It begins not long after—the sporadic sighting of my father’s name everywhere, on bumper stickers and front doors, even under marquee lights. While his ashes cool and settle in a small, wooden urn on a makeshift altar between my bedroom and mom’s; and while the world continues to spin with me on it, the cycle begins:

Emily FLORES, student of the month…

FLORES Mechanic Shop

Vote for Kino FLORES

As a logical, grounded human being, I attempt to dismiss the phenomenon as mere coincidence at first. You see what you want to see, I tell myself. The loss is recent so your brain and heart are sticking to the organic pact they sealed in blood years ago, Robert, when you first perceived you even had a father. You still miss him, the curly-haired Cuban sitting on his favorite rocker in the early morning, always wearing his white Fruit-of-the-Loom tee pulled up over his soft, hairy belly, taking his usual shot of Gaviña coffee and reading from the pages of La Opinión newspaper. That’s why you keep seeing his name; his uncommon, first name, Flores. There’s nothing supernatural about it. I say this to myself, over and over. I want to believe it.

But the sightings continue. 

I ask my mother and brother and sisters if they are experiencing anything similar and all of them give me emphatic, wide-eyed "No’s". I figure we’re all grieving and going through the same thing, but I’m wrong. It’s different for everybody. I realize that. I don’t mention it again. 

I read somewhere about someone else in a similar situation, a young man who’s lost his mother in a car wreck. Her name is Mercedes. His claim is not that he sees her name, though. He sees Mercedes Benz everywhere, and swears that every model that crosses his path on the highway is a sign she’s gone to Heaven. Each time I espy Dad’s name I find myself sighing, close-mouthed, the CO₂ almost burrowing through my nostrils, with the hairs on my back standing on end. Something sinks in my midsection with the force of a guillotine, slices straight down and settles in my stomach, plops down like the severed heads of both Guilt and Doubt. I constantly wonder if I could have done more to keep my father alive; if he’s gone to Heaven or Hell; things like that. I’m at war within myself while the rest of my family goes on with their lives. 

Finally, I get an opportunity to break free. 

I take a chance, leave my family and life behind, and travel to Perú along with three other classmates as part of a summer program aimed at giving us all some hands-on experience in the field of archaeology. That’s the official, boring reason. I tell everyone I consider the trip my own personal reward for all those late-night cram sessions and twenty-page papers I’ve written throughout my undergraduate career. I also want to write, and what better motivation than the world.

But, of course, it goes deeper than that. Along with my troubles dealing with the loss of my father, at that same time, a genuine restlessness moves in me. Like Ismael, I feel "November in my soul." I want to get away and go to another country and culture altogether where no one knows my name until I happen to introduce myself; where I can truly be a stranger in a strange land. My brother’s layoff and the news of my girlfriend’s pregnancy spur these feelings even more. I am as anxious as ever to go. Even if only for a few summer months, I want the earth to swallow me whole.

The city of Casma on the west coast of Perú becomes my home for almost three months, far from the metropolis of the country’s capital city, Lima, or the tourist magnets of Cuzco and Machu Picchu. A quaint town, it’s brought to life by two things while I’m there: loud, life-gambling moto-taxis and, more importantly, the most jovial, good-natured people I have ever met in my life. The Casmeños (that’s what they call themselves) are as simple as the two colors decorating their national flag, and just as proud of their heritage, Spanish and indigenous alike. But two bouts of stomach flu and nine weeks later (in terms of pottery shards, that’s close to about sixty-thousand), I still haven’t written a single word. Dad’s name continues to appear everywhere, too:

FLORES a su gusto

Licenciado Eugenio FLORES

Avenida FLORES

I feel lost within myself, without direction. I decide against archaeology as a career for sure, and everyday I try to motivate myself to write something, anything, to get everything out of my mind, but I just can’t. There’s some great stuff, too. Like the open market just off the Pan American Highway, the guinea pigs slaughtered, boiled, skinned, and finally hung by their tiny hind legs for prospective buyers. I can’t forget the drunk who once hobbled up to the main highway in the morning, hailed a taxi, but was pulled off it by his harpy of a wife, only to have him turn round and piss on her feet in protest. And, of course, the time I took the trip to the storage depot at Sechin Alto, the bats who attacked us for disturbing their slumber while gathering more pottery shards for analysis, all of us running wild like chickens without heads, swiping the air with brooms, scared but laughing. I can remember all of this, vividly, but can’t put it down on paper. The scenes are all there, but every experience is disjointed like scattered pieces of a puzzle I don’t care to bring together, worth no effort at all. I can only compare it to the time following my father’s death, that sudden trip south to my mother’s hometown of Ciudad Mante in Tamaulipas to let everyone know, tío Ramon trying his best to cheer me up by taking me to see the murals his famous father had painted in the early part of the previous century. They were all scenes of the Bible, God and the Devil, souls cheering on their way up to Heaven, others with downcast, terrified faces descending into Hell. That’s how it is for me in Perú. Everything floats at random on a nebulous ocean, flows away from me, maroons me from all I desire.

Of course, the prospect of being a father compounds these same frustrations even more. She was four months when I left. On the phone my girlfriend talks about getting married and changing diapers for the first time. She giggles, and I quake. It never fails whenever I’m on the phone with her that a Quechua woman walks by, her infant strapped to her back, her traditional red-green-yellow pollera flowing down to her muddied toes and sandals. The kid yells and so do I but in my head, loud, then I speak into the phone and say: "It’s all going to be all right." In the part of Perú I’m in, people build their homes out of a bamboo-like material they call pincha because of the earthquakes. They never set firm foundations knowing full well their constructions will one day come down, rattling, forcing them to rebuild or relocate. My promises feel like that; nothing more than makeshift constructions meant to keep my girlfriend comfortably housed in the plans she’s making. I feel horrible, but don’t want to upset her. It gets to the point I avoid calling her.

Then it’s Saturday, July 28th, 2007, three days before we’re to return to the States by way of Lima to Houston and then back to our ordinary lives in South Texas.  I get up at about eleven o’clock in the morning to the sound of distant drums and cheering. Marcos, a local I’ve been working with all summer, drops by to pick me up. He’s thin with a sparse moustache, has a curl of the lip that I trust, and always wears a baseball cap. He likes American baseball - the Yankees, especially - and that makes us friends right away. He always asks about my family and what it’s like "en los Estados Unidos." I don’t know how to answer that question without sounding somewhat condescending, so I just tell him he has to travel to the States one day and find out. "Va, pues," he says. That’s the answer to pretty much everything in Casma.  

The plan is to tour the Independence Parade for a bit and make our way to his home for lunch with his family. In the evening, we’ll head for the plaza to see the fireworks. I’m excited, I must admit, but I’m getting over my third bout of the stomach flu and my facial expressions just give me away. "Va, pues," Marcos says again. "Don’t worry. I have just the thing."

We leave the Hostal El Patio and make for the Pan-American Highway. This famous road hugs the entire Perúvian coast and dives south into Chile, even pokes as far north as Ecuador. Like so many other cities, Casma has flowered along its edges. The road is like an asphalt Nile everyone depends on for transportation, from northern Trujillo to Lima in the south, and on any other day is replete with loud moto-taxis zigzagging through weathered cars and people buying bread at the corner markets.

But on Independence Day it’s a different story. The road is closed to all vehicles save for the local police, and the traffic consists of the entire populace, it seems, out on the street like multi-colored confetti tossed into the street beneath a gloomy winter sky. Before I can inspect the large crowd, though, Marcos leads me to a corner where a young, dirty-faced boy stands before a whitewashed cart filled with ten or twelve Coca-Cola bottles. Marcos flashes a finger and says, "Un moliente," and the boy produces an Aloe Vera stem. He scrapes it until slime forms and drops the goo into a dirty glass. Finally, he adds some of the dark liquid from one of the Coke bottles and mixes everything together. The young apothecary hands me the glass. "Toma," Marcos says to me. "Para la barriga." He pats his stomach, nods his head, widens his eyes. I have no choice. I drink the boy’s concoction. With every gulp the camel that’s been baying in my stomach for the past few days stops and I feel rejuvenated again. 

"¿Mejor?" Marcos asks me. I nod. He hands the boy a Sol and we head off.

We meander through the thick crowds on the sidewalk while the trumpets blare from a local school band marching by. Children pull on their parents to point out a friend or loved one taking part in the parade, their smiles as bright as the small, Peruvian flag lapels everyone wears. Popcorn vendors rush to fill the paper bags they sell for fifty pesos while that same middle-aged Quechua woman reaches over her shoulder to feed a piece of chancho, pork, to her pony-tailed girl hanging on her back. Up above, on the rooftops overlooking us, locals sit and swing their legs on edges, Pilsen beers in hand, cheering and laughing, waving large, red-white flags. The only sight I can compare it all to is the scene surrounding a game at Wrigley Field in Chicago, the high-rises all around, and the raucous, drunken crowds during the traditional Seventh-Inning Stretch. It’s patriotic pandemonium, something I’ve never experienced, thousands of miles from all I know. Marcos surprises me with a bag of popcorn, the cooked kernels dyed a pinkish-red in honor of the celebration. We sit by the curb and take in the sights for a little while longer.

At about one o’clock we leave the music and crowds behind for lunch with Marcos’ family. We head into a narrow, dirt-filled street and turn right at the first corner. Everywhere I look, no matter how humble the constructions, every home displays the national colors in some fashion and locals leave their homes with expectant faces and crisp clothes. One house even has the family dog wearing a stitched, red-white pullover with a matching bow between its pointy ears. 

Marcos’ home is of concrete and chalky-white in color. Salsa music booms from within. A thin, pleasant woman meets us at the door and Marcos introduces her as his sister, Yuri. Inside, a group sits in a large circle on wooden chairs atop a smooth floor that looks as though it has just been washed. The air is warm and smells of spices. Plates stir beyond the small refrigerator raised on a wooden pallet against a wall.

Marcos introduces me to his father. A stoic, elderly man, Don Julio resembles a statue seated pensively in his corner. Of course, I think of my own father right away. The rest are uncles and aunts and cousins, all of them with ready smiles and firm handshakes that show they care. I notice the one cup and beer passing around and it finally arrives before me. Marcos explains that drinking from the same cup is a custom in Perú, a sign of fraternity from the times of the Incas, and especially important on holidays. I drink my swig and pass the cup to the person next to me, Marcos’ family cheering me on. I feel at home while the children play with the beer caps they find on the floor.

After about an hour, Yuri comes from the kitchen with steaming plates for everyone. It’s Pipián, Marcos tells me, a seasoned rice paste garnished with a side of roasted goat meat. To my surprise, the moliente has returned my appetite, and the food more than lives up to its pleasant smell of wild herbs and spices, the meat as succulent as it is tender. I’ve never eaten food like that before, and I know the atmosphere plays an important role in its delight, as well. The beer comes round a third, fourth, even a fifth time before Don Julio finally asks me what Americans usually eat on their independence day. "No Pipián," I say with my mouth full, and everyone laughs. I can’t help but laugh, too. I’m actually having a good time.

After the food comes the dancing. Marcos laughs watching me try to convince his sister and aunts I’m too full for any kind of quick movements. I’m pulled into the center, the women all gather round me, and they dance in their flip-flops, clapping along with the music that plays. Even Don Julio joins in, rising from his chair to the surprise of everyone, the smile on his face replacing his haggard frown from before. Everyone shouts "¡Patria!" while I find myself moving to the sounds, dancing. Wrapped in this foreign bliss, I can’t help but think of my own family. Dad, too. I view the children through the window, their eyes watching and their mouths nibbling on bent beer caps, the sun dying in a lazy glare behind them. 

In the evening I set out with Marcos to the main plaza. Though the parade is over, the scene on the highway is just as crowded as before. We travel north on the Pan-American Highway past the Casma marketplace, its entrance decorated with a large replica of one of the famous warrior frescoes found in the nearby archaeological site of Sechin Alto. Everywhere I look local vendors sell and package and swear by their products while children frolic and laugh in their shined shoes, the sweet sizzle of fried chicken and pork suspended in the air.  Even the local funeral home, a grim reminder of our own mortality on any given day, decides to decorate the few empty caskets inside with the national colors, their pricing still on prominent display, of course. Independence Day, Marcos says to me, is a day of celebration and hope, even in those places where it is least expected.

We arrive at the plaza and there it is in the center, surrounded by hundreds of people—El Castillo. It rises to thirty feet, a bamboo-tiered, fireworks-laden castle that everyone gawks at in anticipation. Marcos reveals that the fireworks come from Lima, but the bamboo is all locally grown. We cut through a group of teenagers and finally find a spot with a great view of the Castillo. The plaza lights are turned off amid whistles and cheers. At the foot of the Castillo, I see a shadow light a match and—BOOM!—the night sky erupts in sparkling splendor. Flashes of red and white and green smoke and pop to the enjoyment of everyone. Rockets red glare and bombs burst in the air. Everyone around me, including Marcos, is enthralled. Then, suddenly, when it seems as though the last squib has burst, a large Perúvian flag unfurls from near the center of the Castillo, surrounded by a wreath of flowers. Flores. I hear my father’s name, over and over. The crowd lets loose, and I sigh.

The next morning I’m a bit hung over. I quickly realize nothing has changed. I’m one day closer to going back home just like I arrived—completely uninterested. In the distance, I hear the church bells ring.

I find a note on the floor.  One of my classmates, Mary, has slipped it under, inviting me to mass. Call it fate, I decide to go. I dress as quickly as I can and head to her room, but she’s gone. Outside El Patio, the soft breeze from the ocean delivers the scent of the nearby mango groves. I can almost taste the salt in the air. 

I set out on my own. Casma looks hung over, too. Front doors still sport miniature Perúvian flags, red-white, but heavy with dew. It’s close to nine o’clock, and traffic is back to normal on the Pan American Highway. Meandering moto-taxis, their passenger cages rattling on their rears, their motors purring, supply most of the constant sounds in the morning symphony of life in this provincial town. Music booms from the bakery where I usually buy my evening coffee. I pass the Chifa Hong Kong, a venue for Chinese cuisine, then the street market where stray dogs are getting their fill from the scraps left over from the chancho sandwich vendors. I reach the main plaza where men are already tearing down what is left of the foundation of the Castillo. The Church of Saint Mary Magdalene stands just across the plaza with a large crowd in front. The patron saint, skull in hand and veiled, looms above the entrance.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the arched portico I realize I won’t be able to get inside. There are just too many people. So I decide to wait for Mary outside. I find a spot near the tiled edge of the side garden and sit down. A fruit vendor at the foot of the stairs empties a bucket of water onto the street. A child pulls on his mother’s skirt, sulks, and points to the pineapples in prominent display behind the glass pane. The sun breaks through in slow motion.

Then, I see him.

He emerges from the glare and stumbles towards me, a neatly-woven, beige alpaca sweater (or chompa as they call it in Casma) on him, a pair of tattered khakis teetering at his ankles above worn black tennis shoes scuffed at the tips, loosely tied. His face resembles aged leather, rough and precious, with long, thick fingernails decorating calloused hands. Like a frail vessel coming to port his approach seems a chore, a combination of small steps in tandem with slightly outstretched arms for fear of falling, ultimately landing him at my side, out of breath and somewhat disoriented. He rests his elbows on his legs, locks his fingers, and hangs his head down low.

It’s hard to explain what I feel next. It’s like a nervous tremor inside of me where my heart radiates and thumps against my rib cage, just like when I made love for the first time. My palms begin to sweat. I feel light as a feather, airborne, floating above the crowd like an unremarkable plume plucked from the rarest bird, floating, readying to land upon unknown ground without a care in the world. But there’s a familiarity to it all at the same time. Sitting beside the old stranger beneath a reanimated Perúvian sky, I swear, it’s my father who visits me for the first time since his death; not his name, but his presence. I don’t smell the Gaviña coffee, but know it’s him. The old man’s curly, silver hair, the same as dad’s, dances in the breeze. He bobs his head gently, back and forth, like on a rocker, and says nothing. Enveloped in a strange sublimity, I understand the wisdom of that silence completely. Thousands of miles from all I know, I suddenly have this feeling I’m home.

The old man looks up and sighs, his gaze and rumpled brow like the defeated Atahualpa looking out upon all he has to lose to Pizarro, I imagine, fixed upon the nearby sandy mountains riddled with hundreds of pincha homes. They stand at intervals on man-made terraces, one single stairway cutting through the center and leading up into each level in a straight line, all of them defiant constructions undaunted by the possibility of an earthquake or landslide. I remember someone mentioning the famous 1970 earthquake and the complete devastation of Casma. Thousands lost their lives. But even then, life continued. Like the great terraced gardens of their ancestors, even after the worst of natural disasters, life endured and evolved into what I see in the distance that day. I see my life, too. In the face of so much real and overwhelming optimism, nothing seems so bad anymore.       

I turn to the old man and wonder if one of those homes belongs to him. If he’s made the trek all the way down from that cool, thin air. If he once lost his own castle, mourned for a dead child or a parent in the aftermath of the quake in ’70, but chose to rebuild on the same ground nonetheless. The crowd begins to move. They file down the steps loudly towards the dozing fruit vendor and catch him off guard.

Exiting the church, Mary finds me. Let’s go get a calling card, she says. It’s her mother’s birthday. 

A young woman appears, wearing a black veil, and she helps the old man up. Why are you outside, I hear her ask him. 

For me, I want to say to her. For me. They walk away.

I gaze up at those houses on the hills one more time. I let out a long, easy sigh. Come on, Mary says. I can’t wait to tell her about my new baby girl. I can’t wait to get back home and start all over again.