Maybe it was the smell of freshly baked, the kind that you wish you could taste, or maybe it was the people shouting whether they wanted ciabatta or pan frances, paria cheese or mantecoso cheese, olives or milk, huachana sausage or chorizo. Perhaps it is both, and many more things, what makes a bakery in Peru what it is. I’ve moved to different cities, provinces, and neighborhoods, but it was always the same chaotic environment. That and the fact that there was always a kid in the front selling tamales (which angered the owner of the bakery since it was clear competition for their business). The moment I turned 8 it was safe enough for me to go out every morning to buy daily bread by myself. This was a big responsibility. Breakfast was awaiting at home and everyone was expecting you to bring the correct amount and type of bread. Mornings were always dark and foggy, especially in Lima, which is why they refer to it as the Grey City. Besides trying to not get myself crushed by the very impatient people in the bakery, I also had to make sure the busy workers get me the amount of bread I paid for. This somehow taught me to stand up for myself, not only for bread, but for many other things that became important to me as I grew older, especially when I came to America. Maria Ceballos (BHSEC Queens)
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