Every Story Has a Beginning...

Mine and Paco’s was June of 1981. It was the summer before my senior year at Elk Grove High School and I was looking for a little (okay, well, a lot of) adventure in my 17-year-old life. So instead of attending cheerleading camp and hanging out at Rancho Seco all summer (Elk Grove’s version of “the beach”), I hopped on a plane and headed for Lima, Peru. I was participating in a 3 month foreign exchange program with American Field Service.

I was originally assigned to live with a Peruvian family who had a daughter my age, but the mom became sick right before I arrived. Within 24 hours of my arrival in Lima, AFS found me a new family—the Pimentels—Peruvian family extraordinaire! This was the beginning of a summer that would change my life forever.

Now my Peruvian brother, Carlos, was (and is) quite possibly one of the nicest, coolest, low-key dudes on planet earth and for 3 months took on the role of my big brother, protector, tour guide, social coordinator, and friend. And one thing was certain--I knew he had my back.

Soon after my arrival, Carlos introduced me to a group of neighborhood guys—Carlos’ posse, so to speak, which I soon became a member of. We did things like cramming ten teenage bodies into a VW bug to go to Miraflores and eat pizza, or dance at a disco, or dance at a party, or hang out on a park bench, or just hang out…anywhere! Some things about teenagers are universal. And among this group of guys was Paco—handsome, athletic build, dark curly hair and one year older than me. In a word—delicious.

Paco was a part of so many experiences I had that summer in Peru, but always at a slight distance—quite possibly because I had a boyfriend I’d met at the school I was attending. One night I took this boyfriend to a party where Paco was. “Why do you like this guy?” Paco asked me discreetly. “He has a monkey’s face. I’m much better looking, don’t you think?” (For the record, YES…I thought!!!!)

Soon thereafter, I broke up with “monkey face” and within days became Paco’s girl. I’ll never forget the night we first kissed—August 1, 1981. We were sitting on a park bench and Paco (who happened to speak pretty good English) was showing me his new cowboy boots…only he was calling then boats. “How do you like my new boats,” he said, raising boat-shaped cowboy boots in the air. Part of me wanted to laugh—it just seemed so funny. But the other part of me was melting inside as I sat next to this incredibly handsome guy…who was soon kissing me instead of talking about “boats.”

The end of my stay in Peru was rapidly approaching...and this mamma’s girl was incredibly homesick. I’d had an amazing summer abroad, but I was ready to return to my home, family, and senior year of high school. On one of my last nights in Peru, I was sitting on another park bench with Paco. We were talking, and if I recall, I’d been crying as I explained to Paco how homesick I was feeling. Something Paco said to me that evening has stuck with me all these years. “I love my country, Tami. I love Peru and I could never live anywhere else. This is my home.”

I completely understood where Paco was coming from…because at that moment I was feeling exactly the same. I loved my country, the United States of America. And as much as I loved the amazing people and culture of Peru (and this handsome, curly haired Peruvian boy), at that time in my young life, all I could think about was being back home with the people I loved the most—my family.

Before I left Peru, Paco gave me a silver necklace. On one side was engraved my name, and on the other, his name and August 1^st 1981—the day of our first kiss. We exchanged addresses and a kiss at the airport, and I was flying home. Soon thereafter, I received a letter and picture from him. I remember the day I received it so well. My first week of my senior year at Elk Grove High School had just started….and a new chapter of my life. I was involved in cheerleading, student government, and all those things that consume the lives of American teenagers. So I set the letter aside, thinking I would respond soon. Days, weeks, and months passed, and the letter from Peru went unanswered—quite possibly the biggest mistakes of my life.

Paco tells me that he checked the mail every day for months before he finally gave up that I would respond (which makes me feel like the biggest schmuck in the universe!!!!). I stayed in touch with the Pimentel family on and off through the years, but it would be 28 years before I’d ever have contact again with the handsome, athletic build, curly haired, Peruvian boy—now man—who won my heart one summer, on a park bench as he showed off his new boats.

Stay tuned—there’s more to come.