One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I’m counting my pulse — not from my wrist, but from the throbbing in my feet. Just like I counted the probably ten million steps it took me to get here. And where is here, exactly? Can a beat-up school bus in the Guatemalan highlands really count as a destination?
The engine’s still on. I’m inhaling exhaust while the driver searches for Gatorade at a roadside tienda, and I’m wondering how the hell I even got here in the first place. I do better at sea level. This I know. And yet — here I am — trying to convince my lungs that this thin-ass air is just as breathable as the breeze off the deck in my backyard.
A friend once said breathing at altitude is like running a race and then trying to catch your breath through a straw. I’ve never felt anything more definitively than that right now.
But maybe we should back up and trace the endless steps that brought me here.
I’ve always loved the idea of adventure. Just the word itself used to spark something wild in me. But here’s the truth: I have a wonky stomach. By day three of any trip, it’s pretty much guaranteed to mutiny. I get car sick unless I’m in the front seat — and even then, still probably. Altitude gives me anxiety because apparently, my lungs are high maintenance. I overthink being out in the dark alone. Was that the wind, or someone hell bent on murdering me? I can never find pants that fit. Why is everyone so tall? And so thin? Am I the only one NOT from Scandinavia? I have to pee constantly, but I’m always just a little bit dehydrated because I’ve learned the hard way that if a bathroom key comes attached to a yardstick, I’d rather hold it than risk being human trafficked in a gas station murder shack out the back in rural wherever-the-fuck.
Adjusting to hot climates takes me way longer than it should. And why am I the only one who’s sweating, and why is it always out of my elbow pits? But, my dirtiest of adventure secrets: I have no language skills to speak of. I can ask where the bathroom is, spout out a handful of words related to food and low stakes counting – which amounts to the conversational prowess of a toddler. It makes me feel like an imposter — Surely, this thing I love so much should be where I thrive. Even so, it seems like everyone else does it so flawlessly, while I’m just a bit of a fraud. I mean where are your pants from, and why aren’t you sweating yet and do you ever reach for your hand sanitizer?
And yet, I’ve built a career around travel. Not the “flowy skirt in a fill-in-the exotic location” kind. But the middle seat, cramped-leg, spilled-spaghetti sauce-on-yourself-when-you’re-not-even-eating-spaghetti kind. The kind where you hurl yourself into someone else’s world for a few days, just to remember how big life can be.
Which brings me back to Guatemala.
To this dusty ass school bus.
To this thumping pulse in my feet.
And to the version of me that still showed up, even when she felt like a fraud. Even while sweating from her elbows, while chewing on Pepto Bismal JUST IN CASE, and asking herself who chose THESE pants anyways?
Maybe I’ll never find the perfect pants. Maybe I’ll be a little dehydrated for a few days. And maybe I’ll always sweat more than most, or worry irrationally about that stomach gurgle and if today is the day we shouldn’t trust a fart or butcher the local language, while also sounding like an illiterate child.
But maybe — just maybe — the real imposter is the version of me who would’ve just stayed home instead.