The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

  “Ah, but this is not the same. This is the Portuguese egg tart.” I held up my half-eaten dessert and pointed to its features as I spoke. “There are some subtle differences between this and the varieties you’ll see in China. Notice how the top of the custard is slightly burnt, like a crème brûlée? That caramelization defines the flavor in a different way from the more traditional Chinese pastries.”

  He stopped sketching and looked up at me. From the way he bit his bottom lip, I could tell he was holding back laughter.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You just seem to know an awful lot about these egg tarts, that’s all.”

  “I read about them in my guidebook.” When I still knew where my guidebook was.

  “Well, you’ve got an incredible memory.”

  Shrugging, I popped the last bit of crust in my mouth. “I just really like this kind of stuff. Travel facts, history, culture. It sticks with me.”

  He pressed his pencil point back against the paper and began shading the columns on the front of the façade. “You’d make a great tour guide.”

  “That’s my dream job,” I said. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been obsessed with travel planning.”

  “So why aren’t you doing it? From that scowl you had on your face the other day, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of your current line of work.”

  “I’m not. But it pays really well. And I’ve got bills. Not to mention, a future to save for.”

  “A future in which you spend all your time scowling.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, trying really hard not to scowl. “Or fair. It’s not like I have some terrible job. I get to travel the world. That’s the best part about it.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t get to travel on your own terms. You just go wherever they send you.”

  “Well, in real life, you have to make compromises.”

  “I don’t think you should ever have to compromise your happiness.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it was an obvious, undeniable truth.

  I licked buttery crumbs off my bottom lip and looked off into the distance, toward the ruins. Behind the façade, there was a staircase leading to a scaffold, allowing tourists to climb up to the second-story windows and take in the views of the city. From our vantage point, the people looked like indistinguishable, faceless shadows, casting black silhouettes against the steel blue sky. But in Carson’s rendering, the silhouettes didn’t exist. He’d chosen to exclude them from the scene in his sketchbook, to make the picture more perfect than the reality. I thought of how flawless I seemed in those sketches he’d drawn of me, how I looked like a better version of myself.

  “That’s why you and I aren’t compatible,” I said.

  Carson stopped sketching and cocked his head in my direction. “If we’re not compatible, then what are we doing spending all this time together?”

  “We’re just having fun.”

  “Exactly. And we’re having fun because we’re compatible.”

  “No, we’re having fun because this isn’t real life.”

  “Of course this is real life.” Carson’s voice climbed an octave.

  “No, it’s not. Not for me anyway. It’s vacation.”

  “Okay,” he said, gesticulating with his pencil. “How are you different on vacation than you are in real life? Tell me. What are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Suddenly I felt exposed, like my flimsy little sundress wasn’t enough to keep me covered. Carson’s eyes demanded answers. Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  “It’s just...” I stalled, grasping for words. “I usually don’t do things like this.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Like dropping all my plans to follow a guy around. I mean, I know it may be normal for you to pick up a different travel companion in every country you visit, but this is a totally new experience for me.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’ve never done this before.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look, if you’re asking me if I’ve hooked up with other girls on this trip, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t. But I usually say good-bye to them before the sun comes up.”

  I suppressed a grin. Maybe we’re more alike than I give us credit for.

  “Sorry,” he said, mistaking my silence for discomfort. “I know that’s TMI. I just want you to know, this isn’t something I do all the time. So if that’s why you think we’re not compatible, you’re wrong.”

  Not knowing what to say, I nodded, wishing I had another egg tart to shove in my mouth to avoid continuing this conversation. I silently folded the empty paper bag in half, then in quarters, folding and folding until it was a tiny little ball in the palm of my hand.

  Carson cleared his throat. “So I’m having a hard time getting a read.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face,” he said. “You know, I’m usually pretty good at reading faces to figure out what would go in the little thought bubble, if I were drawing your caricature. But right now, I’m stumped.”

  I inhaled sharply. “I think we have different philosophies on life, that’s all.”

  “I don’t disagree with you,” he said. “But being different isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  “I’m just saying, in real life, you and I wouldn’t work. Like, for example, I’m way more conservative with money than you are.”

  “Okay. Don’t all couples argue about money, though?”

  “I suppose.” I thought of how he dumped the entirety of his casino winnings into a fancy hotel suite. How he was blowing through his trust fund without keeping tabs on expenditures. In my mind, these offenses were more than subjects for mere arguments; in the context of a marriage, they would lead to all-out war. But it was a sore spot for Carson, living with the threat of sudden death, saving for a rainy day that may never come. So instead of bringing it up, I bit my lip.

  “People don’t have to be exactly the same to be compatible,” he said.

  “I think it helps.”

  Carson looked down at his sketchbook, ran his hand over the half-finished façade. “So you think you’d be happier with someone who had a real job? Not someone who spent all his time drawing pictures he never had any intention of selling?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” I touched his forearm. “I love your art. I love that you’re an artist. I’ve told you a hundred times, I think you’re incredibly talented.”

  “Incredibly talented. But my head’s in the clouds.”

  I winced. In avoiding one sore spot, I plunged right into another one, digging up the pain his aunt and uncle had planted inside him, the feeling of never being good enough. Why was I doing this? A gorgeous man was by my side, a man who defined romance for me, for the first time in my life, in ways I never could have imagined. Instead of losing myself in the fantasy, I kept fighting it, finding reasons to tell him no.

  “You’re a dreamer,” I said. “The world needs dreamers. Dreamers innovate; they create; they make things beautiful. But it’s not who I am.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “I’m a planner.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Your five-year plan.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe it’s time to revise it. Or better yet, throw it away.”

  Fighting the urge to scowl again, I took a deep breath instead. “See? This is why I said we’re not compatible.”

  “I’m not saying I wouldn’t benefit from being a little more down to earth,” he said, “but don’t you think you’d benefit from being a little more spontaneous?”

  “I am spontaneous! I came to Macau with you, didn’t I?”

  “You just told me that this isn’t real life, though. What about when the vacation’s over? Is it back to following your five-year plan, then? No more passion? No more fun when you go back home?”

  Home. The haven I always returned to, my anchor in the
choppy seas. In twenty-four hours, I’d be soaring somewhere high above the Pacific Ocean, headed back to my neat and tidy studio apartment. When the sun rose on Monday morning, I’d already be back at work, ready to tackle my next assignment, my sensible leather pumps planted firmly on the next rung of the corporate ladder. It was everything I’d ever planned for, everything I’d worked so hard to accomplish. So why did it suddenly sound so unappealing?

  Carson studied my face, reading my expression, drawing the thought bubble over my head with his eyes.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t get on the plane tomorrow.” His eyes flashed, feverish and feral. “Come travel with me.”

  “Carson—”

  “You said you wanted to live abroad for a little while. Now’s your chance. All the fun we’ve had this week, we could keep it going.”

  “But I—”

  “I know you’ve got a bunch of excuses,” he said, “but don’t say no. Not yet. I want you to think about it.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the day. You can sleep on it and tell me in the morning. Okay?”

  The idea was preposterous. I had responsibilities and obligations at home, commitments Carson didn’t understand. Bills to pay, work to do, plans to keep. I couldn’t simply walk away from the life I’d built in New York. Could I?

  “Okay.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me, his lips igniting a spark, setting my whole body on fire. I let the blaze consume me, falling deeper into the inferno, until all that remained was a pile of smoldering rubble.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two hours later, we were back at the Grand Amadora, sprawled across a circular daybed at the edge of their tiled, turquoise pool. The air smelled of freesia and tanning lotion. Soft ripples danced along the surface of the clear water, and attendants brought us an endless supply of iced cocktails and frozen washcloths, protection against the oppressive afternoon heat. Carson rested his cheek on my shoulder, and the only sound I heard was the rhythmic whisper of his sleepy breathing.

  To the outside observer, I was the picture of blissful calm. Oiled legs, floral bikini, sexy man beside me, just a carefree woman enjoying a romantic vacation at a luxury resort. But inside my head was a tempest of worry, a million questions ricocheting around my skull. Should I stay and travel with Carson, or should I say good-bye and go back home? I decided to do what I always did at work when I had to make a critical decision but the answer was not immediately clear: I weighed the pros and cons.

  Pro: This was the most fun I’d had in my entire life.

  Con: If I didn’t show up to work on Monday, I’d probably be out of a job.

  Pro: I’d prove Elena wrong about her whole “controlling and passionless” comment.

  Con: I’d give up everything I had going on in my life in pursuit of a good-looking guy.

  When I considered the implications of the cons, it was hard to justify choosing to stay. All the pros in the world couldn’t outweigh the sacrifices I’d be making, all because Carson asked me to. For years, I’d been chasing down my goals, investing all my time and effort toward achieving them. I wasn’t about to trade it all for the uncertainty and instability of a torrid affair, no matter how euphoric I felt in the moment. Who knew how long this could possibly last?

  Carson inhaled deeply, rousing from his sunbaked snooze, and I felt his fingertips caress my thigh. Pressing his lips against my earlobe, he whispered, “Wanna go up to the room?”

  Pro: The sex was incredible.

  Just like that, the raging storm within me subsided, and I trailed him blindly into the elevator, up to our room, onto our king-sized bed, where we stayed until the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

  * * *

  In the evening, when Carson heard my stomach grumble, he asked, “Should we go out for dinner?”

  I scoffed at the thought of putting on clothes, reached instead for the big black binder.

  “Order something good,” I said, and tossed the book at him before retreating to the bathroom to fill the tub with warm water and frothy bubbles. I left the door open, an invitation for him to join me, which he did, armed with two long-stemmed flutes and a half bottle of champagne he’d taken from the minibar.

  “Food will be here in a half hour.” He lowered himself into the Jacuzzi and handed me a drink before raising his glass in a toast. “To rolling the dice.”

  “To taking a chance.”

  “To us.”

  We clinked glasses and I took a long sip, feeling the frosty fizz slide down my throat. I thought back to our first champagne toast when we arrived in the room, the giddy high I’d been on in the wake of the big win. Before Carson had placed his bet, there were so many questions I’d had about his motivation, so many doubts I’d had about his character. Once the adrenaline kicked in, I’d forgotten all about them, but now they floated back up to the surface of my brain, begging to be answered.

  “So do you go to casinos very often?” I was aiming for a casual and disinterested tone of voice.

  “No,” he said. “But after yesterday I’m beginning to think I should.”

  “Not much of a gambler, then?”

  “No way. In fact, the Grand Amadora is the first casino I’ve ever been to.”

  “Really? How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I ever had a lot of money to gamble with before I got this inheritance, so I was never really interested.”

  “But the first thing you wanted to do when we got off the ferry was go to a casino. You wouldn’t even look for a hotel room until you’d seen the inside of one.” My casual and disinterested tone of voice was fading; instead, I sounded like a detective coercing a suspect to confess his crime.

  “Yeah, but gambling is what Macau is known for. Once we got here and I saw the big buildings and the flashing lights, I was kind of hypnotized. Don’t you feel that way? Isn’t it all kind of hypnotizing?”

  “I guess.” Carson had a point. I’d been in a bit of a trance since I got here. I wasn’t sure if the bright lights of Macau were to blame, or if something else had cast a spell on me.

  “I wasn’t really thinking,” he continued. “I wandered around the casino floor, and I saw that table, and the next thing I knew I was placing a bet.”

  “You seemed pretty nervous after you laid down your chips. For a second, I thought you were gambling away the last of your cash.”

  “I was nervous. I mean, it was only sixty bucks. Sixty bucks isn’t going to make or break me. Not since I got my inheritance. But it still would’ve sucked to lose.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “I hate that feeling of slipping a dollar into a slot machine, and then—poof!—it instantly disappears. It just seems like a huge waste. Like, why did I bother, when I know the odds are stacked against me?”

  We raised our glasses to our lips and sat listening to the soapy bubbles crackle softly all around us.

  “I think it would’ve sucked more to never know, though,” Carson said. “To always wonder what might have happened if I’d been brave enough to take the chance.”

  His words shot through my chest like a lightning bolt, triggering the storm within me to rise up once more. The choice I made tomorrow could lead to a lifetime of regret. If I said good-bye to Carson, there was a high probability I’d never see him again. If I decided to stay with him, my career would come to a standstill. Surely, I could find another job to pay my bills, but I’d never be able to find another Carson.

  Dinner arrived with a knock on the door, a three-course meal of traditional Macanese specialties: shellfish and rice tinged with tomato sauce; roasted chicken in a rich, spiced stew; and minchi, the national dish, consisting of minced beef stir-fried with potatoes and topped with a runny, golden egg. We ate wordlessly, wrapped in our bathrobes, the only sounds made by silver chopsticks tinkling against our porcelain plates.

  After finishing
the last of our champagne, we moved on to the vinho verde he’d ordered with dinner. By the time we discarded our robes and dove back under the sheets, both bottles had been drained, and my head was swimming. All night, I floated between the two worlds of possibility stretching out before me. One moment, I’d be convinced this was a fantasy, never meant to last. Then he’d kiss me, run his hands down the length of my body, and I’d think, How could I ever let this go?

  When the first gray light of dawn glowed on the horizon, I realized I’d never slept. With my mind consumed by doubt and my body tied up by passion, sleeping seemed beside the point, a waste of precious, limited time. Soon I’d have to crawl out of bed, pack my bag, and figure out where I was going. To the airport or to the unknown?

  The clock read 5:45. If I wanted to catch my flight, I’d need to be strapped into a seat on the ferry in an hour and fifteen minutes. But I found it impossible to move, to leave the comfort I had found beneath these sheets, knowing I may never return. Pressing myself into Carson’s side, I ran my fingers along the tree trunk emblazoned on his chest, marveling again at the smoothness of his tattooed skin. The ink was visible but not tangible, like a mirage in the sweltering desert.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “What does what mean?”

  “Your tattoo. What does it mean?”

  “Seize the day,” he said. “We could die at any time. Gotta live while we’re alive.”

  “I know what ‘carpe diem’ means. I meant the tree.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated, raked his fingers through his tousled, sleepy hair. “Remember I told you about that house I grew up in with my mom and dad?”

  “The one in San Diego?”

  “Yeah. This is the tree that was in the backyard. At least, this is how I remember it. I was only three when I left.”

  “Wow.” I was moved by the unexpected meaning behind the image.

  He covered my hand with his palm, pressed it against his chest. “That house was the only place that ever felt like home. Now I carry it with me, over my heart. So home is wherever I happen to be.”

  In that instant, I realized exactly how different Carson and I really were. Sure, I loved to travel, but I also loved having a home to return to. A physical space, an anchor, a place to store my fireproof box of important papers. What’s more, I always needed to know where I was headed. I needed the comfort and stability of a plan. Carson floated through the world, aimless, like a feather on the breeze. No goals. No plans. No home to return to. Carson was wild. But that wasn’t me.