One of the first things we noticed as we approached Rotorua: the town and everything within a ten-kilometer radius smells like the bottom of a diaper pail. We soon learned that the entire area is located on a volcanic plateau, and the same underground forces that fart out a sulfurous rotten-egg smell from deep within the earth also produce geysers, steaming fumaroles, gooey mud pools, boiling waterfalls, and bubbling hot springs.
After a few days spent exploring the mud baths and voluntarily soaring over the world’s highest navigable waterfall in a river raft ( Jen’s suggestion, of course), Holly decided that she wanted to join up with a crew of backpackers heading over to the Maori Twilight Cultural Tour. Jen and I opted out. It wasn’t just that we disliked prepackaged song-and-dance shows. I wanted to talk with Jen about next year—and what she thought she might do after we returned to the States.
We’d planned to walk around Lake Rotorua, but the lack of a path and the overwhelming stench of sulfur forced us to turn back. After chatting with a couple also out for a walk, we learned that there was a far more scenic—and less malodorous—national park just ten minutes’ drive from the town center.
The Redwoods Whakarewarewa Forest turned out to be an utterly breathtaking 700-acre world’s fair of trees cut through with miles of hiking and biking trails. Jen and I had intended to walk, but after a brief check of the trail map and a glance at each other, we took off running. We sailed up, over and around the gentle curves on the leaf-strewn track, slowing down only to drink in a particularly stunning view through a break in the forest.
“Man, Holly’s gonna be…totally crushed…that she…didn’t get to see this,” I said, gasping for air when our footsteps slowed to a crawl. Orange-gold slivers of light shot through the trees as the sun sank progressively lower in the sky.
“I know. Maybe we can…take her here…tomorrow?” Jen suggested, although we both knew that we probably had to get on the road again.
We walked in silence for a few minutes, catching our breath, and then I finally broached the topic of “going back” with Jen. Returning to the States still seemed pretty far away, but I knew the time would pass in the blink of an eye. After New Zealand, we had just Australia left and then—what next?
“Oh, man, I don’t know,” she said, slowing her steps even more. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that ever since Thailand, ever since Mark. That whole experience with him…it just really opened my eyes, you know.”
“In what way?” I said, yanking off my long-sleeve shirt and tying it around my waist. The air under the canopy was cool and slightly damp, and revived me like a chilled compress against the back of my neck.
“Well, meeting him made me think twice about whether I want to go back to Manhattan. It’s a great place to build a career, to claw your way up the ladder. Not a great place to find the love of your life, to settle down,” Jen tugged off her ponytail holder and reworked the hair into a wispy knot on top of her head. “Not once in New York did I ever meet someone who really just blew me away the way that Mark did. Not once in five years.”
“But you had Brian,” I pointed out as Jen paused, then chose the left-hand fork at a spot where the trail divided in two. “You weren’t in the position to be blown away.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it says something that I stayed with him for so long. I knew, deep down, that he and I weren’t right for each other.” She studied the ground directly in front of her feet, then eventually glanced over at me with a sad, almost apologetic expression. “It’s just that I watched all of my girlfriends experience total hell dating in the city, and I didn’t want to go through that. I chose the safe route.”
“Well, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” I said, trying to reassure her. “You’ve had two healthy four-year relationships under your belt, and you’ve gotten some serious practice in making things work. The only relationships I ever had crashed and burned, big-time.”
She slowed for a second, unscrewed the cap of her water bottle, and took a sip. “Yeah, but you’ve dated. Really, really dated. You’ve seen what’s out there and had the chance to figure out what you do like and what you don’t. Other than my two boyfriends, I’ve never really been asked out by anyone.”
“But you will when we get back,” I said, taking a slug from my own bottle. “And besides, where did all of that dating get me, anyway? We’re in the exact same spot now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I looked up at the patch of sky that I could see between the trees and realized that it was starting to get dark—and quickly. Wordlessly, we picked up the pace.
“Well, what do you want to do? Are you ready to go back to the city? Or are you thinking about somewhere else?” Jen asked.
That’s what I’d wanted to talk with Jen about. The very idea of reentering my life in New York right now made me want to turn tail into the redwoods and start a new career as a recluse.
We’d come this far around the world, and I felt as though I’d just begun to explore a different side of myself, to establish an identity beyond my résumé and business card. For so long I’d been afraid that I might be wasting my life if I didn’t achieve something tangible, accomplishments that would earn me respect in the eyes of others. Now I was starting to understand that my all-work attitude might leave me one very lonely lady in a decade or so. All the bylines and résumé bullet points in the world wouldn’t make up for the time I’d miss with family, friends, a guy…or just hanging out with myself. They ultimately wouldn’t make me happy. A sense of true, authentic satisfaction—the kind I’d first felt as a gymnastics coach and then years later with the girls at Pathfinder—didn’t really come from some external place.
Finally accepting that realization was what made me feel so conflicted about returning to New York. I told Jen that earlier that day I’d gotten an e-mail from an editor I’d worked with as a freelancer asking if I might be interested in coming to work for her after I got back to the States—if I planned to come back. There was a good chance that she’d have a senior-level position open in late summer, and she’d like to talk to me about filling it.
Old personality traits die hard. Her suggestion absolutely thrilled me—it would be a huge promotion, about four steps up the editorial ladder, and I’d never have to be an assistant again!—but it also terrified me. I knew how easy it would be for me to get sucked right back into my old overachieving ways. I didn’t want to find myself chained to a desk chair again at twenty-nine…and then thirty…and thirty-one. As grateful as I was to have a job lead at this point, I wasn’t sure how Manhattan would fit into my life or how I’d fit into Manhattan. Could I have a career—and everything else I wanted too?
I hadn’t acknowledged my feelings until now, but they hit me full force: I was ready for something more than just a job. I wanted what most women secretly (or not so secretly) want deep down—to fall in love, to be a girlfriend or wife, to come home to someone who wanted to come home to me. I’d never really made much space in my life or my heart for those things before. And though I didn’t know where I’d live after the trip was over, I was sure of one thing: I wanted my life to look a whole lot different than it had the year before I left.
Jen brought me back to the present by asking me when the editor job would start.
“Not sure,” I said, relieved to spot an open patch in the trees ahead. “She didn’t mention a date.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got some time to think about it. Don’t turn her down just yet,” Jen urged, her steps growing even more purposeful as we moved toward the trailhead.
I breathed out a small puff of relief. It looked as if the fork we’d taken earlier had been the right one.
“I won’t,” I promised. “I just wonder sometimes if it’s really possible to strike a balance in New York. Don’t you ever ask yourself if some things might just be easier—finding a great guy, a nine-to-five job—in another city?”
Jen laughed. “All the time. I bet it’s easier to find those things in any
other city.”
I grinned. “Yeah. Back when I used to go to the health and nutrition conferences in Chicago, I could swear the whole place was crawling with gorgeous corn-fed boys just itching to get your number and ask you out.”
“Totally…and what about Denver? One of my coworkers told me that not only are there tons of sexy weekend warrior types but that people bike to work and leave the office at five on the dot,” Jen added.
By the time we’d reached the clearing and made it back to our car, Jen and I had worked our way through all of the cities that might have a romantic or work-life edge over New York: San Diego, D.C., Boston, Austin, Portland.
“Hey, forget picking one city,” I said, now totally caught up in the idea of moving somewhere else. “Since we’ve already uprooted our lives and are travel professionals at this point, why don’t we just do a tour of all the good places before we settle on one?”
“I love that! We could call it Crossing State Lines for Love or New Yorkers Beyond Borders,” Jen suggested.
“No, wait, I got it!” I said, unlocking the doors and sliding behind the wheel. “Finding a Mate in the Fifty States.”
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said Jen, flashing me a grin as she slid into the car next to me. “Maybe you could start a career as a writer.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jen
SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND
MARCH–APRIL
Amanda, Holly, and I had been walking along the coastal track of Abel Tasman National Park for nearly four hours when we reached a fork in the road. Tamped down in the soil was a sign warning us of a tidal crossing ahead. The instructions were straightforward: GO LEFT DURING LOW TIDE (40 MINUTES). STAY RIGHT DURING HIGH TIDE (1.5 HOURS).
“Umm, I think I forgot my tide schedule at home. Should we assume that it’s high or take our chances?” Holly said.
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t say anywhere,” I replied, kneeling down to inspect every square inch of the sign on the off chance that we’d missed a timetable.
“Well, both paths lead to the same place. One just winds really far out of the way,” Amanda added, perusing the crumpled trail map she’d stuffed in her pocket. “I guess we shouldn’t have cut it so close to dark.”
Since entering this richly painted paradise via a water taxi named Vigour, we’d made it a point to stroll at a leisurely pace, taking the time to appreciate the azure waters, emerald forests, and golden sand beaches that saturated all 360 degrees of our panoramic setting. But now, neck and neck with twilight, we decided it made more sense to take the shorter route and hope the tide was still at a safe distance from the shore. We set off in a mad dash down the path’s west wing. But, as we’d soon discover, we had chosen unwisely.
In less than thirty minutes, we reached a clearing in the path and could see the entrance to the campground about two hundred yards ahead. Unfortunately, the rocky inlet that carved the section of coastline between us and our desired destination was already flooded with waves.
“Well, I guess we know what time the tide comes in,” I said, scanning the area to see if there was an alternate route.
“Oh, man. What should we do? Turn around and go back the other way?” Holly asked.
“I don’t think we have time. It’ll take at least two hours to retrace our steps and follow the low-tide trail to the end and I don’t love the idea of us walking so close to the edge of the cliff with only our headlamp light,” Amanda replied.
“Yeah, you’re right. And the cabin is right there too. It doesn’t look that deep,” Holly said, walking to the edge to inspect the water. “I’ll go across if you two will.”
“There’s no way to know how far down it goes in the middle, but it’s only two or three feet here. So I say let’s go for it,” Amanda said, glancing at me for approval.
“What the hell. Worst case, we turn around,” I said, bending to unlace my hiking boots.
Since Amanda, Holly, and I had created our own tour package, combining an independent trek and an overnight campout with a guided kayak excursion the next morning, the only clothes in our possession were the outfits currently affixed to our bodies and an extra set tucked away in our small day packs, meant to double as both pajamas and a boating ensemble. It wouldn’t have been a crisis if everything got soaked, but it wasn’t ideal considering the increasingly cooler climate. And in view of the miraculous fact that my iPod was still going strong after nearly a dozen countries and countless planes, trains, and auto-rickshaws, I wasn’t about to sacrifice it now. All three of us in agreement, we ducked behind some rocks, stripped down, and changed into our bathing suits. With everything else stuffed into our bags or lashed to the outside by the straps, we began our slow creep across.
“I love how we were the only ones left on the entire trail and somehow managed to get ourselves stuck in freezing cold water during high tide. It’s so perfectly ‘us,’ I swear,” Holly said, always the first to laugh off our latest in a long and distinguished string of screwball predicaments.
“Don’t worry. We can do it, girls. I believe in us. ‘Chariots of Fire’ is playing,” Amanda replied, pulling out one of her classic trip mantras. “Just be careful in this section. It’s really slippery,” she added as the water rose from her hips to above her waist.
“Oh, this is so Stand by Me. It’s awesome,” I said. “Except with no leeches, thank God. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I found a leech on my foot at summer camp?”
“I think we might have heard that story a few dozen times,” Holly teased. “But I’m so happy I get to live one of your movie montages, Baggy.”
The girls had grown to expect my consistent stream of analogies, relating certain moments or events to scenes from my favorite films, and they always responded with the appropriate amount of sarcasm. But during our time together on the road, we’d learned to appreciate one another’s various methods of creative expression for what they were, a vehicle for viewing the world.
Of course I had plenty of my own original interpretations of our travels. But when I was placed in a situation that seemed epic or nostalgic enough to warrant a spot on the silver screen, I felt more alive somehow. And oddly comforted. As if I were a character in a romanticized version of my own life story and someone or something bigger than myself was watching and rooting for me. As a child, I’d incessantly fantasized about embarking on a life-changing journey into the wilderness with my best friends, as in Stephen King’s coming-of-age classic. And now here I was, wading through a stream with Amanda and Holly, living out an even greater adventure. Sure, my ass was totally numb from the frosty waters and the bottoms of my feet were being poked by razor-sharp pebbles, but it was a movie moment nonetheless.
“And darlin’, darlin’, stand by me,” I belted out. “Ohh, stand by meee…ouch, shit, killer rock ahead, watch out!” I yelped as I pitched forward and my bag started slipping off my head.
“Okay, you’re not allowed to sing if you’re going to drown in the process,” Holly said, simultaneously grabbing my stuff to save it from falling in the water, before we both cracked up.
“Yeah, and Jen, don’t you know that’s not our theme song today?” Amanda said. “It should be…‘In high tide or in low tide. I’ll be by your side. I’ll be by your side,’” she sang with an affected Bob Marley accent as the three of us continued splashing our way through the water until we finally reached the other side.
Laughing at the sight of ourselves shivering in bikinis, our feet caked in mud, we trudged up the grassy incline toward the communal barracks where we were to bunk for the night. It was then we realized we weren’t the only ones laughing. A gang of fellow trekkers, who’d clearly taken the higher and drier route to camp, had been watching our manic tide crossing from a picnic table under the trees. As we approached, they erupted in cheers and claps.
“Well done there, girls. We weren’t sure if you three were going to make it across there for
a second,” an older man with a white beard called out with a chuckle.
“Oh, we knew we’d make it,” Holly said. “And it was a good substitute for a shower too.”
“Right you are. And definitely more fun than the way we came around,” he replied. “Well, anyway. Glad you’re here. There are still a few more beds inside. No electricity. But there’s a kerosene burner for cooking if you need it.”
After drying off with our shared hand towel and changing back into our semidry hiking clothes, we pulled out our food stash and constructed a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, soup, apples, and chocolate bars. Surprisingly, many of our roommates had long since eaten and turned in for the night, so we relocated to a far-off corner of the common area so we wouldn’t wake anyone.
Huddled in a semicircle, headlamps in place, we entertained ourselves per the usual, rotating one magazine around the table and chattering away about anything and everything that came to mind. You’d think that after ten months of traveling together, we would’ve run out of things to talk about, but we hadn’t. Sometimes our conversations were inane: Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon and the “Would you rather” game (“…sleep with ten huge spiders or one large rat?”). Other times the topics were more serious: Could we start a nonprofit organization focusing on women’s and children’s issues? Debates about the environment and the Kyoto Protocol. Reaffirming our vow to take a vacation together once a year for the rest of our lives and “arguing” over our first post-trip destination. But tonight was reserved for our favorite pastime: quizzing one another on the random details and personal stories that we should all know at this point.
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