When I tell people I was born in Latin America, they have visions of me growing up in tropical- jungle-like towns, Oh how I wish..! How I wish to have grown up in the highlands, or in the exotic amazons of the Peruvian forest, and being able to speak the languages of the Incas and Aymaras.
But alas.! I was born in Lima, a city without identity, because Lima, as Spanish speaking as it aspires to nothing more than to resemble a city in the States. But as confused as the city is about its own identity, it’s the city where I grew up, and, sadly, it’s far away from being a jungle. For starters, it is never sunny, at least not the most of the year; the summer brings an annoying, disrespectful interruption to the gloominess that characterized its everlasting autumn. Some people, obviously people who are not from Lima, find the city depressing because it is always cloudy and grey when that’s what I find the most appealing about it.
And, I just hope when I come back the usual September drizzle welcomes and embraces me in silence as if I was never gone; as if we were going to stay together forever.