Everyone warned me, “Lima is just a gateway to Cusco,” but I felt betrayed. Along the cliffs of Miraflores, bodybuilders performed amongst a swarm of social influencers. Beyond the Western horizon, paragliders levitated; their fluorescent canopies suspended by hope and gravity. Lima could be the Southern cousin of Venice Beach, minus some bravado and vegan smoothies. In a cliffside restaurant, ceviche and pisco sours were my only Peruvian ritual. Perhaps it was the raw egg or uncooked fish, but they started to eat me, inside out. My subsequent flight to Cusco became a direct transmission of illness. This host was about to infect a new geographical organism. Consoling my stomach on the bathroom floor, the Avianca attendant knocked urgently, “I’m sorry, Miss. It’s not safe to land in there.” Crawling back to my seat and onto the tarmac, I met my local guide inside. She refused to shake my hand, avoiding any physical contact, “You don’t need coca leaves, amiga. This is not altitude sickness. We are going straight to la clínica.” For two weeks, that hospital became my home; inhabiting a glass cage they called the ‘Gringo Suite’. Petite nurses floated in and out, whispering soft Spanish secrets, but always avoiding eye contact. “They are worried about you,” the local physician explained. “We don’t want you to shrink any smaller.” He was a charming Cusco native, who had studied abroad; his youthful presence signalled by the lingering scent of teenage cologne. I affectionately nicknamed him “Doctor Suave.” Despite restoring my health, la clínica could never repay my physical debts. Energy was currency and my reserves were too low. “You should contact your insurance company. It’s time to go home, chica.” Doctor Suave shuffled his Timberland boots, anticipating my despair. Every night as a starry-eyed child, I wrote in my dream diary. Machu Picchu was always numero uno. “Can I still go on a guided tour? It’s only three hours away.” Laughing politely, he deconstructed my childhood dreams, “Right now, el baño isn’t close enough for you.” In a final act of empathy, Doctor Suave released me on medical probation for one day “solamente.” Ambling amongst the cobblestone streets of Centro Histórico, I found rainbow-woven women guided tinkling llamas around adverts for Cusqueña and cuy. “Photo, five sols,” they cooed. An elderly stranger, a male enrobed in fresh white linen, reached for my camera, “I’m a professional photographer. I can edit your image.” Suspecting a charlatan, I politely declined. However, my scepticism was quickly interrupted by heavy rain. Was this an omen, or just the opportunity to run? In a mystical land of Incan astronomy and ayahuasca ceremonies, I chose faith over fear. When Pachamama speaks, you listen. Seeking shelter on the steps of a nearby church, the old man pointed at my silk blue blouse. “I was curious about you. Your clothes, that colour. All I could see was butterflies.” Spine immediately erect, my earlier premonitions returned. This pseudo-shaman was intuitive. “My name means butterfly in Greek,” I reflected. Ignoring the tangible discomfort, he continued, “I could also feel you were cold inside. Not on your skin, but in your heart.” Rolling my eyes, I indulged him, “What else could you feel?” He laughed dismissively, “Patience is a virtue that you were not blessed with.” Oblivious, he persisted, “You used to write religiously as a child, but you stopped. You lost your voice and now you have lost your dreams.” Avoiding any sign of recognition, I looked skyward. Images of ancient Incan ruins swirled in my mind like breath upon glass. Without hesitation, the old man seized my hands to command my gaze, but all I could see was myself; a mirror reflection illuminated in opposing dark pupils. “There are two women inside of you. One, a fearless warrior. The other, a scared little girl. Let her go. You have outgrown that childish skin. Shed your cocoon and take flight.” In that moment, a liminal threshold emerged between us; a portal to world’s unknown. I didn’t expect to find the secrets of my soul hidden within the premonitions of this foreign oracle. It wasn’t serendipity, but providence. When our subconscious becomes conscious, boundaries dissolve and freedom awaits.