My dad was joined one year by another missionary from Minnesota. He was older than my dad and a bit more sedate, more interested in the standard functions of the clergy, like preaching, albeit in the same low-key style that my dad tried for. The Olsens had three daughters and a son, each about the same age as one of my sisters, so we got together fairly often to play. They lived in another white-collar neighborhood called Barranquilla, which had become my favorite part of town for its quiet, foggy mornings and the way the smell of salt gave away the presence of the ocean a few yards away.
Lima sits on a plain just above sea level; a line of 80-foot cliffs made of hard-packed dirt separates the city from a broad yellowish-brown beach. (I imagine the dirt cliffs in Santa Monica looked the same, before LA got its water and ceased to be desert.) Some neighborhoods, including Barranquilla, sprawl right up to the edge, and in the early morning the foggy, salty air rolls softly up the cliffs and into the streets and mixes with the fog-filtered sunlight for an effect that is painfully pretty.
The Olsen girls had to go to all the same Sunday services we went to, out in the barriadas, but it seemed to take their parents longer to give up the habit of making them dress in their Sunday-going-to-church clothes. I think my folks had figured out early on that wearing your finery to slog through wet sand and dog poop was either too silly or too much trouble to be worth it, so we were allowed to go to church in civilian dress. The Olsen girls seemed uncomfortable in the sand-floor churches, and I wondered (but never asked) if we looked as uncomfortable as they did, and how much it had to do with the requirements of keeping their dresses neat. I never did figure that out.