If you were an emigrant for ten years, this is what you would miss most about Spain (and it's not ham)

One often wonders why one left the country of one's birth . In my case, it's a sociocultural reason. I could no longer bear to see in others the character traits I most despise in myself: the outspoken arrogance, the muted envy, the open ignorance, the mockery of vocation , the compulsive politicization, the constant anger, the predisposition to snort (well, I'm spared from that weakness), and, above all, the perpetual complaining. In Spain, we spend our lives complaining in front of tourists who stare at us without understanding—and without suspecting that we also complain about them—while turning purple and red from our food and our sunshine. In the country where I live, people don't use complaining as a staff, nor do the rooftops buzz with employees scavenging for five minutes of inactivity to finish a cigarette.

Also, on an everyday, intimate level and as an attraction of the destination, because life in my new country, its urban environment, its human ways, take me back to how life was half a century ago in Spain , and that immerses me in a seventies bubble that fills me with happiness when I recover shapes, colors, relaxation, moods, tunes and feelings linked to my childhood . Yesterday, for example, I came across a trio of old musicians playing in the middle of the street "Although It Costs Me My Life" by Pedro Infante, which my father played every summer on the Simca radio on the way to Bierzo. That happy incident would be unthinkable today in Anglo-Saxon Spain. A Spain that is also full of voids left by loved ones: I flee from those voids too.

But when I talk to my fellow countrymen or someone visits me, the same unavoidable question always arises: What do I miss most about my hometown, about Catalonia, about León, about Spain?

Ham? No, not at all.

The food is very good here.

I loved meat ( ham too ), but I didn't know what fish was until I ate it in the Peruvian jungle. Since then, I've been addicted to ceviche, sea bass with garlic, and chita, any way I can, especially when I'm quiet. They say the intense flavor of fish in Peru is due to the fact that they don't freeze it , and therefore you risk dying from anisakis and other parasites and bacteria. At the rate I'm eating, I'll probably die from that.

Spanish ham can be found in several establishments in Lima , some in branches of businesses from the "mother country." Obviously, the prices are somewhat high, but not as high as those of wine. Bottles of wine are exorbitantly overpriced, as are bottles of oil. I usually buy Argentine red wine (it's more reasonable than Spanish), but I'm not taking any chances with liquid gold: Andalusians of Jaén, I summon you!

Even though from time to time one gets saturated with so much chicken and so little pork , I don't miss Spanish cuisine nor do I frequent Spanish restaurants in Lima (it's never the same)... just a Basque-Peruvian in the Barranco district where they make some exotic and delicious pintxos at a price that, for once, is very reasonable: Arlotia, it's called (I recommend it with the name included because I don't know anyone there, they can't accuse me of being self-interested).

I don't retain any pride in my origins, but I still think Spanish cuisine is more varied than Peruvian. And the meats are better. However, when it comes to fish and seafood, I'll stick with Peru hands down. A case in point: after spending almost three years of Covid-19 confinement in my commuter city taking care of my parents, I returned to Lima for three weeks to embrace my loved ones there and recapture the Peruvian flavor along the way. On my last day of my stay, just before boarding the plane back to Barcelona via Madrid, I went to the best restaurant for quality/price I know in touristy Miraflores , Punto Azul (I also have no interest in said cevichería, nor do I have a close relationship with its staff). For starters, I ordered octopus al olivo, the local specialty, served with an olive sauce that's sometimes too intrusive to the natural flavor of the cephalopod; and for main course, grilled octopus, my favorite dish, absolutely unbeatable.

I can far prefer a feira as a garnish: my palate is accustomed, due to my Arona culture and upbringing , to the irresistible Galician octopus. But in flavor, our octopus is only a shadow of the Peruvian one. I had never cried while eating: that day, I cried. "I don't want to go back to Spain..." I mentally whimpered as a delicious tentacle dissolved in my mouth. The poor octopus was the besieged Nautilus this time; I gave it no respite until it imploded.

No, I don't miss Spanish cuisine.

One strange thing about everyday life in the Peruvian capital is that there's no daytime bar where you can have a carajillo or down a fifth or third of beer. And, although red wine consumption has become more popular in recent years , it's not usually ordered as an accompaniment to workday meals. Simply put, most Peruvians don't understand the limited or casual consumption of a caña or a copichuela in the middle of a workday: they usually reserve alcohol consumption for leisurely outings on the weekend or long get-togethers with friends.

In that sense, it's certainly shocking not to eat accompanied by a glass of cheap wine alongside your plate. If I'm feeling luxurious (a 310 ml bottle costs around three euros), I 'll order a dark or dark Cusqueña beer, very tasty for a commercial beer . But wine, due to timing and price, is reserved for special occasions... or one simply waits to be able to swipe it at parties with wealthy friends.

What I did miss a lot was bread : I'm a bread man, one who takes a Galician loaf and cuts a slice to eat straight, as if it were a treat, savoring the dense crumb and that incomparable burnt crust. In Lima, regular bread is horrible (the bread-making role is played daily by white rice, which I've only reluctantly accepted over the years—and because I bathe it in chili—), dull French rolls, or pure flour with a smell that has to be toasted to set any substance. But now there are specialized bakeries that, for a little more money, bake good rye bread.

To exploit the differences among the cultured posh, a few Madrid-style bars have recently opened in neighborhoods where cool people like my friends or Julay like me are, which always lends a bit of pedigree to the aspirational customer (no, I'm not talking about cocaine addicts...); but, in general, the snobbish, snobbish person that I am has gotten used to living without a beer, vermouth, or daytime tapas. I've switched to pisco sour, chilcano, and popcorn with chili.

Importer of naps

What doesn't exist here, and I've imported without hesitation, is the siesta. One thing I like about the Lima lifestyle is that it's very early: the morning rush starts very early, and the lunch break, or "almuerzo," inevitably begins at noon (except for Sunday lunch, which is a bit later, à la Spanish). This means that by 1:00 I've already eaten and can take a nap.

My naps are three hours long and span three stages:

—Drowsiness phase: I start reading any novel and within twenty or thirty minutes I'm snoring like a pig.

—The actual nap phase: an hour of sleeping like a log.

—Dallying phase: I wake up and continue reading until, around 4:00 p.m., I feel I can resume working on the fiction text , article, translation, or whatever paid activity I happen to be involved in those days.

I think siestas are a very healthy habit, and I'm wary of jobs that don't allow for that essential time to rest properly in the middle of the day.

The only thing I miss about Spain!

While I'm typing, I like to drink a weak Americano coffee (so I can repeat it throughout the morning). I'd love to be able to smoke while typing; it's a very tempting rush that I wish I could prolong , but if I down a pack a day, I'd have a heart attack after a month of so much smoking. So I settle for the watery stuff.

I recently discovered, unintentionally and unpremeditatedly, the one thing I miss about Spain: a month ago, a Peruvian friend was traveling to Madrid to knock on the doors of the capital's publishing houses with the goal of making a name for himself as a popular writer. He politely asked me if there was anything I'd like him to bring back from my country . I was about to answer no, as I've so often done to so many other close friends who have crossed the pond this past decade, when a sudden idea struck me, revealing a need that had undoubtedly been latent for years in my Iberian, low-class soul.

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—Yes, yes, I would like you to bring me something from Madrid: bring me sunflower seeds , please!!!

The good man didn't even know what sunflower seeds were, so I explained. In the end, we agreed that he would go to some traditional supermarket run by Chinese people to get several bags of salted sunflower seeds and, as icing on the cake, just as many pumpkin seeds. In Lima, you can't find either of these in ordinary grocery stores . At most, I've managed to find shelled sunflower seeds in bulk at pet stands in some markets: here, sunflower seeds are considered pet food, I think specifically for cats.

So my friend returned to Lima with a sackful of bags, and for a couple of weeks, I was happy typing away at my chores while my well-trained mouth dynamically peeled, in perfect conjunction with tongue and pine cones, the longed-for salty sunflower seeds and swallowed the tasty seed. The neighborhood boy in me deeply missed those afternoons, subconsciously , sitting on the back of a bench in the town square, ready to shower the ground with shells like a machine gunner would shower casings, while, with his friends, he watched slum life, the fights between locals, and the hopscotch competitions with sharp, solid files. I might also be homesick for the charred churrucas, but Lima's supply of roasted corn never fails to provide its due.

Oh, the sunflower seeds! What I would give to find them when I went down to the corner grocery store . And feel my tongue swollen with salt every evening, like a stuffed castaway.

Well, after all, there is a meal I long for. Not to mention the ones my mother used to make me...

But I will never be able to taste those again , no matter how many times my Peruvian friends travel to my country with my messages.