The Lost Girls

by Jennifer Baggett

  “Yeah, and thank God for that!” said Amanda. “If we drink one more ron y Coca-Cola Light at happy hour, I think I may have to bail on the trip before Holly does. I’m officially done, as of now.”

  “Guys, I was never bailing!” I reminded them, laughing. Then, to prove to the girls that I wasn’t totally lame—and that they didn’t need to stop enjoying themselves to appease me—I suggested we head to O Gravinho bar to sample chopps, Brazilian draft beer, and the country’s famous sugarcane liquor, cachaca. They protested a little—but not too much.

  As I took a sip of the caipirinha that my friends and I were sharing, my eyes met those of a guy wearing a straw fedora. His skin was paler than ours, and his long legs jutted out from underneath the table across from us. He sat with a Brazilian boy who was wearing a torn T-shirt and looked to be half his age.

  “Where are you ladies from?” he called over to us. Jen, Amanda, and I paused for a moment before Amanda answered, “New York.”

  “No way, really? I’m from Brooklyn.”

  “Me too. I live in Williamsburg. Or I did,” I said, unexpectedly delighted to have stumbled across someone from my neighborhood after almost two months on the road.

  “This is Igo.” He gestured to the boy, who was sitting silently beside him. “I’m Sam.”

  We all introduced ourselves, and, after asking if he could join us, we pulled the tables together. He turned to Igo and spoke in Portuguese.

  “Oi, Igo,” I said, grinning at the teen. He smiled shyly but said nothing. I turned to Sam. “How’d you guys meet?”

  “He asked me for money, so I offered to buy him dinner if he practiced Portuguese with me.” Just then, another boy approached the table and pulled on Igo’s arm. Igo said something to Sam in Portuguese before rejoining the band of boys across the street.

  “How’d you learn Portuguese?” I asked, impressed. Spanish and French were much more likely languages for Americans to speak.

  “Have you heard of capoeira?” he asked, offering me a roasted cashew from the paper cone he was holding.

  “I took one class at my gym back in New York,” I said, popping a sweet and salty nut into my mouth. “But we saw guys doing the real deal yesterday on the beach.”

  Sam explained that the sport had been started when African slaves tried to disguise intertribal fighting from their masters by playing the drums. “You could say they turned it into a sort of dance,” he said. “I got into training a few years ago in New York and started to pick up Portuguese during my classes.”

  Jen asked what Sam did. He told us that he had just taken the bar exam and figured he’d travel for a couple of months before getting a job as a lawyer.

  “That’s cool—and really unusual,” said Amanda. “We’ve met tons of Israelis, Brits, and Australians—and a few American women. But we haven’t come across many guys from the States who are taking long trips.”

  “Yeah, why do you think that is?” I asked, curious to get his take on the mysterious lack of American males on the road.

  Sam took off his hat and ran a hand over his shaved head before responding, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we’re taught that men should be providers. And taking time off to travel means time away from work and therefore making money. Maybe guys are afraid they’ll look lazy if they take an extended vacation.”

  I’d never before thought about how reverse sexism and an ingrained sense of responsibility might discourage many guys from hitting the road. Mention famous American travelers, and my mind instantly went to male explorers such as Jack Kerouac, Bill Bryson, and Paul Theroux. But the reality is that most men probably reflect the image I have in my mind of my grandfather: a dedicated provider who spent more than thirty years working in a factory, who saw it his greatest duty to earn enough money to take his kids to the movies on Sundays and to help them pay for college. The only time he traveled abroad was to serve in the army in World War II, and he never wanted to travel again if he could avoid it.

  My grandmother, on the other hand, said she would’ve loved to have traveled more, but she’d been far too busy raising four kids and waitressing at night. Now, if the popularity of “girlfriend getaway” trips is any indication, more American women are hitting the road than ever before. Maybe that’s because women are no longer restricted to describing themselves first and foremost as homemakers, wives, and mothers. I wondered if that was a coincidence or if there was a direct connection between a woman’s ability to forge almost any path she chooses and her desire to take the one that leads beyond U.S. borders in order to gain perspective on which direction is right for her.

  In this situation, maybe guys really did have it tougher. None of our friends or coworkers had accused Jen, Amanda, or me of shirking our responsibilities as future breadwinners when we shared our travel plans. True, some New York friends had questioned whether we’d be stunting our career growth, and Amanda’s mom had insisted that Amanda would never find The One if she was traveling to a different destination every week, but in general, the close friends in our lives had thrown major support behind our plan. Many had even said they would do the same thing if only they could find friends to travel with them.

  I glanced at my friends and then back at Sam. Had the people in his life been as supportive of his journey? I was just about to ask when Sam ordered us another round and answered the unspoken question.

  “I think I could only get away with traveling for this long because I’d just finished law school, and people understand you might need to take a break before starting a career,” he said. “I also think some Americans tend to associate vacation with a week of sitting on a beach and travel with partying rather than exploration.”

  Considering the jam-packed schedule that most Americans keep, it makes sense that many of them might view vacations as opportunities to escape and unwind rather than explore. And that’s if we actually sneak away during the two weeks we’re allotted. Back home in the city, it was almost a bragging right to be overscheduled. Statements like “I’m just so busy I don’t even have time to sleep,” actually garner respect. I was impressed that Sam had created his own sabbatical of sorts.

  Now he had a proposition for us. “I’m going to a capoeira class tomorrow at the Bimba school,” Sam said. “Bimba was a mestre, or master, who helped make capoeira legal again in the 1930s. Do you want to come?”

  “We’d love to!” I said, turning to consult Amanda and Jen. That was the kind of stuff I wanted to spend my year on the road doing. “What do you think?”

  “Definitely!” they agreed.

  Sam became our adopted Lost Boy for the rest of our time in Salvador, accompanying us to capoeira classes that began with beating drums, chanting, and clapping. Because he knew about a lot of local events and could speak the language, he was able to show us a different side of the city than we’d normally have discovered on our own.

  “Hey, do you ladies want to go to a soccer game tonight?” Sam asked as we walked out of the capoeira studio one morning, sweaty and sore from a week of training.

  “I have to get some writing done,” Amanda said. “But you go ahead.”

  Jen and I looked at each other and grinned. Jen had been a soccer player for most of her life, and the Brazilians seemed as passionate about futebol as they did about the annual collective party, Carnaval.

  When we arrived at the local stadium later, firecrackers were exploding in the sky. “They shoot them off when someone scores a goal,” Sam explained.

  We bought another paper cone of those roasted cashews I found so addictive and a draft beer, all for only about a dollar, and Jen and I linked arms as we staked out a spot on the metal benches. Men made up most of the crowd, so we kind of stuck out. The masses were screaming, stomping their feet, and clapping their hands. Trying to blend in, I echoed the cheers of the guys in front of me, “Porra!” (pronounced boo-ha!).

  The men turned around to stare at me with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Sam just laughed. “What?” I asked, th
inking my accent must sound ridiculous.

  “Holly, that literally means ‘cum,’” he’d said. “You’ll learn a lot of Portuguese at a futebol match, but most of it won’t be for everyday conversation.” My cheeks grew hot and Jen punched me in the arm, delighted I was making a fool of myself.

  “I’m not at all embarazada!” I told her, and she laughed again. Just then, a swarm of armed guards carrying riot shields and firearms escorted the refs off the field. “It’s halftime!” Sam said.

  “They take their sports seriously,” I noted.

  “Things can get pretty violent if a fight breaks out—fans really defend their team,” he said. “It’s not a good idea to wear a local team’s shirt to a match, but wearing a foreign one is guaranteed to start conversation.”

  I filed that tidbit of information away in my brain right next to “Never pull out cash in public” and “Don’t drink the tap water.”

  My head was pulsing with the beat of the drums that’d kicked off before a whistle signaled the second half. The matches seemed to be as much of a musical event as a sporting event. Sam waved a Brazilian flag he’d bought on the way in, and I let myself get lost in the crowd’s thundering cheers.

  It was our final night in Salvador, and our group of four spent it dancing to samba and listening to live music at a street festival. We were sandwiched among revelers as Brazilians grabbed our hands in another show of openness that made me feel at home so far away from my own. Some guy gave me his hat, and I twirled around to the music, melting into the crowd. Jen, Amanda, and I showed off our hip-swiveling maneuvers for one another before two Brazilian women laughed at us gringas and demonstrated moves that appeared to require the absence of any joints in one’s lower body. Part of Bahians’ beauty was in their genes, and I was beginning to think that a sense of rhythm was also inherited.

  Bass vibrated through the cobblestone streets, and I felt almost as if I were absorbing the energy from so many people celebrating in that open space. As I danced with Jen, Amanda, and Sam, our clothes sticking to our bodies in the humidity, I knew then it wasn’t partying itself that had been bothering me.

  As I was learning from the locals, who seized every opportunity to have fun, dancing and drinking and partying were just some of the many ways to celebrate being alive. While I still didn’t want every night of our trip to be that, I loved doing it when it made me feel more a part of the places we’d come so far to see. Once we got out of the backpacker bars, parties were a way to connect with the locals.

  Spending less than two weeks in Salvador had made it easy to believe the poet who called it Terra da Alegria, or Land of Happiness. With a steady lineup of parties culminating in Carnaval, the city felt festive, like Christmas in the tropics, and the people seemed relaxed, as if the only place they had to be was right where they were at that moment.

  Of course, our experience in Salvador came after the government prettified the Old Town to make it a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Before the government fixed it up, Pelourinho (which was supposedly home to the first slave market in the New World and actually means “whipping post” in Portuguese) had been awash in poverty, prostitution, and drugs. And the areas surrounding that section were still pretty broken down.

  I thought of Igo and the other kids I’d seen begging on the streets. Then I thought of the woman who had taken my hand at the beach to show me the sunset. Maybe their warmth sprang less from happiness in the classic sense of elation or joy and more from their resiliency and a seemingly collective appreciation of the small things such as watching a sunset, drinking a cold beer on the beach, or dancing in the streets.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Amanda

  NEW YORK CITY

  AUGUST–SEPTEMBER

  Few experiences have ever moved me as deeply, and with such consistency, as crossing back into Manhattan after a long stretch away. Even if I’m exhausted following a red-eye flight, or depressed to find dirty gray snowdrifts piled alongside the highway, something changes the moment I spot the skyline rising at the far end of the bridge. It’s like a booster shoot of adrenaline, a surge that reminds me how lucky I am to live here and how I’ve managed to become a tiny but integral part of this iconic place.

  But rather than the rush I’d expected, on this trip home, all I could feel was a lead balloon rolling around on the floor of my stomach. As Holly, Jen, and I shot between the silver trusses of the 59th Street Bridge in a cab with a broken air conditioner, it hit me: You don’t live here anymore.

  For the record, I hadn’t wanted to come back here after Brazil. I knew that Jen and Holly wanted to spend some time with their boyfriends before we left on the next leg of the trip and that we had to pass through New York to make our connecting flight to Kenya. But though I could understand the logic, I couldn’t come to terms with our return to town. Hadn’t we just said good-bye to all of our friends? Made a clean break from the city?

  I planned to spend the next two weeks hiding out at my friend Sarah’s place. She and her husband, Pete, had just bought a brownstone in a yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn and had insisted that I spend my layover with them. No need to convince me, since, unlike the girls, I didn’t have a boyfriend to shack with. It was Brooklyn or bust.

  Our cab pulled to a jerky stop outside Sarah’s office on Madison and 68th Street, and I slid out to retrieve my backpack from the trunk.

  “So I’ll see you guys next week, right?” I said, handing my friends some cab fare. After spending nine weeks glued to one another’s sides, it felt bizarre to go in separate directions.

  “Yeah, we’ll catch up at the Indian consulate,” said Jen. “Let’s not wait until we get to Nairobi to get our visas.”

  I’d barely waved good-bye before the cab pulled away leaving me loitering in front of Oscar de la Renta. It felt weird. While my Teva sandal tan, bandana headband, and grungy, overstuffed pack put me right at home in the company of backpackers, I felt sloppy and glaringly out of place here in the swankiest part of the Upper East Side. And come to think of it, in the Manhattan fishbowl in general. Trying to avoid eye contact with a matron walking two Yorkshire terriers, I hauled my stuff to the nearest pay phone and called Sarah.

  “Schmanders! You’re here!” she shrieked. “Where are you? Don’t move. I’m coming right down.”

  Within forty-five seconds, she’d flown down from her office and located me on the corner. “It’s so good to see you!” she said, giving me a huge hug. “I figured you’d have this big ol’ mama jamma bag, so I asked Pete if he could pick us up and drive us home.”

  “Perfect,” I said, relieved to avoid the subway. “Wait…Pete’s driving?”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you? We bought a car!” Sarah beamed.

  “Congrats, Sar! Sounds like you guys are really moving up in the world.”

  “Yeah, right. We’re really living large.” She made a face as she whirled her mermaid-length hair up into a messy twist. As usual, she had pulled together some funky-chic outfit that would seem over the top on me but looked amazing on her five-foot nine-inch supermodel frame.

  “Yo! Ladies! Need a lift?” Pete pulled up to the curb across from us in a red Honda Civic hatchback.

  “Hey, babe.” Sarah opened the passenger side door and gave Pete a kiss. “Look who showed up at my office. Can we keep her? Can we?”

  “Hmm, I’ll have to think about that,” he said, tossing my pack into the trunk. “So, what’s up, Miss World Traveler? Hope you’re hungry, because I’ve been smoking ribs for half the afternoon.”

  As I’d recently discovered, in addition to his job as a psychotherapist and devoted husband, Pete was also an award-winning barbecue champ. On summer weekends, he and Sarah hauled several grills and smokers up and down the East Coast, competing for prizes with their team, Notorious BBQ. I won’t lie: part of the appeal of staying with my married friends was the prospect of their nightly gourmet dinners.

  Pete wasn’t kidding. As soon as he nudged open their front door
twenty minutes later, the sweet, charred scent of caramelized meat hit my nose and sent my taste buds into mouth-watering overdrive. It was all I could do not to rip off the tinfoil covering the plates, grab a piece of pork, and tear into it like a wild animal.

  “Why don’t you get settled in, cleaned up, or whatever, and we’ll put everything out for dinner,” Sarah proposed. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Stashing my bags near the futon (already made up with sheets and pillows), I couldn’t help but feel a bit like Pete and Sarah’s grungy kid who’d just showed up from two months of summer camp. I even had a big bag full of stinky laundry.

  Even though she was two years younger than I, Sarah had always been the more mature one in our relationship. Giving myself a little tour of her very grown-up, very couple-y new place, it struck me just how differently our lives had evolved since college.

  While I’d spent my early years in the city jump-starting my career, falling for (and subsequently disentangling myself from) my first very serious boyfriend, whirling through a new roster of guys, and eventually abandoning city life to go traveling, Sarah had lived more deliberately. After college, she’d moved to Manhattan, become an interior designer at an Upper East Side firm, met the love of her life, had a gorgeous destination wedding in Puerto Rico, bought a brownstone in Brooklyn, and landscaped the backyard that I was now wandering through. Sarah’s life seemed as immaculately, stylishly in order as a display window at Barney’s, while mine still looked as scattered and disordered as a sale rack at T.J. Maxx.

  It wasn’t that I felt envious of her choices or wished I’d done things differently. If I’d gotten married in my midtwenties like Sarah, I certainly wouldn’t be traveling the globe with two friends, on my way to Africa, India, and Southeast Asia. But sometimes, like right now, I wondered what it might be like to walk in my friend’s Marc Jacobs flats, just for a day…