The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

  One by one, I removed all the books from the shelf and tossed them on the striped bedspread. Then I sat beside them, picked up a spiral notebook—a brown one with pink watercolor orchids painted on the front—and began paging through it. Right away, I recognized my immature teenage handwriting, the way I used to dot my i’s and j’s with little bubbles. It was so different from the formal penmanship I’d developed in the intervening years. Yet there was something so familiar in those written words. Like the feverish joy I’d felt when I’d first committed ink to paper, recording all my experiences, preserving them for the future.

  A future that was happening right now.

  Floorboards creaked in the hallway, and I looked up to see Grandma hovering just outside the threshold to the bedroom.

  “Can I come in?” She sounded uncharacteristically small. It wasn’t like her to ask permission; she generally barged in whenever she wanted to. I nodded and made room for her to sit down beside me on the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, casting a glance at the messy pile surrounding me.

  “Going through my old travel library.” I held up the spiral notebook resting in my lap. “I used to keep journals of my weekends in the city. Remember that?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Very clearly.”

  “You used to get so mad at me for taking the train in by myself.”

  “I was never mad at you, Sophie. I was worried. There are a lot of dangers out there. The city is no place for a young girl to be gallivanting around by herself.”

  “Yet I always came home alive. And on time. With no scars. See? You had no reason to be so scared.”

  She looked down at her lap, where her hands smoothed the fabric of her hand-sewn cotton pants. “I had plenty to be scared of. You have no idea.”

  Tears pooled in the corners of her brown eyes as she raised them to meet my own. “When you were sixteen,” she continued, “you were so much like your mother. You had this fire in your belly. This urgent need to escape from home. Always planning the next journey, always fantasizing about running away. Your mother spent a lot of time in New York, too. Doing God knows what with God knows who. Then one time, she got on the train and she never came back. I was so afraid you were going to end up the same way. Running away to the city. Lost to me forever.”

  I reached for her hand, and she grasped my fingers firmly in her own. “I’m not lost, Gram. I’m right here. I didn’t disappear, and I never will. I’m nothing like her.”

  “Oh, but you are,” she said with the hint of a smile. “You’re very much like her. Unconventional. Stubborn. Restless. Your mom was a dreamer, Sophie. And so are you.”

  Her words struck me like a lightning bolt. I’d always believed I was a planner. The practical, disciplined, sensible one who played it safe, who made smart choices, who never placed a bet with unfavorable odds. As it turned out, I was a dreamer all along. I’d just been fighting my true nature.

  Then a terrifying thought occurred to me. I’d spent my whole life striving to be unlike my mother. But all my efforts had been for nothing. Am I doomed to be just like her, no matter how hard I try to be different?

  As if reading my mind, my grandmother said, “But you’re stronger. Your mother, she was troubled. Weak. She had problems galore. I know I don’t ever have to worry about you. Look at how independent you’ve become. So determined. You’ve got such a good head on your shoulders, such a solid sense of responsibility. If you’ve got a dream, I know you’ll make it come true. You’ll succeed at whatever you put your mind to. I know you won’t let anyone stand in your way. Not a man. And not me.”

  I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. It was all I’d ever wanted to hear her say. I may not have come to New Jersey seeking Grandma’s approval, but it sure felt good to get it anyway.

  “Sometimes,” she continued, “when I look at you, it’s hard to remember you’re not your mother. Because you’re the spitting image of her.”

  “Really?” I tried in vain to conjure a memory of my mother’s face. Years ago, Grandma had kept photos of her scattered around the house, lining the wall of the staircase and arranged on top of the credenza. Over the course of my childhood, they gradually disappeared, without discussion or fanfare, until every trace of my mother’s existence was erased from our home. I never asked what happened to them, because frankly, I didn’t care; seeing her picture was just a painful reminder of what could’ve been and what would never be. Besides, I didn’t see the point of longing for a person who had so clearly wanted nothing to do with me.

  Still, in my darkest moments, I’d think about what she was doing. I would envision her face, coming up with some blurry, distorted picture of what she looked like, a phantasm plucked from the depths of my imagination, an amalgam of random, meaningless facial features. I always pictured someone wholly unfamiliar. I never, ever pictured myself.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a picture of her,” I said. “I don’t remember what she looks like.”

  Without a word, Grandma stood up and shuffled down the hallway. I stayed put, sitting on the bedspread, trying to catch my breath. She returned holding a tattered shoebox, and when she sat down, she placed it on her lap, with both of her palms lying on top of it. Slowly, she breathed in and out, as if preparing herself for what was inside. Then she folded back the cover, revealing a short stack of photographs. Black and white, color, professional portraits, family snapshots, all the edges yellowed with age. She gently lifted the top photo and held it out for me to see.

  “This was your mother on her sixteenth birthday,” she said. “Just before she got pregnant.”

  It was like looking at a memory I’d completely forgotten, because the person in the photograph was me. She had the same high cheekbones, the same little bump in the bridge of her nose, the same wild and curly hair. But when I examined it more closely, I noticed an emptiness in her eyes, a yearning for something that existed beyond her reach. What was she craving? What did she need that she didn’t have?

  I took the photo from my grandmother’s hands and held the edges lightly between my fingertips. “Can I see some more?”

  Grandma reached into the box and handed me a pile of photographs. As I flipped through them, the image I had of my mother morphed from a vague, fuzzy form to an actual human being. A rosy-cheeked baby holding a stuffed giraffe. A chubby little girl wearing patent leather Mary Janes. A sullen teenager with an acoustic guitar slung across her back. All of them with my exact face.

  “Wow,” I said. “I really do look like her.”

  “I know a man didn’t ruin your mother’s life,” she said. “I know she made her own choices. And I don’t regret that she made those choices, because if she hadn’t, then I would never have had you. You are the greatest joy of my life, Sophie. You’re everything to me.”

  I lifted my gaze to meet hers, and in her eyes, I saw pain and despair. The same anguished longing that I saw in my mother’s sixteen-year-old face. The desire for something more.

  “You need more than just me in your life,” I said. “I love you, but I can’t be everything to you. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an independent woman. Life is about evolving, Gram. About taking risks and making messes. Even if we’re afraid of what might happen.”

  She didn’t respond, but she nodded, ever so slightly. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her, buried my face in the loose skin of her neck. My grandmother might not have understood me, and she probably never would, but at least now I knew I had her support.

  We spent the rest of the morning together, discussing the details of my business plan and sharing an early lunch, before I packed up my books and said good-bye. At the front door, Grandma hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, “Call me when you get home. Just so I know you’re safe.”

  Which reminded me: I needed to get a phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  On my walk home from Penn Station, I stopped at the wireless store and signed up for the ch
eapest plan available, complete with a low-end, refurbished clunker of a smartphone. It was a serious step down from the slim, sexy, cutting-edge device I’d been given at McKinley, but it served its purpose. Namely, giving prospective clients a way to get in touch with me. Now all I had to do was spread the word: As of tomorrow, Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours would be open for business.

  To that end, I set about establishing an online presence: a streamlined website with contact information, business listings on Yelp and TripAdvisor, Facebook and Twitter accounts to help with promotion. I devised names for each of my themed itineraries, like “Literary Midtown” and “Broadway History,” and listed them on my website, along with starting times and meeting locations. Reservations were encouraged, but, in the spirit of spontaneity, not required.

  After reviewing my budget, I decided to start by running three tours per day, six days per week, with one day off to rest and rejuvenate. If I could snag at least three customers per tour, I’d earn enough to scrape by without making too big of a dent in my savings account. Given the abundance of tourists walking the streets of New York at all hours of the day, I assumed this was a realistic, attainable goal.

  Unfortunately, my assumption was wrong.

  It’s not like I expected my phone to start ringing uncontrollably as soon as my site went live, but after three separate Craigslist ads and four hours wallpapering Internet travel forums with my Web address, I’d hoped to have sparked at least an inkling of interest in my business. A question, a retweet, some minor interaction to inspire confidence in my endeavor. To let me know that somewhere out there, someone cared about what I was doing. Instead, I was met with hostile silence, as if the Internet at large had reflexively scrolled past every last one of my posts with a collective, disinterested yawn.

  To distract myself from the ineffectiveness of my marketing campaign, I did what I always liked to do to calm my nerves: I planned a dream vacation. This time, I returned to Australia, hopping a flight inland to Alice Springs to embark on a virtual adventure through the Outback. There were hot air balloon flights over spectacular desert ranges, camel rides across sienna-colored sand dunes, and open-air campouts under the stars. Just like the fantasy Carson and I shared during one of our last late-night phone calls.

  By midnight, I’d designed a complete and comprehensive itinerary for an imaginary journey through the Red Centre. Judging by my empty inbox, though, I’d failed to drum up curiosity in my real-life tour company. Still, I convinced myself this didn’t mean much; after all, I was selling spontaneity. Some impulsive individuals would undoubtedly be waiting for me on the steps of the New York Public Library the next morning, right?

  I showed up fifteen minutes early for my ten o’clock “Astonishing Architecture” tour, bright-eyed and caffeinated, eager to greet my first paying customers. Half an hour later, I was still standing alone, the corners of my mouth fighting gravity, the effects of my morning coffee fading fast. As the reality of canceling my first official tour began to sink in, I scanned the faces of the stragglers all around me. Some sat on the stairs, others leaned against the lions, and at least half of them looked like they were waiting for someone. Could it be they didn’t recognize me? Admittedly, that corporate headshot I’d used on my website was a few years out of date.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a small group on my left. “Are you guys looking for Sophie?” They blinked in my general direction. “Of Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours?” More blinking. Only then did it occur to me that they didn’t speak English. Embarrassed, I bowed my head in silent apology and walked away.

  “Excuse me,” I said, this time to a teenage couple embracing beside the handrail. “Are you guys looking for Sophie?” The girl scowled and shook her head before burying her face in her boyfriend’s neck.

  I continued on like this until I’d been rejected by every last person in sight, including the one man who kept inching away every time I came near. I guess I couldn’t blame him for trying to avoid me. With my nondescript jeans and T-shirt, I certainly wasn’t wearing anything that set me apart as a tour guide. He probably thought I was a panhandler. Or a con artist.

  When I was still by myself at ten-thirty, it became crystal clear that “Astonishing Architecture” would have no takers. Rather than retreat into the library and hide my shame among the stacks, though, I forced my chin to the sky and started walking, following the path I’d planned out for my tour. I thought it would be good practice to familiarize myself with precise locations along the route while silently rehearsing my spiel, to prepare myself for the day when I had a dozen customers trailing me around the city at once. Surely that day would be soon. Wouldn’t it?

  As morning turned to afternoon, I persisted in keeping my head held high, even though no one showed up for either of my two remaining tours. Remaining optimistic proved to be more difficult the next day, though, when, yet again, I failed to attract a single customer. That night, I trudged back to my apartment with my head hanging between my shoulders, my gaze fixed to the sidewalk.

  The following morning, the shrill ring of my discount cell phone roused me from an anxious sleep. The screen flashed with an unfamiliar area code, and I shot upright, answering the call with a fluttering heart.

  “Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours. This is Sophie speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, yes, I’m interested in your ten o’clock tour.”

  Success!

  “Certainly! That would be the Times Square Trivia tour, one of my favorites.” That was true. I loved all my tours, but this one was especially cool; it was loaded with trivia questions I planned on asking the audience while we walked along, making it an extra interactive experience. “Would you like to make a reservation to guarantee your spot?”

  I may have been pushing my luck; I certainly didn’t anticipate a sold-out tour, especially after the dismal disaster of the past two days. Then again, one could never be too sure. Perhaps I just needed a little bit of time to allow the existence of my new business to propagate throughout the public consciousness. Now that word was obviously out there, who knew how many customers might show up?

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  Three minutes later, I had my first reservation for two. Rick said his 773 area code was from Chicago, and he and his girlfriend were visiting the city for a long weekend away from home. I gave him specific directions to the starting location in Times Square and a detailed description of what I was wearing. This way he’d be able to find me easily, despite my unremarkable attire.

  After I hung up, I swallowed a squeal, rushed through a shower, and proceeded directly to 7th Avenue. Even though the tour didn’t start for a while, I wanted to survey the area and review my notes, to see if I could tailor the trivia to my clients from the Windy City. It took me almost a full two hours, but I managed to weave in questions about Chicago the musical, variations in regional pizza, and the height of our cities’ respective skyscrapers.

  While wolfing down a buttered bialy, I walked over to the designated meeting spot at the bottom of the glowing red steps in Duffy Square. My excitement could hardly be contained as I waited for my customers, bouncing on the balls of my feet, smiling at every body-painted exhibitionist and counterfeit Elmo that walked by. But as the minutes ticked past, ten o’clock came and went, with no sign of Rick or his girlfriend. Maybe they’re lost, my delusions whispered in my ear. So I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the 773 number from my call history.

  When he answered, I said, “Rick? It’s Sophie.” After a moment of awkward silence, I followed up with, “From Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours.”

  “Right! Hi.”

  “Hi.” He seemed relaxed, unconcerned with the fact that he was fifteen minutes late for his trivia tour of Times Square. “So, are you having trouble finding me? I’m waiting right at the bottom of the red steps. By the TKTS booth.”

  “Nah, we decided to skip it.”

  “Skip it?”

  “Yeah, we wanted to check out Brooklyn
instead.”

  “Oh.” The neon lights surrounding me were suddenly shining twice as bright, flashing twice as fast. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut against the dizzying glare. “I didn’t realize…I mean, I’m still waiting here, that’s all.”

  “Sorry to flake on you,” he continued. “I figured it wasn’t a big deal. Your website said you were totally flexible. Spontaneity and all that, right?”

  “Right.” While I pondered whether spontaneity and common courtesy were mutually exclusive behaviors, there was one thing I knew for sure: The verbiage on my website would have to be reworded. Maybe if I required a deposit for reservations, people would call to explicitly cancel instead of leaving me hanging. Or maybe the best option was to revise my cancellation policy altogether.

  Another tour, devoid of tourists. I hung up, dejected, and surveyed the surrounding crowd, feeling like my shame was on display for all to see. Was the person in that Elmo costume laughing at me behind his mask? Were those women slathered in body paint rolling their eyes at my failed efforts? Seized by a sudden need to escape from Times Square, I hurried east on 47th Street and hung a sharp right to head south on 6th Avenue, toward the north edge of Bryant Park. Pushing onward through heavy pedestrian traffic, the clamor of a thousand bodies drowned out the niggling voice in the back of my head. This was a stupid idea, it said. March back to the McKinley office right this instant, get down on your hands and knees, and beg Elizabeth for another chance at your old job.