I arrive in Lima at 11pm and feel anxious for about 20 minutes, before I situate myself at the hostel rooftop bar and get invited to a party. I get back to the hostel at 6am the next morning, and spend my first day in Peru lounging off my Pisco Sour hangover.
I plan to stay in Lima for a few days before heading south toward Cusco, but I am quickly convinced by a nameless Israeli boy with an irresistible smile to go north instead. Within an hour, I have cancelled my hostel reservation and booked the night bus to Huaraz for five days of trekking in the Andes.
I’ve missed this.
The Bartender has also become a four-letter word—his name. This is unusual for me, and he teases me with every botched introduction.
He’s just okay, I tell my friends, but they know I’m lying.
My fourth year of teaching ends today and I leave in four days for the summer. I’ll be gone for 48 days (if you’re counting), which is probably about the same amount of time that we’ve known each other.
So this is silly and strange and I’m skeptical about our poor timing and mismatched schedules and very different lifestyles, but he fights me with more four-letter words—ones like miss and wait and keep.