Brittany McGee

I firmly believe that people come into our lives for a reason, whether they stay for a only short period or numerous years. Sometimes, people are unexpectedly taken from us, before we have a chance to truly cherish our time with them.

That’s the case with Julio.

A couple months ago, I was talking with my socios from the municipality about exercise and staying healthy when they mentioned that they often go to one of the gyms in town around 5 or 6 each night. They then invited me and my site mate to check out the gym. After I ran the half-marathon and needed a brief break from running, we finally decided to go one day in May.

The gym was straight out of the 80s. Posters of body builders lined the walls. The machines were bright yellow. The dumbbells were adjustable, the weight plates could be put on and taken off, secured by a metal piece that screwed on and off. The music, however, was modern. Almost like being at an EDM concert. And the crowd was young, mostly male.

The owner was Julio. An older man who truly believed in weightlifting to maintain good health. He believed this so much that from time to time he would also lift weights.

I began going more regularly to the gym, and at the beginning of July I paid in advance for the month. Each time I saw Julio, he would greet me by name while his face lit up. Occasionally he’d throw in a few English words too. During my work outs, he’d often interrupt me to tell me stories about his life or we’d talk about the cultural differences here in Peru versus the United States. Julio was educated and well-traveled. He told me that he chose to live in Olmos as opposed to Lima because of how tranquilo it was. He could walk to anywhere he needed, or take a quick mototaxi trip for a Sol.

You could tell he was well respected and regarded. The regulars, a group of 20-somethings, came in several times a week and would take the time to talk to him as well. Their interactions often were light and playful. They joked a lot. They had built a confidence in one another; watching them was like watching a family.

Almost every time I came in Julio would invite me to something—whether it was to the second plate of picarones he bought, to a juice before my workout, or to play cards some night. I hadn’t yet taken him up on his offer (the food while working out would have made me sick), but I was planning to. I enjoyed talking to him. At 68, he had seen a lot of the world and I knew I had a lot to learn from him.

Earlier this week, my Peace Corps training group got together to celebrate one of our own, on what would have been his 23^rd birthday. Shalin Shah passed away in May from cancer; but his legacy continues as was evidenced in our celebration of his life on July 13^th. Shalin was extremely spiritual, and had courageously accepted a terminal diagnosis, focusing on the positives rather than how short his time on earth was.

The day after the memorial, I told Julio about the event and what had happened. We talked briefly about mortality, and how he had friends who wouldn’t take care of themselves. He didn’t understand why they wouldn’t, and we concluded that while we can’t change people’s behaviors, we can enjoy our time on earth with them.

I look back on that conversation now ironically, as it was my second to last conversation with Julio. As I was walking through town today, I saw a crowd of people gathered around the gym entrance. My heart sank into my stomach as I knew what that meant.

Here was Julio, someone who took his health seriously. No, he wasn’t in the best health, mainly due to his age and a few accidents, but he tried. He ate mostly well (picarones aside) and he worked out. And he advocated for other people’s health.

I gathered the confidence to approach the crowd, noticing the police going in and out of the gym/house. The first people I spoke with didn’t know what was going on, nor did they know Julio. I forced myself to move forward, and ask. I didn’t have to. I knew.  I quickly asked a second person, and when she confirmed, I took off, not wanting anyone to see the tears that were forming in my eyes.

Julio had died earlier that morning. I didn’t ask how. That didn’t matter. He was gone.

I lost a friend, and in the very early stages of what was on track to be a good friendship. Julio taught me that friendships can be found in the most unlikely and unexpected of places. That friendships come in all shapes and sizes.

In our short time together, he also taught me to do things for me—to live how I want to live. That’s how he lived his life. He didn’t fold to peer pressure. He knew what was important to him and lived according to his values and priorities.

As we talked about in one of our last conversations, I’ll remember to enjoy what time I do have with friends and loved ones, making sure they know that they are important and a priority to me. And for those who have left this life, I’ll cherish the times I had, celebrating their memory.

A few months ago, I started noticing the number of funerals happening in town. There’s only one cemetery in the district, so it’s hard to miss the quantity of processions marching around the plaza to and from the church. I thanked whatever powers that be that I had yet to attend a Peruvian funeral, but now it’ll be my turn to walk with the rest of the people mourning.  The band leading the way playing music. The pallbearers holding the casket as they follow the band. The somber faces of those who have lost a loved one or friend walking slowly behind. But together, we’ll remember the life of Julio.