I just returned from 10 days in the Caribbean, where I was a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding. This wedding felt surreal because the bride and I were together when met her future husband.
They met three years ago. She and I were trekking in the Himalayas. My bum knee was slowing me down, so she reached the hut below Annapurna Base Camp several hours before I did. By the time I limped into camp, she and a tall, tanned Frenchman were tangled in each others arms.
They became inseparable from that moment on. We lost track of each other within a few days — I ventured south to India, they headed north to Tibet.
Eighteen months later, we reconvened in Central Australia to swap travel stories. We followed the same basic path — a wide loop across Southeast Asia, followed by a jaunt down to Australia — but our timing had always been a few months off. They would enter a country as I was leaving, or vice versa.
Yet we shared a bond from experiencing the same places and enduring the highs and lows of our distinct lifestyle. We carried our lives in our backpacks. We had no jobs, no home, no car. Only a map and a limitless imagination.