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Limeños

A holiday in Lima. Places full of pigeons. Cars filled. People on the sidewalks overflowing. And I in the middle. I look for places where one day they walked Vallejo, Martin Adam, the entire generation of '50s, '60s, '70s, '80s, and '90s. I go to fencing, towards the convent of Poor Clares. I know that in the seventeenth century, between 1600 and 1615 Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala walked in this direction in search of the chapel of the Virgin Mary of the Rock of France. Arrived at the School of Fine Arts. Vallejo had to walk around, because the press was three blocks from the prison, where he edited Black Heralds. Back, crossed the avenue Abancay, the Convent of San Francisco, where Fray Jerónimo de Ore, in the seventeenth century, looked for evidence to canonize Fray Francisco Solano, "and arrived at bar Cordano. There, in the fifties and sixties, Martin Adam ate ham sandwiches looking into the huge mirror in the main hall. I turn and down the street Azángaro low to University Park. Behind of what was formerly the Ministry of Education is the home of Adam Martin. A destroyed house, dog piss and shit on cats. Again I Azangaro and stop at the intersection with Avenida Nicolas de Pierola. In that corner was a bar Palermo, home of the Generation of '50. It is now a fifth-Chinese restaurant. None of your floors and mirrors were saved. Garish decor hides the friezes and tiles before. Follow. I enter the Casona de San Marcos. But I desist. I'm going in the direction of San Martín square. I find the Black-black bar. Came, I take a beer, talk to its current owner, called "the divine", and go my way. So traffic for the remainder of wonny, meeting point the Kloakas, Lux coffee in the Plaza Francia, where he met Zero Hour.

And more to the street Quilca, the Queirolo bar where all the writers have come ashore "cursed" by this city since the seventies. I look with nostalgia the bar's jukebox, where once I met the poets of the Neon group in the nineties. From there, look at the Plaza Francia, where Carlos Oliva used to break bottles for no reason, out of boredom. I meet a young poet, just veititantos years. It is night, and decided to take on the new routes of Peruvian literature: Quierolo, pub Yacana, and Ethnic rasta bar in the balcony more thought of a young talent to seal his generation with his jump.

At around five o'clock to walk again. We talked about many things. Including the possibility that a hundred years, another young couple made the same walk, wondering if she ever and I walked through the streets of Lima, owls, something lost, without direction.