By MICHELLE BARTHULY | Moonshine Ink
A sweet aroma greets our nostrils through wisps of smoke as a pair of dark, brown hands rotates skewers of anticuchos, a grilled Peruvian delicacy. I offer the woman a smile. She is beautiful. The ridges and lines on her face show hard work, dedication to a family, and love for her land. Her thick, jet-black hair is pulled into two braids that almost reach her waist, teasing the tops of her long, heavy pleated skirts.
“Dos, por favor,” I say, handing her two Peruvian soles, the equivalent of 70 cents. She exchanges the money for two skewers, each with three chunks of meat and a potato on them. My hands reach eagerly for the cilantro lime sauce, smearing it atop the potato. With a hungry grin, my cycling partner and I excitedly rip our teeth into the cow heart kebabs. Finding as many makeshift street grills serving this specialty as we can has almost become a ritual on this trip.
Licking the last bit of flavor off my fingers, I look up into the deep, chocolate eyes of the Frenchman standing next to me. A rush fills my body as the words I can’t believe I’m here fill my thoughts. It has been a little over a month since I met Mathieu, and I am continuously in awe of the way this trip has panned out.
In March 2013, at the age of 27, I said goodbye to my hometown of Reno, as well as family, friends, my marketing job, and the security of routine. To put it simply, I wanted to figure out what I was doing with my life, and I needed to get lost. I was a college graduate who had developed an impatient desire to do everything right now after losing my mother to skin cancer followed by the tragic murder of my best friend soon after. I sold almost everything I owned and bought a one-way ticket.
By month eight of my trip, I had lived for three months each in Ireland and France, and was two months into a job as a prep cook for a yoga center in Villarmartin, Spain when I planned a getaway weekend to visit friends in Madrid. On the overnight bus ride to the Spanish capital, I found out I couldn’t stay with my friends as planned, so I quickly booked the cheapest hostel in the city.
My first night at the hostel, while recounting stories of the months I spent in France to another friend, I tried desperately to pronounce the name “Dordogne” (Dor-doyn-ya) — one of the départments, or French counties, where I had spent time — when I heard a playful snicker coming from the table to my right.
Mathieu introduced himself and I was immediately smitten at his presence. He carried himself with a reserved confidence; his short, dark hair matched his deep, intelligent, and gentle eyes, and the stubble on his face hinted at a lot of time on the road.
I don’t believe in fate, but Mathieu had also picked this hostel last minute. As he was about to board his flight to Peru, customs officials denied him because he had a layover in the U.S. and no transit visa. He rebooked a flight for Monday, putting us in the same, fortuitous place.
We spent the weekend together, Mathieu inspiring me with his stories of traveling the world by bicycle over the past year. Sunday night came too quickly, and as we sat on the hostel patio, I knew I would be sad to see this man leave. “I don’t want you to go,” I whispered. Without hesitation, he replied: “Come with me.”
Mathieu had another couple thousand kilometers to go, riding from Peru through the Uyuni salt flats to Santiago, Chile, where he would finish his trip and fly back to France. I had two months until the next stage of my trip started in Morocco, but I also didn’t own a bike or any gear.
Sitting back in my chair I looked into his eyes, searching for how serious he might be. “That would be crazy,” I told him. “Don’t tempt me because I am the type of person to do that sort of thing.” In his irresistible French accent, he said again, “Come with me. Why not?”
I hooked my arms around his neck and pulled until our foreheads touched. With a smile, sigh, and slight shake of my head, I repeated myself, “That would be crazy.”
We said our goodbyes but two days later the spontaneous side of me took over and I sent Mathieu a message with my flight confirmation number. In a week’s time, I was in Peru, eating my first anticucho. The next eight weeks were a whirlwind. We hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and I bought a bike in Cusco, Peru.
Our first 300 miles took us from Cusco to Puno, a city on the edge of Lake Titicaca. Along the way we ate trout in less-than-clean roadside stalls and drank fresh fruit smoothies from open-air markets. We were chased by dogs and embraced by children. Accommodations often came in the form of an extra bare concrete room attached to someone’s house, with the occasional cold shower, very little Internet, and the most friendly and contented people I had ever met.
We continued on to the Salar de Uyuni, at 4,086 square miles the world’s largest salt flat. It was a grueling two days of riding the hard, bumpy salt flats that proved to be not so flat, with nothing but white salt and blue skies for scenery. At the end of the first day and nine hours on a bike, with another day on the flats before we arrived at our final city, I became a cranky version of myself. I felt no desire to continue, and was tired, hungry, and dirty, but with some gentle encouragement from Mathieu, my complaints disappeared with the sunset and we slept under one of the most beautiful blankets of stars I had ever seen.
We finished our trip in Uyuni. Overall, it was a bit more than 630 miles, and I learned more about what I am capable of, who I truly am inside, and the type of man I want to be with later in life. I got set up to work in Argentina for a few months and then to start a dream job as a tour guide with an active travel company, both of which I’m convinced wouldn’t have happened if I had stayed with the safe option.
On days when I want to escape the world, or when people ask me about my favorite story, I remember my French lover with the chocolate eyes who showed me the power of making it happen and how to “just keep pedaling,” even when we don’t want to. And to go for the crazy option — it’s the path that will set you free and lead you where you’re meant to go.
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