Chapter 30

I took this photo the day before I left. Hair freshly cut... Beard and 'stache neatly trimmed. I expected it'd be the one of last times I'd be able to groom myself for 10 days, not wanting to take my electric razor with me and expecting creature comforts to be scarce and difficult to attain.

I remember taking this picture and all of the things that were running through my head. I thought about all of the difficult changes that I had been through in my 30th year of life; besides turning 30, I'd lost my mother and then lost my job. I thought about how I was soon to embark on a trip without someone there to take care of me for the first time in my life. I thought about how terrifying it would be to get to Peru only to find out that Albert, my travelling partner, missed his flight; I would be stuck alone in a foreign country. What would I do? I thought about how much I would change and grow. I prayed that I would come back as that thing that has eluded me all these years: a man.

Thirty was a year of profound changes in my life. South America was really just the climax and conclusion to a storied year that I will credit with finally ushering me into true adulthood. The story begins with the passing of my dear mother. Talking about it still makes me cry.

In the years leading up to that event, I was coasting. Throughout my childhood and young adulthood, I was full of promise, but devoid of ambition. This defined me. Maybe I felt content just simply being full of promise; like it was enough for me to simply be a question that would forever remain unanswered. What I've come to learn is that it was a defense mechanism. You see, had I chosen to be ambitious, it would have forced me to answer the question, and frankly, I was too terrified to know; too scared to find out that the promise was one I could not fulfill. And it was this that set the course of my life. I would spend it somewhere in the middle. Not poor and suffering, but not happy either; just happy that no one was worrying about my well-being and maintaning that status quo. If I made no effort to reach my potential, then it would never be known what I could have been.

I was devastated when my mother passed away. I was her baby; her youngest. Even in the final years before we lost her, as my body grew large, and eyes began to sag - as I began to show the signs of aging - when I saw her, she would still look at me with doe eyes like I was the baby in this picture of mom and me. At times, I hated her for it; I felt like she was holding me back -- keeping me from becoming a man. At other times, looking into her eyes, I was that baby again, as if no time had passed.

I remember standing at her bedside, her hand clutching mine; she couldn't speak because of the stroke she suffered, but despite the pain and fear she must have been experiencing, almost as if out of instinct, she looked me in my eyes with her big doe eyes, smiled and squeezed my hands. Even in her final moments, she could still find joy in looking at the face of her littlest one, now an aging man. It wasn't long after that that she was gone. I think in some way, that part of me left with her; the baby boy from the picture was gone too.

In her final moments, my mom gave me a gift: the inner strength, the courage and resolve that I have long sought. Since her passing, I found the strength I needed to leave behind the things that held me back, the resolve I needed to overcome life's difficulties like losing my job, and the courage I needed to pursue the adventure that I seek; I credit it to her. In fact, in my mind, on some level, it is a tribute to her.

It has been a process. There was a lot of back and forth before I finally got the nerve to commit to going to Peru with Albert. In fact, we did not actually purchase the ticket until a week before we left. Some of the fears I had before leaving, in hindsight, seem a little silly. I remember a long conversation Albert and I had about when he would fly home. He was able to find two different return flights for himself: one that left a full day after my return date, and one that left ten hours before my return date. He was sympathetic to my anxiety about being alone in a foreign country and graciously offered to choose the later flight despite needing to come home earlier to prepare for a move from New York to San Francisco. After a good deal of thought, I told him to go ahead and fly back early rationalizing it as a good way for me to get a taste of solo travelling without too much risk. Had you told me then that I would end up travelling through South America alone for a month after splitting with Albert, I'd have told you to shove it. And yet, that is exactly what happened.
Here I am on the day that Albert and I split up. Initially, Albert was just going to the airport to check prices and I had decided to go to the plaza to start my blog; we were scheduled to meet up here in this Plaza in Cuzco that evening. Albert found a fare that was leaving that night for the right price, so as it turned out, we ended up not meeting up again. But it was fine. I had made the decision to extend my trip already by this point and had already purchased the ticket change. Still, the look you see here on my face is saying "what did I just get myself into...?"

Doubt frequently crept into my mind throughout my adventure and I suspect doubt and fear will be something that I will wrestle with my whole life. The difference now is that I feel strong enough to face those doubts and fears, and now I know the potential reward that lies out there if I can overcome them. Not long after I snapped this photo, I was on a bus driving across Peru to Lake Titicaca. The doubt and fear were quickly pulled off the stage for the next act: awe and amazement.

I am home now. It has been just shy of two weeks since I returned; I am still getting used to not saying "si" and "gracias" to local vendors. The beard and 'stache are gone. As I begin the 31st year of my life, I am full of optimism. Thirty was a turning point in my life, a life with which I was growing increasingly dissatisfied. I sort of knew it as it was happening, but it is only in retrospect that I can say it for sure.

As I reflect on this year of heartaches, joys, and growth, my mother is ever present on my mind. I miss her. In my mind, I like to pretend that when she left, and the little boy in me left too, they went together. I imagine that they are still together sitting in a chair -- just like in the picture. In this fantasy, she would never be lonely wherever she went, because I would always be with her.