I’m feeling a little like my tennis shoes these days: completely worn out. My shirts are sprouting holes, the circles under my eyes have dug a permanent trench, and I’ll scream if I have to plan one more detail. But I also feel a new sense of optimism, hope, and renewed energy as I think about returning to my life in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It’s hard to believe that tomorrow, after 245 days of travel, we are homeward bound. After working towards a goal so singularly for nearly two years, it’s difficult believe that, in a poof, it will all be over, a little like Cinderella at midnight.

When we began talking about this trip 10 years ago, we envisioned it as an opportunity to see as much of the world as possible, to feel the winds of adventure pushing at our back. The end result has been so much richer. We’ve learned not only about the world we live in, but about ourselves and our inner lives. The process of travel and self-discovery ultimately became more important than the sights we were seeing; the inner journey became as significant as the outer one. And that process was primarily propelled by the people we met along the way – from small chance encounters to deep friendships that were forged. We were especially inspired by the other round-the-world and long-term travelers we met, for who we shared a special camaraderie and understanding. The greatest gift of this trip was being exposed to different walks of life through different people, which helped us to realize where we belonged on that magnificent spectrum.

Before we left, I was in a deep rut. I was unhappy with nearly every aspect of my life, but I didn’t know what to do to change it. I was stuck. I had two major questions that had been nagging at me for years that I hoped this trip would answer. Can location affect happiness? Should I accept my life as it is or continue struggling for something better? It soon became clear to me that answering these questions was the key to moving forward, and the trip was the perfect medium in which to do so. By stripping away the known, I was able to see myself clearly, perhaps for the very first time. I’ve spent the past 10 years moving around, trying to find a place were I would feel content and at home. I’ve now had an opportunity to experience so many different cultures and places, and have concluded that I’m just as happy at home than in the world. I think I finally understand, deep down, that we create our own happiness. And while there are certainly places in this world where we personally feel more or less happy, we are responsible for creating our sense of home.

Another part of my unhappiness was feeling disconnected from myself; at the beginning of this trip, I would have had a difficult time articulating something as basic as the things I liked. I wasn’t sure where my life was heading, or what I even wanted from my life. I finally realized over the course of this trip that I had been agonizing over the fact that, like most of us, my life didn’t turn out as I had always planned or expected. And rather than simply investing my energies in living the life I had, I worked feverishly to recapture what I felt I had lost, or to create the life that I thought I should have. But neither of these imagined lives were connected to my spirit, leaving me to feel empty. My friend, Heidi, wisely told me, “Sometimes we mistake restructuring for settling.” I am finally beginning to see that so many of the wonderful things that have happened were never in the cards (I never dreamed, for example, that I’d travel around the world and log 22 countries before the age of 31). I am finally ready to start living the life I have, not the life I thought I would have. While I will always continue to strive to be a better person and find my purpose, I am finally letting go of who I thought I should be and accept who I am.

What will the next chapter look like?

I know the big question on most people’s mind is, “So now what are you going to do?”

A big part of my emerging self is realizing that I’m happier with less, and when I get home, I plan on maintaining a life that is stripped down to the bones and discerning what I really need. I plan on starting a garden and creating some of my own food source. I want to clean my house from top to bottom. I want to get in the best shape of my life. I also realize that my spiritual life has been sorely neglected, and the first way I plan on reconnecting with my that self is through a regular yoga practice, something that has been continuously recommended over the years but that I have outright ignored. The Buddhist culture in Bhutan really spoke to me, and I plan on exploring that philosophy more through classes at a Buddhist center in Albuquerque.

Where will this all lead, career-wise? I have absolutely no idea. In recent months, I’ve begun to formulate an idea of helping people lead better lives through incorporating mind, body, and spirit. If I could sneak in food, writing, and travel, all the better! I don’t know if I’ll ever write professionally, but I’ve been a lifelong letter and journal writer, and have seen the power of the pen. I’d like to be able to help people work through their spiritual problems through writing. How this jumble of ideas will manifest itself in a paid job I have no idea, but I presume it will involve creating my own path, something I’ve been fighting for years but finally need to accept.

Part of the life I always imagined for myself involved having a high-powered career in which I would do “big” and “important” things. Through the people I’ve met on this trip, especially Hellen from Lake Titicaca, I’ve finally realized that that person I envisioned is not me. I’ve always had so many eclectic interests that I’ve struggled to settle on one thing, which I perceived as a detriment. However, I’m finally understanding that having diverse interests is part of what makes me me; that I will probably never have one career; and that I will probably do many different, interesting things over the course of my life.

So what have I learned these past eight months?

I can live without a television, but not the Internet. Don’t trust anyone who routinely refers to things as “brilliant,” unless they’re from the UK or Australia. I’m stronger than I think I am. Traveling during high season sucks and should be avoided at all costs. I have more patience than I ever dreamed possible, but I still need more. I hate hot weather. The less people have, the more they have to give. Most people’s travel advice is dead wrong; there is no “right way” to travel. I never want to wear a suit to work again on a regular basis. I have more time and money to give than I thought possible. A good meal can turn any day around. The greatest gift you can give a child is to expose them to other cultures through international travel. Things never go as planned, but always seem to work out. Simple is better. I appreciate the freedoms, rights, and organization of the United States like never before. I’m happier with less. It takes at least a month to get acquainted with a country. You don’t need to pack that much. Maikael truly loves banana milkshakes. I have a ridiculously high tolerance for bullshit. I never realized how deep my passion for food ran. Language should never pose a barrier to travel: you can bumble your way through any situation. American tourists are the only people in the world to wear trucker hats. Always trust your gut: it is nearly always right. Nothing – nothing – is ever easy.

What Will I Miss?

Of course, ending a journey of this magnitude is met with a certain sense of sadness. I recently realized that, over the past eight months, I’ve tried something and learned something new every single day. While often maddening, my life was never boring. So what will I miss? Meeting new and interesting travelers. Trying the cuisine of the world. Cheap bottles of great wine. Dulce de leche everything. Soda in a bottle (the only way I’ll drink it now). Being able to stand at the edge of a cliff, or some equally dangerous thing, without a guardrail or warning sign. Feeling a part of the amazing community that is round-the-world travelers. My everyday life not being governed by so many rules. Kissing perfect strangers on the cheek. Big Kids Summer Camp. Being invited into other cultures and learning the ins and outs. Not having to worry about grocery shopping. Argentine steaks. Always having a new adventure on the horizon.

What Am I Looking Forward To?

On the other hand, there are a million things I’m looking forward to, like breakfasts that don’t involve dulce de leche. Knowing exactly what I’ll get when I order a chicken sandwich. Bathtubs, decent showers, and bathroom fixtures that make sense. Orderly lines that people obey. Not having to jockey for space on hot, overcrowded public buses. Eating hamburgers, french fries, and pizzas with my hands. Good Mexican food. Being completely, 100% understood. Exploring my own backyard. Starting a garden. Beginning yoga. Learning the samba. Getting in the best shape of my life. Perfecting my Spanish. Catching up on all the movies I missed this year. Starting a new blog? Getting my life back in order. Giving more freely of my time and money. Killing my cable. Reconnecting with friends and family. Having time to read again. Laundry not being an ordeal. Never cooking in a hostel kitchen again. Not having to spend another minute or dollar planning this trip. Translating everything I learned on this amazing journey to life at home.

Epilogue

So that’s it. The end of a huge chapter in my life, the completion of the biggest personal goal I’ve ever set for myself. When I set off on this journey, I knew it would change me; I just didn’t know how. I hope you’ll find a person who is more compassionate and giving; whose interests have grown deeper; who is a better friend, daughter, and wife; who cares more than ever about the world she lives in; who believes fully in the kindness of strangers. Thank you, dear readers, for accompanying us on this journey.

“The last time I was in this airport it was a lot dumpier and I was drunk,” said Maikael, as we cruised, stone-cold sober, towards immigration at Mariscal Sucre International Airport in Quito. He visited the city as a 16 year-old boy on a spring break trip from Costa Rica Academy, at the invitation of a friend who lived in Quito, whose father was the head of Peace Corps operations for Ecuador. We’ve talked about Maikael’s memories of that trip over the years while thumbing through faded photos from March 1993. There was the Middle of the World monument, where Maikael was pictured happily straddling the equator. He remembers being whisked through immigration with the flash of an official black passport from his friend’s father. He remembers the country being poor, highly indigenous, and very cold and rainy.

Things have changed dramatically in 16 years. Maikael gawked at the shiny, modern airport, where our passports were stamped electronically. Quito is now a sprawling city, a sea of never-ending traffic choking the highways and thoroughfares. “There were hardly any cars back then,” Maikael recalled. One afternoon we strolled through a gigantic mall constructed in a Spanish style, a gleaming white palace stuffed with a huge supermarket, a deluxe movie theatre, and fast food restaurants. The Middle of the World complex, once a simple monument, is now a full-blown complex of tourists shops.

Interestingly, just like the last visit, we were invited to stay in Quito with friends. We were met at the airport by Dot and Rich, friends of Cecilia’s from her working days in Seattle, who I had met only a few times. They retired here eight years ago, practically sight unseen and speaking zero Spanish. Dot and Rich built a beautiful house on the outskirts of Quito, overlooking a lush green valley, and still speak very little Spanish! “Ecuador is great, except for the silly language,” Dot joked. Amazingly, they get by just fine, proving that confidence is the most important ingredient in successfully living overseas. On the way home from the airport, they regaled us with stories of trips to jails (“I was on my way home from a party and there were beautiful cream puffs and empanadas in the car, so I asked if I could bring them inside,” said Dot), lost licenses, brushes with police, home invasions, and all manner of things that would have scared me to death, but that they seem to have faced with humor and flexibility. Not only that, but they mix a mean drink!

Dot and Rich have shown us a wonderful time in sunny Ecuador, treating us to home-cooked meals, letting us soak in their spa, providing us beautiful surroundings in which to relax, and organizing day trips. On Saturday they drove us to Otavalo Indian Market, one of the few places Maikael remembered from his first trip to Quito. Known for their weaving, Maikael had bargained hard for a wool wall hanging emblazoned with indigenous symbols, which now hangs proudly in our living room. “I think I got it for $5,” Maikael said. Like the rest of Ecuador, the market has grown considerably over 16 years. Once a small affairs with few tourists, the Saturday market sprawls over several streets and is teeming with English-speakers. But the Otavalo, as well as indigenous people from neighboring communities, still man the stalls. The women wear frilly embroidered tops with long navy skirts, their necks laden with gold beads, the number and size denoting their status in the community. They are joined by the men, clad in crisps white linen, their long, shiny braids snaking down their backs.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant, admiring the vaguely familiar wall hangings that flanked the walls. “Most of those are probably knitted by Jose C.,” said Rich. “He is one of the most well-known weavers in Ecuador,” he continued, Jose Cotacachi’s father having been a renowned weaver. Maikael turned to me. “Isn’t our wall hanging signed by a Jose somebody?” he asked. “Most of the hangings at the market aren’t signed by anybody,” said Rich.

We purchased a lovely little painting, depicting a traditional village scene with a shaman; a knitted wool plant holder, which Ecuadorians hang from their ceilings; and a handmade puppet dressed as a traditional Otavalo woman. On our way out of town, Dot said she needed to stop at Jose C.’s studio to drop off a thank-you note, as he had donated a weaving for an auction she had organized. As we crouched through the doorway of the rustic studio, we gasped. The most beautiful weavings we had seen in all of Peru and Ecuador filled our field of vision, a wash of color and exquisite shapes, all executed with exceptional mastery. We rounded the bend, and there hung a weaving with nearly the same design as the one that hung on our living room wall in Albuquerque, New Mexico. “We have a Jose C. original!” we cried. Unfortunately Jose was out, but Maikael excitedly explained to his wife that he had bought one of his wall hangings 16 years ago. The wall hangings go for more than $5 these days, but an hour later we emerged from the studio with two new wall hangings for our apparent Jose C. collection: a striking crimson design with birds and a gorgeous geometric weaving depicting the Incan calendar.

Some things never change.

When we arrived in Ollantaytambo, an ancient village nestled in the Sacred Valley that’s been continuously inhabited since Inca times, we noticed a white station wagon ambling down the road. Its windshield was crusted in flowers, and it left a plume of toilet paper and colorful confetti in its wake. Later that afternoon we stumbled upon the village church, a white adobe beauty with old church bells. As we creeped through the massive front doors we stepped upon a blanket of confetti littering the courtyard. Inside, the pews were lined with fresh flowers that had been affixed to the ends of each aisle, with enough tape to withstand hurricane-force winds. We continued down the cobbled streets, watching in amazement as two men cradled an enormous pot of something. Then we saw the arch of pink and white balloons gracing a crowded doorway. All the signs were there: a wedding reception was in progress.

We curiously ducked our heads in the doorway, and within seconds were greeted by a man with deep pink eyes where the whites should have been. He looked as if was having a very good time. “Is it a wedding?” we asked. “Yes, please, come in, come in,” he encouraged. We looked nervously back and forth between one another, debating as to whether we should continue, but before we had a chance to respond, we were being passed through the crush of villagers to the front of the packed room. Rows of men, women, and children sat shoulder to shoulder on simple benches wearing everyday clothes in the dimly lit reception hall, and by the time we arrived to the clearing in the front of the room, all eyes were on us. Nearly the entire population of Ollantaytambo must have been there. We were officially Peruvian Wedding Crashers.

We found ourselves standing squarely in front of the head table, the bride and groom seated directly before us. I noticed that the couple was older. The bride was wearing a simple white wedding dress, with a veil and confetti sprinkling her coal hair, which was pulled back from her smooth, round, solemn face. Her husband was dressed in a simple navy suit and he sat to her right, looking equally serious. Two more men and women flanked their sides, dressed in casual business attire. What appeared to be the couple’s family sat in benches to the immediate left and right of the head table, and before someone offered us their seats, we ducked into the nearest doorway.

That doorway turned out to be the service entrance, and we watched wait staff clad in jeans and cozy sweaters parade enormous platters of drinks and dreamy pink wafer cookies through the opening. First came the chicha, a classic Peruvian firewater, served in tiny plastic Dixie cups; the servers insisted we each take one, which we happily accepted. A band played in the background, four men dressed a la Jefferson Starship in bright blue, sparkly tops and pants with silver cuffs. They were playing rousing renditions of nouveau Andean music, but the crowd sat completely still, in total silence, never clapping after the songs. It was a very strange paradox.

After a few enthusiastic songs, champagne glasses filled to the brim with agolden chica were served to the head table, and the speeches began. During one of the speeches we learned the couple already had two girls – they must have been the ones running around in frilly white dresses. No one clapped after the speeches. A round of pisco sours were served, and the wait staff coaxed us once again to drink up. I could swear that the groom made direct eye contact with me; I smiled and raised my glass to him. He did the same.

Next came the bouquet toss, and the band called for all the single girls to come to the front of the reception hall. Only one girl, dressed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, reluctantly made her way to the empty circle in front of the head table. The band leader called again for all the single girls, and she was eventually joined by a small clutch of young women. The bride stood with her back to the girls, limply holding the bouquet in her hand. “Uno,” called the band leader, the trill of a drumroll in the background. “Dooooooos,” he said, in his most high-pitched voice. “Dos y media. Trrrrrrrrres!” She didn’t throw the bouquet. It was a psych out bouquet toss that the band leader and the bride had worked out in advance. Nobody laughed. They went through the motions again, and when the bouquet was finally tossed, there was no mad dash and screaming as would have transpired in the United States. Instead, it silently bounced off the girl in the pink shirt and landed at her feet. Everyone stared blankly at it. No one would pick it up, so the band leader staged a redo. The bouquet landed once again at pink shirt’s feet, which she reluctantly picked up and shyly showed to the crowd. Nobody clapped.

The same routine transpired with the single men, but instead of a garter, a sprig of white flowers was thrown; the men were slightly less reluctant than the women. Afterwards, the bride and groom danced with the young man and woman who had caught the bouquet and flowers. It was not unlike something you might see at a junior high school dance. The couples awkwardly shifted to and fro across the dance floor, staring vacantly over the shoulder of one another at some far away point on the ceiling that only they could see, never making eye contact.

After the dancing, frosty Cusquena beers in amber bottles were produced from plastic crates and passed amongst the crowd. Now the head table had a tidy row of chica, pisco sours, and beer placed in front of them. Mr. Jefferson Starship announced something, which caused a group of young women to race towards the wedding cake, a fluffy white thing sitting below an ancient sign framed by two swans which read, Nuestra Boda. Our wedding. It was then that I noticed the decorations, or lack thereof. Some flowers were taped to the walls of the hall within an inch of their life (clearly, whoever was responsible for the décor at the church had continued their rein here). A few streamers clung to railings. The cake was topped with a western bride and groom, but a golden llama eclipsed the plastic couple in the foreground. There was no photographer. In fact, hardly any of the guests had cameras. This was no Martha Stewart extravaganza. More than anything, it seemed to be a community affair, a gathering of people assembled to wish this newlywed couple well. Everyone was invited. Even us.

To the crowd’s delight, some sort of a string was pulled from the cake. Then, the cake was cut, yielding massive slices for the bride and groom, who promptly proceeded to smear icing all over each other’s faces. Some things are universal. Just then, the now-bulging crowd parted, as four men supporting massive trays that cradled giant bowls snaked their way towards the head table. It was soup: this was what was inside that giant pot that those men had been parading through the streets earlier in the afternoon. Soon, bowls were passed to everyone in the hall, containing the most delicious creamy corn soup I had ever laid eyes upon. Bowls were passed to us, but we politely declined. The feast was just beginning, and we couldn’t impose any longer.

As we pushed our way back through the masses, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (impossible), we were greeted by our “friend”, his eyes looking more red than ever. He encouraged us to stay, but we thanked him for letting us be a part of this experience, the kindness of strangers never failing to amaze. There is a time in my life, in the not-too-distant past, where going blindly into an experience like this would have completely terrified me. But I found myself saying “yes,” walking happily into the unknown, glad to be invited to be part of something very simple and very sweet.

Machu Picchu: A new album with some cool shots from our recent trip up to one of the most expensive archaeological attractions on the face of the earth!

Lake Titicaca: There are new photos at the end of the Lake Titicaca album from our ride on the Andean Explorer, a 10-hour adventure on a luxury train trip between Puno and Cusco.  We were treated to a delicious sit-down lunch with real silverwear, afternoon tea, pisco sours, traditional entertainment, a tutorial on how to make pisco sours, and, our personal favorite, the world’s strangest fashion show involving the newest trends in alpaca!

Cusco & The Sacred Valley: I’ve added quite a few new photos to the end of this album, portraying our visits to Ollantaytambo, Moray, and Chinchero.  You will notice some photos of a wedding.  It’s true:  we crashed a Peruvian wedding yesterday in Ollantaytambo.  Tomorrow I will post a blog on the whole experience!

Until then, happy viewing!

Going to Machu Picchu, especially for a budget traveler, is a very expensive undertaking. Unless you are hiking the Inca Trail, your only option is to take a round-trip PeruRail train, the one and only company offering such services (read: outrageously priced monopoly), to Aguas Calientes, the cost of which ranges from the $60 Backpackers’ Train to the super deluxe $500 Hiram Bingham express (the latter of which includes such perks as musical entertainment, a private guide, and a four-course meal on the return trip to Cusco). If you plan on staying overnight in Aguas Calientes, the gateway to Machu Picchu, a ho-hum hotel room runs $60 per night, highway robbery by Peruvian standards. Then, there is the matter of actually getting to the ruins. Admission tickets cost $40 per day, and unlike Jordan’s Petra, no multi-day passes are offered. We were shocked to learn that the 20-minute bus ride between the town and the site, the only option other than hoofing it up a steep hill for an hour and a half, costs $14 round-trip. In the apt words of Rene, our host in Buenos Aires, who visited Machu Picchu a few years ago, “It’s Disneyland prices.”

We had planned on visiting Machu Picchu over two days in order to really take in the experience, not realizing until we arrived the extent of the sky-high prices. The train tickets and hotel room had been paid in advance, so there was no going back early. We stood in the ticket office, agonizing whether we should enter for one or two days, a difference of $108 (nearly an entire day’s budget). To make matters more complicated, it was beginning to drizzle: who knew if it would be pouring once we got up there? In a moment of fate and impulse, we took the plunge and bought two-day tickets, hoping for the best.

Was it worth it? In a word, absolutely.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw a photo of Machu Picchu, the Inca’s Lost City, a sprawling stone complex perched high on an emerald hilltop deep in the Andes Mountains. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, so much so that I truly couldn’t believe that modern, everyday people could visit the site today. (I was flabbergasted to learn that, if a person was so inclined, he or she could actually walk to the site via a four-day trek on the Inca Trail.) Other than knowing it was built by the Incas, I had no clue as to what Machu Picchu actually was, but I was mesmerized by it, and when we began crafting our itinerary, it was one of the first items on the docket.

The train chugs into Aguas Calientes and deposits passengers in a deep sliver of valley, and as you make your way up the long, winding road towards Machu Picchu, it’s clear why it’s referred to as The Lost City of the Incas. When Yale University archaeologist Hiram Bingham “discovered” Machu Picchu in the late 1800s, he was actually in search of Vilcabama, believed to be the last Inca stronghold. Instead he found Machu Picchu, swaddled in overgrown foliage and in a state of neglect. When he found the real Vilcabama, it turned out to be much smaller than Machu Picchu, and he began to believe that perhaps Machu Picchu was actually the site of more significance.

What is amazing about Machu Picchu is that it was never discovered by the Spanish, no doubt due to its remote location. Most Inca ruins in the Sacred Valley consist of an Incan foundation with Spanish architecture slapped on top, so Machu Picchu is special in that it remains a “pure” example of Inca craftsmanship. Upon entering the site, a sweeping vista of the city below takes your breath away, a blaze of eye-popping green plazas and rugged stone walls, all set against the backdrop of towering emerald sugarloaf hills, as banks of clouds are swallowed by the valley below. The whole scene lends the effect of being perched on the precipice of the world.

No one knows the exact purpose of Machu Picchu. Some theories suggest that it was a transfer station for goods bound for Cusco. Others suggest that it was a central administration site. Yet others think it may have been a “summer home” for an Incan king, given the area’s year-round temperate climate. The romantics amongst us believe that Machu Picchu may have been the home to a clutch of chosen virgins for the God of the Sun, as evidence originally suggested a disproportionate number of women when mummies were excavated from the site.

Whatever its purpose, its size is impressive. The city looks manageable from a distance, but once one begins exploring, the scale and perspective suddenly shift: once you’re in the middle of it, everything feels impossibly huge. Gone are the thatched roofs that sheltered great A-frame buildings, but their bones remain. Narrow stone staircases lead from one “complex” to another. Great tumbling fountains dot the buildings – Incas were great worshipers of water. Huge terraced hillsides, once used for farming and erosion control, occupy nearly 60% of the site, now the grazing grounds of llamas imported by train from Cusco, poor man’s lawn mowers.

The Incas were great astronomers, and stone-carved astronomical instruments, such as sundials, remain today. One such instrument, purported to emit positive energy, sits high above the city (a corner of the dial was damaged during the filming of a beer commercial in 2001). There are temples and stone carvings that, when the sun hits it just so during the solstice, cast a shadow that resembles the shape of the Andean cross. It’s no wonder that spiritual gurus from all over the world flock here. “Even Cameron Diaz came on the summer solstice,” said our guide.

No one knows why Machu Picchu was abandoned. Some believe that the Incas caught wind of the advancing Spanish. Others believe that a drought plagued the city. Like Easter Island, there are the standard UFO theories. Whatever the reason, a city perched high on a mountain peak – a hidden place that you can walk to, if the mood strikes – is pure magic.

Setting sail from the shores of Lake Titicaca feels like passing through a veil into another world. A series of small islands, just minutes from the mainland, awaits, with their own language, culture, and traditions. Scads of tour operators from Puno run daily tours to the islands, but the best way to experience these distinct communities is by taking the local boat solo and seeing life up close and personal for oneself.

We first boarded the local boat, a tiny skiff anchored in Puno’s harbor, to Uros, the famous Islas Flotantes (Floating Islands). We were the only gringos on board, surrounded by locals apparently on vacation. After passing through a gauntlet of spring green reeds, we reached what has to be the world’s coolest Coast Guard tower, a mammoth thing constructed entirely of reeds! Soon we were floating amongst the remarkable Floating Islands, patches of woven grass – some no bigger than a few meters wide – that float gently on the lake’s glassy surface. The islands were first constructed during Inca times, when a group of villagers, tired of the warring factions between Incas and Spaniards, created a refuge on the lake.

While the islanders traditionally earned their living through fishing, tourism now provides their primary income stream, which is evident from the moment the boat reaches shouting distance of the island. A group of women, dressed in colorful skirts and blouses, ran to the reedy edge to greet us, smiling, laughing, and greeting us in Quechua, the islanders’ first language. Before we knew it we were tromping on the slightly squishy “ground,” being shepherded to a bench constructed entirely of reeds to learn more about the islands’ construction (the root systems on the undersides of the reeds are bound together and anchored to the lake’s floor). Small group of families live together on an island, sharing resources and income generated from the beautiful handicrafts they create.

After spending the morning hopping lazily from island to island, our appetite was whetted to journey farther afield, so we made arrangements to spend the following evening on Isla Amantani, one of Lake Titicaca’s least touristed islands. We considered taking an organized tour to the island, which promised ease of planning, but opted to take the risk of going it on our own and arranging a trip through the local boat system. After dodging touts at the entrance to the public dock, we managed to find our way to the office that manages trips to the islands, with each island maintaining their own ticketing system (a benefit of buying directly is that more profit passes directly to the islanders, rather than a tour company taking their cut).

We presented ourselves to the dock early the next morning, quickly realizing that we really were on the local boat. We sandwiched ourselves between clutches of dark and weathered women dressed in brightly colored, traditional garb, from hand-stitched tops to flouncy wool skirts. One of a handful of tourists on the boat, we settled in for what promised to be a long boat ride. In traveling the world, I am constantly amazed at the patience that everyday people exhibit. Some napped. The women chatted in small groups, filling their skirts with handfuls of puffed Andean grains, snacking and laughing. One man, donning an outrageously colorful hat, sat reading Cosmic Conflict. Another woman listened to an old school iPod, a set of modern earbuds attached to an ancient transistor radio. A little girl with a sweetly round face and wide set eyes, wearing a blue chenille jumpsuit, started intently at us for hours, undoubtedly spooked by the white ghosts sitting across from her.

Four hours later the boat glided into a lovely stone harbor under sunny skies, and we were greeted by a group of women dressed in traditional clothing, with large, black shawls draped over their head, embellished with stunning embroidery. Each tourist was quickly assigned to a “host family,” waiting on the shore, for our evening’s stay. Sonia shyly shook our hands and led us along the rocky shoreline, zooming up the hill ahead of us as we huffed and puffed, still struggling with any type of physical exertion at 13,000 feet. Sweeping views of green farmland stretched in every direction, and I jogged ahead to ask Sonia what the deep purple plants sporting small pearls atop, looking like broccoli, were. “Quinoa,” she replied, simply. I should have guessed. There were also leafy potato, oca, and habas (lima bean) plants, arranged in tidy rows.

We quickly settled into our room, complete with a woven straw box spring, heavy wool blankets, and candles (although wired, there is no electricity on the island). We met Elvy and Delia, Sonia’s two darling kids who were smiley but shy and, like us, spoke Spanish as their second language. Lunch was brought to our room: quinoa soup, jewel-like potatoes, a fried strip of salty local cheese, rings of ruby tomatoes, and fluffy rice. Simple but simply delicious. Muna tea was served to help with the elevation, purportedly more effective than coca.

Eager to begin exploring the island, we asked Sonia direction to the ruins that dot the island. “Take the main road,” she said, and we laughed when a simple stone path emerged out of nowhere. “This is the main road?” I asked, incredulous. We made our way towards the modest town plaza, where small groups of islanders sat chatting, and poked our heads in the public health clinic (a list of islanders still in need of vaccinations graced the windows). Villagers passed up, always pausing to smile and say “good afternoon.” We continued up the hill: rustic rock walls corralled colorful crops, like stone stitches on a green quilt. Passing under impossibly old stone arches, I felt like I was living a scene from Mama Mia.

Night falls early in Peru, and after a long walk, we returned back home in the waning light, where Sonia was busy preparing dinner. We huddled around a roaring fire in the rustic adobe structure that served as a kitchen, asking her a million questions about food preparation as she grabbed handfuls of this and pinches of that and added them to boiling clay pots. Soon we were joined by Vidal, Sonia’s gregarious husband who asked us a million questions as we dined on free-form dumplings and a steaming bowl of diced potatoes, carrots, and rice. He asked us what we thought of President Obama, how to make a website, and where Switzerland was located. Apparently, an islander had recently married a Swiss woman, who had lived on the island for a few months, and returned to Switzerland to live. Talk about a world away! Dinner ended at 8:30, and although it was still early, we fell asleep quickly, listening to the complete and utter silence that enveloped us wholly. It was one of the best nights of sleep we’ve enjoyed in weeks.

After a quick breakfast of fried egg stuffed in a delicate pillow of Peruvian bread, paid our bill: three meals and a night of accommodations ran us $15! We dashed off to the dock, which would transport us to Taquile, a neighboring island with its own set of traditions, where we reunited with the tourists from the day before, including a couple from Lima and a lovely family from British Columbia. As cattle ranchers, it was the first trip the family had taken abroad since their children, aged 10 and seven, were born. I so admired this experience they had given their kids, and couldn’t help but wonder what their memories from this very memorable overnight stay would be. It also renewed my faith in not only the ability but the joy in traveling internationally with children, who seem to be a magical talisman in connecting with locals. After a brief stop on Taquile, which was dampened by a soggy day, we spent the four-hour boat ride back talking with the Canadians and the limenas, language not posing much of a barrier. Hellen passed around photos from their ranch, and extended an invitation to stay with them in the future. I couldn’t help but think, once again, how we had met the most interesting people and had the most fun during one of our least expensive excursions. It was Big Kids’ Summer Camp all over again.

As we reach the end of this trip, my thoughts turn a great deal these days towards my life back home and how I want it to be different. I have been reminded so many times during this journey of how much I have, and how little I need to be happy. In fact, the less I have, the happier I seem to be. My greatest hope is that I can carry a piece of this feeling back with me.

Photos from our trip to Amantani and Taquile Islands are posted at the end of our Lake Titicaca album.  Enjoy!