The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

  The unruly pile of papers on Seth’s desk threatened to collapse onto the floor at any moment. How many boxes had he left unchecked before he sauntered out the door? He probably didn’t even know. And if that jerk wasn’t wasting his Friday evening worrying about his work, then why was I?

  I slapped my laptop closed, packed up my briefcase, and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I firmly believe the travel bug isn’t something you catch but something you’re born with. An inherent trait encoded in your genes, like the color of your eyes or your dominant hand. It’s a craving I’d always needed to satisfy, even when I was a little kid living in the Jersey suburbs whose most exotic excursion had been a day trip to the shore. Without a passport or a plane ticket, I settled for seeing the world the only way I could: by cramming my shelves full of every guidebook, travelogue, and map I could find. I alphabetized my library from Australia to Zimbabwe and spent all my free time leafing through the pages, absorbing history and culture, compiling a list of sights I needed to see before I died.

  When I graduated high school and moved into my cramped college dorm room, I left my collection behind at my grandmother’s house. There wasn’t much time to plan fantasy vacations while I was cramming for honors classes, trying to score straight As so I could land a respectable job. So I said good-bye to Rick Steves’s Scandinavia and Lonely Planet Thailand and abandoned all those spiral-bound notebooks I’d filled with dream itineraries for trips I knew in my heart I’d never take. But there was one book I couldn’t bear to part with, so I stuffed it in my suitcase and took it with me wherever I moved. The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World followed me from New Jersey to college, and then on to my tiny Manhattan apartment, where I tucked it away in the top drawer of my nightstand.

  The Wild Woman’s Guide was one twentysomething traveler’s tale of her round-the-world solo adventures. She went everywhere—to the tourist traps and off the beaten path—for no other reason than to indulge her wanderlust, and she chronicled her exploits in two hundred fifty funny and frisky pages. I’d lost count of how many times I’d read it, but I remembered the moment I bought it very clearly. I was eleven years old, perusing the used books in my neighborhood thrift shop, when I spotted its cracked spine among the pile of dusty tomes. I slid it from the stack and was immediately captivated by its cover image: an illustration of a sassy girl with a mischievous smile and a head full of untamed curls. Curls just like mine. She waved from the window of an airplane as it traversed a map of the world. One day, I thought, that’ll be me.

  And now it was me. Finally, I was that woman with the curly hair, flitting across the ocean. I’d made it out of New Jersey. I was living the dream.

  I was a wild woman.

  At least, I certainly felt wild as I was flying through the revolving doors of One Bryant Park that Friday evening, after casting aside my unfinished task list. It was the first time I’d ever planned to deliver a project behind schedule. And the wildest thing of all? I didn’t even care.

  Instead, I walked home with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. As I strolled down 42nd Street, I pulled the clip from my hair, allowing my curls to tumble and bounce freely behind me in the city breeze. At home, I climbed the five flights of stairs to my apartment, where I dumped my briefcase in the foyer and promptly shrugged out of my confining suit. With the memories of Hong Kong still fresh in my mind, I ordered Chinese takeout, flopped down on the bed, and cracked open The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World. By midnight, I’d devoured an entire container of noodles and reread it from cover to cover.

  After I turned the final page, I briefly considered clicking off my bedside lamp and going directly to sleep. The three unchecked items on my task list were now officially past due, and I needed to wake up early the next morning to deal with them. But after reading all those tales of international adventure, my body vibrated with restless energy and repressed wanderlust. Salty soy sauce lingered on my tongue, leaving me parched, and I suddenly craved a Bitburger to quench my thirst. So I threw on a comfortable pair of jeans and went back down the five flights of stairs to Zum Bauer.

  When I opened the front door, a tiny brass bell tinkled against the front door, announcing my arrival. Inside, the crowd was sparse, unsurprising given the time of night—the kitchen had been closed for two hours already, and soon they’d be announcing last call—but the atmosphere was lively nonetheless. Beside the window, a small group of businessmen with loosened ties hooted and bumped fists around a table cluttered with empty pitchers they’d no doubt been collecting since happy hour. Animated chatter and the occasional belly laugh echoed up from the far back corner of the room. I walked past the unmanned host stand, toward the long oak bar in the center of the restaurant, where the owner, Kat Bauer, stood in leather leggings and a Metallica tank top, wiping down goblets before sliding them into the hanging rack above her head.

  “Hey,” I said, hopping onto a sturdy wooden stool. “You still serving?”

  She tossed the dishtowel over her shoulder and smiled at me with smoky eyes. “For you? Of course.”

  “Then I’ll take a Bitburger, please.”

  Kat nodded and angled a glass beneath the tap, expertly filling it to the brim with minimal foamy head. I’d been a regular patron for at least three years, ever since I’d moved in upstairs, yet I’d never seen her pour anything less than a perfect pint. This was a woman who took her work very seriously.

  “What brings you in at this hour?” she asked in her soft Bavarian accent before setting the drink on a cardboard coaster before me. “Did you just get home from another one of your trips?”

  “Nope.” I swallowed a mouthful of beer, feeling every bitter bubble burst against my tongue. “I’ve actually been in New York all week.”

  “That’s strange for you to be in town for so long, no?” When I nodded, she offered a sympathetic frown. From our wardrobes to our schedules, Kat and I lived two very different lives, but we shared the controlled intimacy so typical of the bartender–customer relationship, illuminated by scant track lighting and lubricated by lager. In general, our conversation topics remained light and breezy—the different varieties of German beer, our experiences with bad first dates—but she knew how much I loved to travel, how infrequently I spent more than one or two consecutive nights at home, how restless I got when I was forced to sit still for too long. “I’m surprised you haven’t stopped in sooner.”

  “I’ve been working really late,” I said. “By the time I get home, I’m so exhausted that all I wanna do is crawl into bed.”

  “You’ve told me before, but I forget now: As a consultant, what exactly is it you do?”

  I exhaled a disgusted breath. “It’s too annoying to describe.”

  “Well, at least it pays well, right?” There was her sympathetic frown again.

  “I’ll drink to that.” I raised my glass in the air before taking another hearty swig. If I kept guzzling beer at this alarming rate, I’d assuredly be nursing a hangover at my desk the next morning. I didn’t want to go home yet, though, to be alone in my quiet apartment, curling up in my big, barren bed. I needed human interaction, the comfort of camaraderie. And there was no better place to catch convivial vibes than Zum Bauer.

  Far enough from Times Square to avoid significant tourist foot traffic, Zum Bauer belonged to the locals: Midtown office workers, Port Authority commuters, neighbors and residents of the surrounding community. Always vibrant but never overcrowded, it was the perfect place to gather with others to catch a soccer match, decry the abhorrent state of politics, or simply shoot the breeze. Plus, it was one of the only places in New York City that had Bitburger on tap. A taste of Germany in the middle of Tenth Avenue.

  Wooden picnic tables and folding bistro chairs evoked the festive atmosphere of an outdoor beer garden. Hanging from the rafters were oversized flags bearing the bright blue diamonds of Bavaria and the fearsome, growling bear of Berlin. The posters tacked up along t
he exposed brick walls featured tourist destinations I remembered seeing on my abbreviated jaunt to Munich: the Marienplatz with its glockenspiel, the sky-high tower in Olympiapark, the roller coasters of Oktoberfest looping around Theresienwiese. Taped above the cash register was a photograph, curled at the edges, of a young Kat flanked by two doting parents.

  “How old were you in that picture?” I asked, pointing to the brown-haired girl in the photo.

  She glanced at it, running her fingertip over the faded surface. “Six or seven, I think. This was taken in Fürstenfeldbruck, a little town where we’d go every summer to pick strawberries. Those trips were some of the best memories of my childhood.”

  “Where are your parents now?”

  “Still in Munich. I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like. They used to come to New York quite a bit but now that they’re getting older, the flight is hard on them. I try to visit them when I can.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever move back to Germany?”

  “No. I miss my family, but I could never leave all this behind.” She held her arms out wide, gesturing to the kaleidoscopic tap handles, the chalkboard inscribed with daily specials, the antique tin signs advertising Spaten, Schlossbräu, and Karlsberg. “Owning my own business was a lifelong dream of mine. I’ll be tending bar here until I’m old and gray.”

  I chuckled at the thought of an elderly Kat Bauer pouring pints, rocking a heavy metal T-shirt and tight pants. She was probably in her late thirties or early forties but seemed ageless, exuding a satisfied sparkle and a sense of inner contentment. Like there was nowhere she’d rather be than working the tap. “How did you do it, Kat?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make your dream happen.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, a mussed shag dyed the color of ripe plums. “Well, it was a long road. When I first came to New York from Germany, I was young and full of energy and ready to take whatever job I could find to make ends meet. After a few stints walking dogs and checking coats, I finally got a steady job waiting tables at an upscale restaurant in SoHo. The tips were fantastic, so I worked as many shifts as I possibly could. It wasn’t really my scene, very pretentious, and the customers were so rude and demanding, they made my life miserable. But it’s easy to overlook how unhappy you are when you’re cashing a big paycheck at the end of each week. I think you know the feeling, yes?”

  I smirked at her over the edge of my glass.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I stayed there for years, climbing the ladder from server to shift leader and eventually to general manager. At that point, I was making good money and establishing a name for myself in the restaurant business. I was also working crazy hours, and after spending my days immersed in this flashy, flamboyant world, I found myself missing the humble comforts of my childhood home. The food, the friends, the fun. More than anything, I missed my youthful idealism, the dream that I could do anything or be anyone. That little girl in the picture, she didn’t care about the big paycheck; she only cared about doing things she loved, chasing joy. So, after one particularly miserable workday, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, ‘You have only one life, Katarina. Why are you wasting it?’ Almost immediately, I quit my job and found a storefront for rent. Ten years later, here I am.”

  “That took an incredible amount of guts.”

  “It certainly wasn’t easy, but I won’t pretend I did it alone.” She stroked the solid wood surface of the bar. “See this? My father crafted it by hand. He constructed all the picnic tables, too. And the menu? Curated by my mother, also known as the best cook in all of Bavaria. As soon as I told them about my desire to open an indoor beer garden in the heart of Manhattan, they hopped on the next plane to help support me.”

  “So Zum Bauer is a family affair.”

  “Oh yes. My mother and father, they’ve always believed in me, no matter how crazy my ideas have been. Parents love you like no one else in the world ever could. Know what I mean?”

  “Totally.” Of course, that was a lie. My parents were a gargantuan question mark in the story of my life. My mom never taught me secret recipes; my dad never built me custom furniture. There wasn’t a single family photo of me and my smiling parents to tape on the wall. Maybe if there had been, my life would’ve gone in a very different direction.

  I slugged the last of my beer and set the glass down on the table with a hollow thunk. Kat’s eyebrows knit together in a question, but all she asked was, “Would you like another round?”

  “That would be great.”

  Resentment crept into the corners of my consciousness, a bitter longing for the parents who never loved me. My grandparents had given me all they could, had cared for me deeply and provided me with a stable home. But I was still plagued by an internal void, an ever-present gap in my self-identity: If I didn’t know my mother and father, would I ever really know myself?

  As I watched Kat refill my beer, I forced myself to beat back these senseless thoughts. What would I gain by feeling angry or envious? What point was there in focusing on the immutable past? Instead, I pondered the future, the good things that filled me with gratitude. Like the empty pages in my passport, waiting to be stamped. Like Carson, in Hong Kong, waiting for my phone call.

  Kat placed the beer before me, its flawless one-inch head gently undulating, skimming the rim of the glass.

  “Your love for your job is evident in every perfect pint you pour,” I said.

  “When a job is a passion, it doesn’t feel like a job.” She slid a pilsner glass beneath the tap and pulled the handle. “Especially when you can drink a beer while you’re on the clock.” She raised her drink and looked me in the eye. “Prost!”

  “Prost!” We clinked glasses, and I took a long sip. With my eyes closed, I thought of nothing else besides the cool sting of Bitburger sliding down my throat. As Carson would say, I was living in the moment. Savoring the present, instead of lamenting the past or overthinking the future.

  “So,” Kat said, “when are you heading out on your next big trip?”

  Just like that, my meditation was broken. I opened my eyes and uttered the seven most depressing words in the English language: “No travel plans for the foreseeable future.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sunlight peeked through the cracks in my blinds, penetrating my closed eyelids. Rolling to my side, I pulled the covers up over my face in a vain attempt to recapture the slippery solace of sleep, but a vicious pounding tore through my head, and the bed began whirling in sickening circles. Suddenly, I was wide awake, consumed by nausea and filled with regret.

  If I’d been behaving responsibly last night, I would’ve stopped drinking after that second pint of Bitburger. Instead, I chose to have a third, and a fourth, and then, after Zum Bauer closed its doors to the general public, I lingered at the handcrafted oak bar, chatting with Kat about dream fulfillment and travel destinations. While she closed out the cash register, her headwaiter, Wolf, swept the floors and emptied the trash, and when all tasks were complete, she procured a bottle of Jägermeister from the ice bin and asked, “Care for some parting shots?”

  Jägermeister: always my downfall.

  I hadn’t experienced this level of hangover since the morning after my first encounter with Carson. Back then, I’d powered through the pain, motivated by the promise of a day spent exploring the Peak with a gorgeous companion. Now what was my motivation supposed to be? A Saturday in the office with my unfinished task list? That certainly wouldn’t have been enough to motivate Seth. Didn’t he say he’d never waste his Saturday at work? And he was much farther behind than I was.

  Truthfully, hangover or not, I didn’t want to put on my sensible leather pumps and strap that briefcase over my shoulder. I didn’t even want to get out of bed. All I wanted to do was daydream about traveling, the way I used to do when I was a kid, when all I’d cared about was, as Kat put it, “chasing joy.” So I chugged a glass of water, popped open my laptop, and planned a vacation.


  Of course, it was a vacation I knew I’d never take. There was no way I could ever fit a twenty-one-day tour of Peru into my hectic, overworked schedule. But I took pleasure in the mere dream of hiking the Inca Trail, viewing Machu Picchu at sunrise and floating down the Amazon on a riverboat. Designing an imaginary itinerary was a far more amusing way to spend a Saturday than sitting cooped up in my office checking boxes.

  By the time the sun went down, I’d planned three different dream vacations on three different continents, without ever leaving the comfort of my bed. When Carson called me that night, he listened to me blather on about camping in Australia for fifteen minutes before either of us even mentioned phone sex. When we finally got down to business, our fantasy involved being naked together under the stars in the middle of the Outback.

  After I hung up the phone, I fell right to sleep. All night, I dreamed of adventure.

  On Sunday morning, reality slowly reared its ugly head. Because I’d made plans I definitely couldn’t cancel. Grandma would be expecting me for breakfast, and she most certainly didn’t want to hear about the make-believe journey I’d just taken around the world and back. So I threw on my clothes and caught the 8:07 train out of Penn Station straight to Woodbridge, the town I’d grown up in and my grandmother still called home. Her house on Garden Avenue was seven blocks away from the train station: Go straight until you hit the flower shop, then make a left, a right, and another left. I could’ve followed that path with my eyes closed. I’d walked it countless times in high school, when the tranquility of the suburbs felt like a prison with well-manicured lawns. Every weekend, I used to arm myself with New York City guidebooks and take the train to a place I’d yet to discover. Times Square, the Cloisters, the Guggenheim Museum. With each train ride, I designed a new itinerary and kept a log of my adventures in my spiral-bound notebooks. I knew the city like the back of my hand before I’d ever officially lived there. Those weekends were my first taste of real-world traveling and exploration outside the confines of my childhood bedroom.