Transformative travel story.

When I graduated from high school, I took an amazing two-week trip to Peru with my dad. I did the necessary tourist things - I explored Lima, strolled through the streets of Cusco, and watched the sunrise over the magnificent ancient city of Machu Picchu. I also got severe altitude sickness and threw up on some Incan ruins, but hey - chaos makes for the best memories...and that's a completely different story altogether.

At any rate, my dad, being the adventurous man he is, wanted to do something out of the ordinary. He wanted to push my limits and take me out of my comfort zone. He wanted to travel off the beaten path. So, he decided that we would go to Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world, for the night. We took a boat out to the island of Uros and I was amazed to see that the island wasn't actually land at all - it was made entirely of floating reeds. Stepping on the island felt similar to walking on a squishy mattress. The island floated around while the native people fished, collected more reeds for eating (which tasted kinda like celery), and lived their normal lives. I was blown away.

After our brief experience on Uros, we went to the island of Amantani. As soon as we stepped off the boat, my glasses randomly broke. To this day, I cannot explain it. The temple just disconnected from the rest of the lens and suddenly, I was blind. After a few moments of panic, I put the remaining pieces of my glasses in my pocket and looked to our guide. Our guide was a 60-year old woman who seemed nice enough but spoke absolutely no English. She was directed to take us to our lodging for the night and instantly set off at a speed that easily classifies as my jog. I should mention that the terrain on Amantani is quite hilly, so it wasn't long before I was sucking some serious wind.

After what seemed like five days, we finally arrived at our 'hotel.' What I had previously been referring to as a 'hotel' actually turned out to be a guest room of a native family's home. I was shocked, but I soon learned that not only were there no hotels on Amantani, but there were no cars, no electricity, and one tiny shop. My mind was blown. Nevertheless, we dropped off what little luggage we had and made our way to the town square.

From the town square, the indigenous people wanted to take us to the top of a hill to see the view. I sarcastically remarked to my dad that I wasn't seeing much of anything and we started our ascent. Let me be clear - this wasn't a hill. This was a small mountain. I am not an athletic specimen (understatement of the century) and after about twenty minutes of climbing a very steep incline, I felt like I was dying. I asked my dad to stop with me. He obliged.

After a few minutes, we continued the torturous climb. Because I didn't have glasses, I was stumbling on every rock and root we passed...and I assure you, there were quite a few. At one point, I actually fell to my knees. My dad turned quickly to help me up and my wonderful response was "I hate you." I continued the climb, cussing the entire way.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, we reached the summit. From the top, there was a clear, open view of the expansive lake and the Bolivian mountains in the background. I could hardly see a thing and I made sure to let my dad know. I was bitching, complaining, whining, and throwing myself a regular pity party. However, as we sat to catch our breath, I started to notice the colors of the sky changing.

Gradually, the bright blue of the sky turned a striking shade of pink. The sun, which had changed from yellow to deep orange, was reflected in the still, glass-like lake. The wispy, white clouds danced with the yellows, blues, pinks, and oranges. Although I couldn't make out the shapes or see anything with real definition, the beautiful colors blended together in an image I could never re-create. Without clarity of vision, I was acutely aware of my other senses. I heard nothing but silence and the rocks shifting under my feet. I could faintly smell the food being cooked for us, the visitors, down at our host family's house. I could feel the crisp breeze brush past my face, blowing my hair and chilling my cheeks.

At that moment, I started to cry because I realized two overwhelming things. First, I realized that I was a very small part of something much bigger than me. All at once, I felt both in awe of the big picture and incredibly grateful to be a part of it. I also realized that all of the hard work to get there was worth it. No matter how bad things get, no matter how ugly, how hard, how impossible things seem, it gets better. The pain, the discomfort, the hard work, the sadness, the anger, and, in this case, the blindness and banged-up knees were totally worth it.

Sometimes, back in real life (you know - as opposed to the fake Peruvian one I lived once upon a wonderful time with my dad), I forget this. I complain. I cry. I mope. I get sidetracked by the sadness, the ugliness, the horrific realities of life. I feel lonely, scared, frustrated, and unhappy. I'm stressed, I'm depressed by the news, and ultimately, I feel hopeless. Then, something beautiful happens and it reminds me why I can't give up and why I live through the bad. Without the bad, you can't truly appreciate the good.

...and every once in a while, I need to think of my Peruvian sunset to remember that.