Chapter 2

Charly the American

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TOCAYO
Part 1
Prologue
Playa Norte
Charly the American
A Catholic Education
Cold Showers
A Peruvian Name...
Tossing Armando...
Bob Cousey's Shorts
Inside Immaculada
Warming the Bench...
A Little Socrates...
Running From Lola
Ping Pong Politics
A Perfect Basketball Day
A Man Needs His Friends
A Pig In a Hole
Condors Over Ticlio
Wrestling in the Plaza
Handcuffs and Curfews
Rochabus
A Hero Hiding
Hitting A Brick Wall
Part 2

Colegio Santa Maria, my high school, had a big campus on land that once belonged to the ancient pastures and gentle pace of a Peruvian hacienda. Not many years ago the pastures had been surrounded by tall Eucalyptus trees that swayed in the wind with a soft rustling sound that made you want to belong there. Not any more. The pastures have been buried beneath a big neighborhood full of new houses and baby trees. And my school.

Lima’s better neighborhoods had a beautiful boulevard running through the middle, their medians decorated with strips of grass, paths for walking, beds of flowers, warm lights on old fashioned posts, and benches for people to sit. Not our boulevard. Our boulevard was divided by dirt covered with stones and trash. Tall aluminum poles curved over the asphalt and drooled a stain the color of mustard onto the pavement. This insult to a boulevard was built by a government who was more embarrassed by Peru’s problems than proud of its achievements. Our alcalde, he christened the avenue with the name of a famous person from Peruvian history, but the people who had to drive under the lights thought that they looked more like the last hairs on a bald man's head, so they called it La Calva. The Bald One. Like all good names, it stuck, so it became the name of the entire neighborhood.

My school was shielded from La Calva’s traffic by a tall brick wall that went around the entire school, including the soccer fields and the houses for the priests and teachers. Compared to the average school in Lima, it was fantastic. Thick grass lay shiny in the morning dew around gardens full of bright yellow, orange, and red flowers tended by old, slow-moving cholos. Large classrooms were spread out among the lawns in low buildings connected by breezeways. The entrances were covered by patio roofs and surrounded by ferns. And to help us through the grey winters, every classroom had one wall made entirely of glass.

I walked through the front gate on what would be the first day of my fourth year of mid-level, what you in America call your Junior year of high school, remembering every detail of my last evening with Angelica.