My parents are making plans to return home on Saturday. It will be hard to see them go. The boys ask why they have to leave. They don’t ask for California. Leif says he wants to stay here. Today, he asked when he’ll start soccer by the library—in Half Moon Bay. Some parts of our life in California are fading from their minds. But like us, they seem to wish for both lives at once, not to be forced to choose.
We went up to Lake Llaganucho today for the second time. On the path that winds around the lake, Leif asked, “Is that Carly?” We all half-expected to see her, since she was with us the first time we came. The lake is turquoise, nestled high in the Huascarán mountains. The road is bumpy and unpaved. As we climb in altitude, Leif’s nose begins to bleed. Lucca hums, his voice rising and falling with the bumps. The water is crystal clear. When we look up, Huascarán feels close, like you could reach out and touch the snow. On our first visit, Leif asked if we could go to the snow. The sky is bright blue. Sometimes the peaks wear scarves of clouds, hiding something untouched and beautiful. But not today—the sky is cloudless.
Mom and I noticed purple flowers that look like bluebonnets from back home. I looked them up later: Andean lupin, or tarwi in Quechua. Chocho beans are harvested from a plant like this. It grows at high altitudes. Then there’s the quenual tree, its bark hanging like a baggy T-shirt. I touch it, it feels like tissue paper. It also grows in the highlands, and there are conservation efforts to protect it—for the people, animals, and environment that depend on it.
Peru is slow to reveal herself. You must be patient and endure discomforts. You need time for the rituals to soak in. The climate is beautiful but humbling. Abuelita walked by me today and gestured for me to cover my head. She still has much to teach me.
On the way out of Llaganucho National Park, I smelled eucalyptus from the breeze pouring through the window. I held Enzo in my lap, with Leif leaning against my side—both boys asleep. I like to write while we’re riding in the car. But for now, I’m holding their small bodies as we bounce down the mountain. I’m happy to be holding Enzo. I thought about how easy it was to drop him off at preschool in California. He had his friends and always waved goodbye with a smile. On Tuesday, Leif’s teacher let Enzo stay in class with him. I was relieved—mostly for Enzo.
The weeks leading up to our trip to Peru were difficult for the boys. They didn’t understand why Dad wasn’t home. I remember picking Enzo up from school. He cried easily. He said he was hungry, so we started walking to a bakery. On the way, he saw the toy store. I wanted to keep going to get some food in his belly. But he lay down in the middle of the crosswalk, bawling. I picked him up, carried him to the sidewalk, and sat with him, holding him close. I understood—those difficult, unrelenting feelings and the desperate want for something familiar. I told him we could do both, and that’s what we did. He picked out two Matchbox cars at the toy store—one for him and one for Leif.
I wonder if life will ever go back to the way it was. I’m now a traveler, a viajera. Like a traveler, I don’t yet know what the coming days will bring or where I’ll be. Time passes in small increments. Leifer and I still dream about what our life could be, just as we always have.
Abuelita had two of her pigs slaughtered this week. She sold some of the meat and gave much of it to nearby family. We had chicharrón yesterday. She boiled the manteca to use in baking bread. She’s preparing rellenos from the intestines. She saved the head and shoulders for us. Leifer says those are the best parts.
On our last morning together, Dad and I had a quiet chat. He reminded me to call and ask for anything I needed. I need those reminders—that even from afar, I have help and support, though I feel far removed from my old world.
Dad was always up before us each morning, taking pictures of the Huascarán mountains. On his last night here, the mountains were crystal clear. The snow gleamed against the deep blue sky. I called to my dad to come snap a photo. We have learned to be quick- the clouds can be quick to reappear.
During my parents' visit, I felt comforted having a bit of home here. I was glad they could see Peru with their own eyes. My mom left me a book called The Peru Reader. It features some of Peru’s best writers, translated into English for the first time—like José María Arguedas and José Carlos Mariátegui. My mom and I have always shared a love of reading and passed books back and forth.
Last night, Leifer and I took a walk into Mancos. Lucca came too, walking between us, one hand in each of ours. The sun was soft, and the air had a slight chill. Abuelita had me put a sweater on Lucca before we left. Bread is always bought in the evening for the next morning. Our small pilgrimage was for bread. We took the long way through the city streets. Women sat outside shops with giant baskets of bread. We looked at the different kinds and always try something new. They have names Leifer knows. I wanted a donut—glazed, a little crunchy, and with a subtle anise flavor. Lucca wanted a piece for each hand.
Our walk reminded me of the sunset strolls Leifer and I used to take along the coast before we had kids. I liked that ritual. Here, I like that we can walk to get so many things. I’ve passed through many sleepy small towns in the U.S., but Mancos is anything but sleepy. A restaurant was painting its walls in preparation for Mother’s Day. Propane was being delivered by moto. A cooktop was fired up in the street, grilling anticuchos. Finn ran past and stopped briefly to say hello. When we returned home, Abuelita and Abuelito sat outside, blankets on their laps, staring at the spectacular view of the Huascarán mountains. This is their nightly ritual before coming in for tea and bread.
I am rereading these stories with your niece by because she missed them.
Those photos are incredible. You are painting such a poignant picture.