Seven days in the Andes for the two of us: Cusco, the terraces of the Sacred Valley, and Machu Picchu. A first-person diary, illustrated with our own photographs.
We stepped off the plane in Cusco and the thin air hit us at once — light-headed, giddy, laughing at how breathless we were just carrying our packs. A grandmother pressed warm coca tea into our hands. That first night we wandered onto the Plaza de Armas, floodlit and golden, gripped each other's cold hands, and couldn't stop grinning. We were really here.
We woke slowly, hearts still thumping in the altitude, and spent the morning simply falling for Cusco — the honey-coloured cathedral, the whistle of pan-pipes, a stall where she bought an alpaca sweater two sizes too big and wore it all week. Over a pisco sour on a balcony we watched the whole plaza breathe below us and felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
We got gloriously lost in the San Pedro market — towers of golden corn, a hundred kinds of potato, juice ladies calling us over, an old weaver whose colours we couldn't stop touching. We shared a bowl of quinoa soup at a plastic table, elbow to elbow with locals, and agreed it was the best meal of our lives.
Above the rooftops we walked the giant zig-zag walls of Sacsayhuamán — stones the size of cars, fitted so tightly you can't slip a knife between them, and nobody quite knows how. Llamas grazed among them, unbothered. We sat on the grass with the whole terracotta city spread below and let the enormity of where we were finally sink in.
Into the Sacred Valley. At Pisac, Inca terraces climbed the mountainside in impossible green steps, and in the market below we haggled (badly) for a blanket we absolutely did not need. The Andes rose all around us, snow on the far peaks, and everything felt older and bigger than anywhere we had ever been.
We slept in Ollantaytambo, a living Inca town of cobbled lanes and water channels running since the 1400s. We climbed the fortress-temple at dusk, alone but for a stray dog, and watched the sun slide behind the mountains. Later, under more stars than either of us had ever seen, we lay awake talking about the life we wanted.
The little train hugged the roaring Urubamba river, winding deeper and deeper into cloud forest, snow peaks flashing between the trees. She pressed her face to the glass; I pretended to read but mostly watched her. With every mile our nerves and our excitement wound tighter — tomorrow was the day.
Aguas Calientes clings to a gorge right below Machu Picchu, all rushing water and steep green walls. We soaked our aching legs in the hot springs, ate far too much, and laid out our clothes for a 4 a.m. start. Neither of us really slept — the mountain was right there, just above our heads, waiting.
We climbed in the pitch dark and the cold, headlamps bobbing, hearts hammering — partly the thin air, mostly the anticipation. Mist hung heavy over everything and we could see almost nothing. At the top we waited in the grey cloud, holding hands, half-afraid it would never lift.
And then the cloud simply… tore open. There it was — Machu Picchu — the whole lost city laid out below us, green and impossible, exactly and nothing like the pictures. We both started crying, then laughed at ourselves for crying, then just stood there, speechless, gripping each other as the sun poured over the ruins.
At the viewpoint, with llamas grazing and the whole ancient world spread out below, he got down on one knee. I don't remember a word he said — I was already saying yes, already crying again, and a total stranger was clapping and taking our photo. Machu Picchu, of all the places on earth. We will never, ever forget it.
Still shaking, we climbed Huayna Picchu, the sheer green peak behind the postcard — narrow Inca steps, a dizzying drop, our hands slick on the cables. From the summit the famous city was a tiny green thumbprint far below, and we sat among the stones, newly engaged and breathless in every possible sense.
One last adventure: we hauled ourselves to 5,200 metres up Vinicunca, gasping every few steps in the freezing wind — and there it was, the whole ridge striped in impossible bands of red, gold and turquoise, as if the earth had been painted. Alpacas watched us, unimpressed. We have never felt so small, or so gloriously alive.
On our last morning we drank coffee on a balcony over the Plaza, her new ring catching the light, and made all the promises couples make — that we'd come back, that this was only the beginning. Peru gave us the mountains, the ruins, the thin bright air… and a story we'll be telling for the rest of our lives. Hasta pronto.