The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

  The towering specter of One Bryant Park came into view, its silhouette composed of sharp points and razor edges, as if it could slice open the blue city sky. Maybe that was where I belonged. Sitting behind a desk somewhere in that massive skyscraper, one of countless cogs in the machine. Dissatisfied but stable. Not wandering the streets, wondering if I’d make enough money to pay next month’s rent, blowing through my savings account like some kind of trust fund baby.

  This had all seemed so simple a few days earlier, when I’d been typing out my business plan in the privacy of my apartment. Out in the unforgiving daylight, though, the reality of running my own company was a lot more complicated than a couple of color-coordinated spreadsheets. Planning was supposed to be my strong suit, wasn’t it? I’d spent years devising corporate strategies for international businesses. Yet on my own little undertaking, I’d completely dropped the ball.

  This was a stupid idea.

  Standing on the corner of 42nd and 6th, I wrestled with the two warring factions inside of me: the need for security and the desire to follow my passion. I felt haunted by those photographs of my mother, by the look of yearning in her eyes. Maybe I was just like her after all. A restless, stubborn dreamer who ran away from her responsibilities when the going got tough.

  I wished there was a way to make this all go away. To snap my fingers and undo the events of the past week. Then I’d still have my steady income, my distinguished career. And I’d still have Carson. Even if our only connection was through fleeting, long-distance phone calls, it would be better than the aching, unending silence that had grown between us in the interim.

  But as I stared at the mirrored façade of my old office building, I remembered what it was really like up there on the thirty-third floor. The competition, the nepotism, the emotional discontent. Even if it was an option, even if it meant I’d be with Carson again, did I really want to go back to a job that left me scowling, day in and day out?

  In any case, there was no way to change the past. I could only control my choices in the present moment. And right now, even though I was terrified of what the future had in store, I would not resign myself to failure. Rather than run away, I showed up for the remaining two tours of the day, each of which predictably ended with another humiliating half hour of standing alone on the city streets.

  The next morning, I woke up early to post some ads on the Internet before heading out for my ten o’clock tour. “Central Park Curiosities” met in the middle of Columbus Circle, at the base of its eponymous marble and granite monument. Strolling through the south entrance of the pedestrian plaza, I dodged skateboarders as they whizzed by, their wheels scratching against uneven pavement. Wooden benches lined the inside perimeter, filled with New Yorkers basking in both the warmth of the midmorning sun and the cool burble of the surrounding fountains. It was the perfect weather for a walking tour. Too bad I wouldn’t have any customers.

  As I waited on the stone steps beneath the seventy-foot statue, I tried my best to look casual and blend in with the crowd: hands in my pockets, neutral expression plastered on my face. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Two middle-aged women had approached, sporting eyeglasses and salt-and-pepper pageboys. One asked, “Are you Sophie?”

  It took me a second to realize they were actually here to see me. That this wasn’t some misunderstanding. “Yes. Are you here for the walking tour?”

  They nodded in unison. “Forty each, right?”

  “Right.”

  My heartbeat sped up as they fished twenties out of their purses and handed them over. This is really happening. Two living, breathing customers. Paying me to show them the sights of the city.

  “Thank you.” I pocketed the cash and asked, “What are your names?”

  “Jan.”

  “Marie.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said. “Where are you from?”

  “Connecticut.” They looked down at their feet, inspecting the double knots in their shoelaces.

  “Have either of you been to Central Park before?” I was hoping to break the ice, to learn a little bit about them and establish a friendly rapport. If we were going to spend the next two hours together, I figured we might as well get comfortable.

  But Marie ignored the question and began to root through her purse, while Jan let out a grunt that could’ve meant yes or no. Clearly, these two weren’t interested in idle chitchat. I stole a quick glance at my phone—three minutes to ten. Maybe Jan and Marie would loosen up if I kicked off the show a little early.

  Deep breath, and…

  “Welcome to Central Park Curiosities. I’m your host, Sophie Bruno, and today I’ll be taking you on a tour of some of the more unusual, unexpected sights to see in and around the vast green oasis in the middle of this bustling city.”

  Marie was still digging around in her bag—what was she even looking for in there?—and from the heavy-lidded blank stare Jan was giving me, she may as well have been sleeping with her eyes open. Nevertheless, I continued on.

  “Right now, we’re standing in Columbus Circle, directly across from the southwest entrance to Central Park. Take a look at this.” I raised my arm above my head, pointing to the statue of Christopher Columbus perched atop the pedestal. Marie popped a square of gum in her mouth—the journey to the bottom of her purse was now complete—before she and Jan both directed their gaze toward my fingertips, their hands shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. “This statue of Christopher Columbus is over one hundred fifty years old. It was a gift from Italian sculptor Gaetano Russo to commemorate the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s arrival in America. But something most people don’t know is that this is also the point from which all official distances to New York City from around the world are measured.”

  They continued to stare at the monument in silence.

  “What part of Connecticut are you ladies from?”

  Marie snapped her gum. Jan muttered, “Hartford.”

  “Great. So, when we say Hartford is a hundred miles away from New York City, we really mean—”

  “It’s actually a hundred and seventeen miles,” Jan cut in.

  “Oh. Okay.” Tough crowd. “So, when we say Hartford is a hundred and seventeen miles away from New York City, we really mean it’s a hundred and seventeen miles away from this spot, right here.”

  They offered no response. Not a single nod of interest or grunt of acknowledgment. I’d purposely opened the tour with this tidbit of information because Carson had found it so fascinating. But from the looks on their faces, Jan and Marie couldn’t care less. Had Carson just pretended to be interested in what I had to say to flatter me? In reality, was I not cut out for this whole tour guide gig?

  This was a stupid idea.

  The sharp crack of Marie’s gum snapped me to attention. “Let’s cross the street now and head into the park.”

  As I led the pair out of the circle and toward the busy crosswalk, someone called my name, followed by, “Hey! Wait up!” The voice grew closer and I spun around to see a man with a backpack and a bushy gray beard running in my direction. “Sorry, my train got held up. Is it too late to join the tour?”

  “Not at all. Welcome!” Another customer! With this addition, I’d reached my minimum quota of three people, for the very first time. While this didn’t erase the fact that my first three days of touring had been a total bust, it was a sure sign of progress. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Fred.” He pulled a ratty brown wallet from the back pocket of his cargo pants. “Do you take Amex? I’ve got MasterCard, if that’s better.”

  “I…I actually don’t take credit cards, Fred. Sorry.” Two semesters’ worth of financial planning and operations management courses, and it never once crossed my mind to devise a method of accepting electronic payments. What a colossal failure my business plan was turning out to be.

  Fred seemed to agree, because he pursed his lips and widened his eyes in disbelief. “
Well, I don’t carry cash on me. All I’ve got is a couple of singles.”

  “No problem,” I shot back, desperate not to lose his business. “I’ll be happy to walk with you to an ATM after the tour is over. They’re all over the surrounding neighborhoods.”

  He slapped his wallet closed and shrugged. “Okay.”

  With the latest crisis averted, the four of us passed through the traffic circle and crossed Central Park West, weaving through street vendors and pedestrians until we came to a stop in front of a massive pylon topped with a gilded bronze sculpture.

  “Welcome to one of the busiest entrances to Central Park: Merchants’ Gate Plaza,” I said, my voice straining to be heard over the racket of a nearby construction site. “As you can see, this area is dominated by the tremendous monument behind us, which honors the American soldiers who were killed when the battleship Maine exploded in Havana in 1898.”

  “Where?” Jan asked, squinting her eyes as if that might help her to hear me better.

  “Havana!” I yelled. “Cuba!”

  Marie snapped her gum again, the loud pop somehow clearly discernible above the drilling of the jackhammers.

  “The sculpture at the top is of ‘Columbia Triumphant’ riding a seashell chariot, which is being pulled by three mythological sea horses. It’s been reported, but never confirmed, that the bronze used in crafting this figure was scavenged from the gunmetal of the battleship itself.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fred said, visibly irritated. “I’m having a hard time hearing you over all this noise”

  “Did you say this was donated by Columbia University?” Jan asked.

  I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, toward the path leading into the tree-lined trails of the park. “You know what?” I yelled. “Let’s go in there. Where it’s quiet.”

  Sure enough, the farther we walked, the greener it became, and the earsplitting noise of the drills and engines faded to a distant thrum. “That’s better,” I said. “This is about as quiet as it ever gets in the middle of Manhattan.”

  As if to prove me wrong, Marie snapped her gum, right on cue.

  Hugging the west side of the park, we headed north, crossing Center Drive, before heading down one of the pedestrian-only walkways and leaving the crush of humanity behind. As we scaled a gentle incline, I said, “If you have any questions as we walk along, please feel free to ask,” but no one took me up on my offer. The only sounds were the pebbles crunching beneath our feet and the periodic crack of Marie’s chewing gum.

  I showed them Pine Bank Arch, one of the only original cast-iron bridges left in the park. From there, we crossed over Umpire Rock, a huge slab of exposed bedrock named for its superior view of the neighboring Heckscher Ballfields. This led to a casual stroll through the verdant Sheep Meadow, dotted with sunbathers and picnickers, a vastly different view from the livestock that used to graze the area less than a hundred years earlier.

  Throughout the journey, my companions didn’t say a word. They never asked a question, never wanted me to elaborate on any anecdotes. It was almost like I was talking to myself.

  “Next, I’d like to show you one of my favorite parts of Central Park, the Nell Singer Lilac Walk. Now is the ideal time of year to appreciate the fragrance and color of the blooms.”

  “What about the Pond?” Fred said, his first contribution of the afternoon. “I was hoping to see that. And the Hallett Nature Sanctuary.”

  “It’s a little far away from us right now,” I said. “Maybe we can tack that on to the end of the tour as we head back south.”

  “I’d prefer to see it now,” he pressed on. “I’m just not that interested in the lilacs, to be honest.”

  “Um…okay. Well, we can certainly change course, if you’d like—that is, if Jan and Marie are okay with it.”

  They scrunched up their noses. “We want to see the lilacs,” Jan said.

  “Then let’s keep going with our original itinerary, and we’ll head down to the Pond after we see Strawberry Fields and Cherry Hill.”

  Fred huffed, his annoyance apparent in the wrinkle between his overgrown eyebrows. “I thought this was a totally customizable tour.”

  “It is.” I came to a stop in the middle of the path, eager to appease all my customers and put an end to this tantrum before it escalated. “But the rest of the group has to be in agreement.”

  “That’s not what your website said.”

  Damn that poorly worded website.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should’ve made that clearer.”

  “Then I’m gonna take off on my own.” Fred turned on his Teva, but as he started to walk away, I realized we’d never made it to an ATM.

  “Uh, Fred?” I called after him. “You never paid for the tour.”

  He snickered. “Your website said the tours are fully refundable. I’m not paying for this crap.”

  I watched the back of his balding head grow smaller and smaller as he tromped across the grass, eventually disappearing altogether between a dense group of trees. My cheeks burned; my eyes stung. I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide from my miserable failure.

  But there was over an hour left in this tour. Jan and Marie gaped at me, waiting for me to resume my role as their guide. If I didn’t get myself together, they’d demand refunds, too. Deep breaths. You have to see this through.

  “Okay!” I clapped my hands and smiled, as if this whole unpleasant scene hadn’t just occurred. “Let’s see those lilacs.”

  Though it was a struggle to keep my voice from quavering, I managed to pick up where I left off, leading my two remaining customers through the middle of the park, passing by Belvedere Castle and Shakespeare Garden. Jan and Marie remained reticent, seeming wholly indifferent to my narration. By the time we reached our final destination in the southeast corner—right beside the Pond that Fred was in such a hurry to see—I was exhausted. Drained, both physically and mentally, from the long walk, the rolling hills, the monumental effort of keeping an upbeat demeanor in the midst of my internal chaos.

  But since my website advertised the chance for an off-the-beaten-path meal at the end of each tour, I maintained my smile and asked, “Are you ladies interested in grabbing a bite to eat? There’s a German restaurant I like to go to quite often. It’s very non-touristy and out of the way.”

  Marie spit her gum into a tissue and spoke for the first time. “Do they have a gluten-free menu?”

  “Uh…I don’t think so. But I’m sure there are some options—”

  “Better not risk it.” Marie nudged Jan with her elbow. “Come on.”

  Off they went, without so much as a thank-you. With my eyes on the asphalt, I crossed 59th Street and walked south on 6th Avenue. Though the sidewalk was teeming with chatty commuters, one voice thundered above all the others. The voice in my head saying, This was a stupid idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Over the next few days, business conditions failed to improve. My first week on the job passed by with a grand total of six paying customers—forty-eight shy of what I’d initially planned for. With my realized earnings so far below my lofty projections, it didn’t look like I could afford to take that day off to rest and rejuvenate after all.

  My self-confidence was at an all-time low; never before had I experienced such doubt in my judgment or decision-making. What a fool I’d been to throw away my chance at long-term success by chasing down an impractical, unreasonable pipe dream. Impulsivity had paid off on vacation. In real life? Not so much.

  And yet, as I lay on my bed in my empty apartment at the end of another disappointing day, there remained a very small, very hopeful corner of my mind that implored me not to give up. To keep going, despite the challenges and setbacks. To see this project through, instead of running away. Yes, I’d had an extraordinarily difficult week, but one week would not define the future of my business. I could bounce back from this. I would try again tomorrow.

  Then I saw the Yelp review.

  If I could give
“Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours” zero stars, I would. The walking tour of Central Park was poorly planned and poorly executed. First of all, the “tour guide” (I use the term loosely; she didn’t seem to know a thing about giving a proper tour) didn’t accept credit cards. Who runs a cash-only business in this day and age? Beyond that, the route she followed was boring and the narration was exceedingly dull. Worst of all, the website is riddled with false advertising and outright lies. There’s no “customization” of the tour whatsoever. Save your money and pick up a free map from one of the visitor centers in the park instead.

  Fred had certainly wasted no time sharing his opinion with the Internet. And though it was a scathing assessment of my fledgling small business, it was also one hundred percent true. My tour was poorly planned, poorly executed, and I didn’t know the first thing about being a proper guide. I should’ve stuck to fantasy vacations, to imaginary itineraries scribbled in spiral-bound notebooks, relegated to the privacy of my bookshelves.

  The second thoughts I’d been harboring all week long suddenly consumed me, and that single, hopeful light in the corner of my mind was snuffed out, leaving only a cold, black dread. My perfectly ordered life was now a thing of the past, irreparably damaged by a succession of stupid, irresponsible choices. In a true sign of desperation, I started thinking of who else I could blame for this mess.

  Maybe my parents, whose absence had made me perpetually afraid to take a risk. Or my grandmother, who steered me down a path in life that reinforced those fears. Or, most of all, Carson. If he’d never surprised me in New York, if he’d just listened when I told him our relationship could never go anywhere, if he’d never come into my life in the first place, then everything would’ve worked out fine. I’d have gone to visit Martin Chu in Hong Kong. I’d have come back to New York with my professional reputation intact. I’d be flitting off to another international destination right now, instead of stuck here in my cramped apartment, staring at a vicious, but accurate, evaluation of what happened when I tried—and failed—to live out my dream.