Lost in Lima

no. 19

Google told me we had 180 days in Peru. Google is wrong about many things in Peru—we can stay for only 90 days. I couldn’t find Plaza de Armas in Lima, even though it exists in every city. It was listed as “Main Square.” I couldn’t locate the Immigration Services building either, until I searched by its exact address.

We can apply to stay longer and pay a fee—our fate continually adjudicated by strangers. I’m reminded that I don’t belong here—I’m only a visitor. I had selfishly assumed that not many people were trying to immigrate to Peru, so I would be welcomed with open arms for as long as I wanted to stay.

I would feel more secure if we applied for the boys’ Peruvian citizenship—at least then we’d have fewer variables. They could live freely in either country.

“Patience,” our lawyer had said when Leifer was denied a green card. Patience with our lawyer? With the process? With a broken immigration system? With ourselves? The lawyer hadn’t prepared us for any of this. Leifer thinks he wanted us to feel confident in him. The only statistics we had were the wait times for applicants. How many are denied once they’re already abroad?

I hadn’t wanted to come to Lima. Now I know why. Coming here meant facing our life as it is—sorting through it. It feels cumbersome, with so many steps to take.

We went to the U.S. Embassy. We were directed to a window outside. "Email this address for a copy of your criminal record to apply for your Peruvian visa." The transaction took twenty seconds—after riding an hour across the city. I had expected to be welcomed inside and receive advice. A globalized world, it seems, exists mostly online.

The day is warm, but there’s a pleasant breeze in the shade. We went to a café on the plaza and had Café Americano. “No Americano, we should have Peruano,” Leifer said jokingly. The coffee was strong. Lucca chased the pigeons, just as Leif did—and still does. There was a remembrance of Pope Francis outside the church. I sat and watched the fashion, guessing where people were from. I was content to just sit.

When I take the long view of my time here, I think of our wonderful family, learning the language, and writing. When I think of tomorrow, I worry—about our paperwork, about how we’ll build a life here. How will it all come together? Building a life takes time and energy. I moved often in my twenties. It is fun exploring with my kids—when I relax into it.

Tia Julia met us at Plaza de Armas. I have a photo of Leifer and Julia from over twenty years ago in this same spot. I took another one today. We went to the Basilica and Convent of San Francisco. Beneath the church lie the catacombs—one of the places mentioned in the boys’ Lima book. Leif wanted to see the bones. Walking through the church is tranquil, a quiet pause from the bustling city outside its walls. The convent is active. Earthquakes have shaken the church, but the catacombs remain undisturbed. Below the church, the ceilings are low and the doorways filled with arches. I was amused that our guide could walk through them without ducking—yet another reminder that this country was built for shorter people.

Afterward, we walked to a small churro shop. There was no name on the door. Leifer told me that if there were, it would be even busier.