by Julie BeTrippin
Shortlisted in the 2023 PureTravel Writing Competition
In an alternate version of my life, I’d be walking down an aisle today to meet you in a white dress. But instead, you’re attending the wedding of our friends who met right after us and I’m on a solo hiking trip in Patagonia.
I’ve never wanted marriage or kids. I’ve been saying that confidently since I was 10yrs old. And I even told you that on our first date at that dive bar in Brooklyn.
Most girls fear they won’t find “the one” before 30. I’ve always feared I would. Then we met when I was 25 and my fear came true.
Because I hadn’t yet had the chance to ride on the back of an Italian’s vespa through the hills of Tuscany or be the muse to a French artist who captures our love affair with his brush strokes or learn salsa entwined in the hips of a stranger in Puerto Rico. You held my heart for as long as you could, but the thought of settling down has always felt like a tragic loss of endless possibilities.
You know better than anyone my insatiable need to try it all after four years of giving me a bite of everything on your plate. It’s why you supported me traveling in the first place.
And even though it’s been a year since we ended it, neither of us have moved on. I think we both hoped I would exhaust my adventurous spirit and come back. But I haven’t. So I turned down your invitation to the wedding because we both need to.
I had just plopped in bed from a 15-mile hike when you called to tell me about the wedding. You try to gently break the news that you brought a date. As soon as the words hit my ears, my stomach drops like I fell off the top of 3000ft summit I just climbed.
You always made me feel better about getting older, but I don’t think you ever really understood why I struggle so hard with it. Because getting older means watching doors close on versions of lives I’ll never get to live. And you just slammed a big door in my face. It’s still hard to let go, even when it’s a life I never really wanted in the first place.
I hang up, take stock of where I am, and suddenly feel really silly – on a rickety, hostel bunk bed alone in a foreign country while everyone else our age is getting married and starting families. But some rowdy backpackers enter the room and interrupt my existential crisis, so I turn around, swallow my feelings, and go to bed.
I wake up to a rainy morning that matches my mood and meet a new friend for brunch. By the time we finish, the rain subsides so we start an aimless walk and end up on an empty, unmarked path through the most gorgeous hills I’ve ever seen. It feels like the universe left it there just for me. We’re the only people for miles, with no schedule and no destination. I feel freer than I’ve ever felt. So much so that I toss my backpack to my friend and start prancing down the street, until I feel the urge to run. And then I sprint. And I climb and stomp through mud and jump on rocks and explore every inch of this heaven-sent natural playground. It’s peaceful and exhilarating and in that moment, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
I leave Patagonia the next day. Even though I’m exhausted when I get back to Buenos Aires, I promised friends I’d meet them at a party, so I order an uber and commit to it being an early night. But when I get in the car, I lock eyes with the driver and feel a surge of mutual energy. We dance to the beat of the drums until the party ends and return to my rooftop where he teaches me bachata until the sun rises. And for the next three weeks, I get to experience the possibility of a life from one of the many doors still open.
Photo by Rodri Caruso on Unsplash
