” Leifer said.
“Outside of Lima, they don’t?”
“No,” he answered.

I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s no sales tax in Mancos. The price is the price.

Yesterday, we went to Kennedy Circle, known for all the cats that live there. We bought books for the boys, had Japanese food for lunch, and found a playground. An eight-year-old boy there asked what language I spoke—he wanted to practice his English. Except he kept talking to me in Spanish. I asked his age. “Eight,” he said. Then he asked mine. “Wow,” he said, eyes wide. Kids always ask me my age—why not? I had just asked his.

Tomorrow we go to the immigration office to check how long we can stay.
“And then what?” I wonder. “Can I come back again?”
Because Leifer is Peruvian, the boys can obtain citizenship.
And me? We still need to find out.

From the balcony, the boys stand at the railing. I overhear Enzo calling out, “¡Hola, cómo estás?” to people passing on the sidewalk. Lucca is pointing at the birds.