Wanderlove Read online

  “How do you know I’m not a photographer? Or an artist?”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “No,” I reply a little too loudly.

  He looks taken aback.

  “I mean no, I’m not an artist,” I continue, tugging my shirt over the sketchbook in my pocket. “But you didn’t know that. And just because I’m part of a stuffy tour group doesn’t mean I’m really a part of them, okay? It was a mistake—I thought I was signing up for something else. And now I’m stuck with them for three weeks, seeing only what they want me to see, and there’s nothing I can do. Today’s the first time I’ve gotten a moment to myself.”

  “I see.”

  “You see,” I repeat.

  “Well, I believe you, so now I see it. Believing is seeing, right?”

  Before I can correct him, he catches my arm. “Hey, do you smell that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Come with me.”

  He leads me to a booth where five barefoot women are making tortillas. First they reach their floured hands into a plastic tub filled with dough, pinch off a hunk, and roll it into a ball. Next they slap the ball from hand to hand, beating it flat. Then they toss it onto a griddle suspended over an open flame.

  A tortilla dangles in front of my face. “Be careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”

  I hesitate, remembering what happened yesterday in Antigua. While the rest of my tour group browsed market stalls, I bought a chicken tamale from a street vendor. Before I could unwrap it from its banana leaf, Marcy velociraptored up behind me and snatched it from my hand.

  “Rule number one,” she said, mashing the tamale into a blob of corn flour. “Unless you want to be hunched in the bathroom for three hours, exploding from both ends, don’t buy anything from street vendors. Or from pushcarts. Or from roadside markets. You can’t afford to be naïve—this isn’t the first world, you know. Standards of cleanliness are much different here.”

  Global Vagabonds Rules for Third-World Travel

  Don’t shake hands with the locals.

  Don’t drink the water.

  Don’t touch your face after touching the water.

  Don’t eat street-cart tamales, or buy street-cart tamales, or approach street carts, or even make eye contact with street-cart vendors.

  If any water gets in your mouth while you shower, gargle with hand sanitizer.

  Feeling like a rebel, I accept the tortilla and take a bite. The hot dough melts on my tongue. “Wow! Tijuana’s got nothing on these.”

  “You’re from Tijuana?”

  “What? No!” I laugh. “I’m from Southern California. But I’ve been there once … with friends. We had quesadillas.”

  Great—now he probably thinks I’m trying to be multicultural. Good thing I didn’t bring up the kamikaze shots. At any rate, he doesn’t seem eager to ditch me, and that says something. We head toward the outskirts of the market, where the streets are less crowded.

  “So where are you from?” I ask.

  “Hard to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I grew up all over.” He crumples a tortilla into a ball and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. After he swallows, he says, “Take a look down there.”

  He points to one of the steepest roads I’ve ever seen. At the very bottom, a village of tombstones designed to look like churches juts from a hill. The colors of Easter. Why do American cemeteries look so gloomy? It never occurred to me before. They should look like carnivals, celebrating life.

  “Let me guess. You’re staying in Panajachel tonight, right?”

  When I turn back, he’s perched atop a low stone wall with his hands on his hips, like Peter Pan. I can totally see him spreading his arms and soaring straight on till morning.

  “It’s usually the next stop for tour groups,” he adds, “after here.”

  “Um,” I reply. I don’t want to admit I haven’t read our itinerary. I’m starting to realize how idiotic my blank-canvas policy was. “Right.”

  “So what has your group got planned for you this evening?”

  “I’m not a hostage,” I insist, even though he’s got it right. I’m pretty sure Glenna Heron said something about a Paraguayan restaurant. As if Guatemalan weren’t exotic enough.

  “So you can come across the lake for dinner?”

  The sun emerges from behind a cloud. With my head tipped back, I have to squint to see his face. “The lake?” I repeat, thinking of the painting. I feel a flutter of excitement. “What’s across the lake?”

  “Three volcanoes and twelve other villages, for starters.”

  “I know that,” I lie.

  “We’re staying at this guesthouse in Santa Lucía. It’s called La Casa Azul. Your typical backpacker haunt. The only one in the village. But it’s not so bad. Everyone cooks. You should come.”

  I wonder about the difference between a good backpacker haunt and a bad one. “How do I get there?” I ask, unsure whether I’m playing along, or whether I’m really considering going.

  “Por lancha. By boat. Just head straight down Calle Santander—that’s the main road—to the lake. The boat drivers will descend upon you as soon as you get there. Make sure to catch the six o’clock to get there in time for dinner.”

  “Should I, like … get your number or something?”

  “I don’t have a phone.” He hops down from the wall and waves. “Bon voyage!”

  I watch him stroll through the crowd. His hair’s as dark as that of the locals, his skin almost as tanned. But even though he’s not particularly tall—maybe average height—he towers above them.

  All of a sudden, I think, How strange. We never exchanged names.

  3

  Day 3, Evening

  The Most Beautiful Lake in the World

  The Art School Girl

  Anytime I’ve thought about art in the months after I gave it up, my mind has always wandered to the same incident: when our advanced-drawing teacher, Mr. Chiang, brought us to three Los Angeles art colleges in one day. I was a sophomore. Toby Kelsey didn’t go to our school yet.

  Back then, I ate art for every meal and slept with it under my pillow.

  The classrooms and faces smeared together with time, except for one: a girl with tangled hair, barefoot, her paint-stained jeans scrunched over her knees. She burst out of a doorway at my end of a long, dark corridor. In one hand, she gripped a paintbrush. I watched her soar down the hall, limbs flying, bare feet slapping, and vanish into a doorway at the other end.

  Until the moment I saw her, I didn’t know a person could radiate so much joy it seemed tangible. I could feel it shimmer through the hall. Ever since, I’ve wondered what it felt like to be that happy.

  The first time I see the lake, I think I understand.

  ~July 14, near Lake Atitlán

  As our shuttle maneuvers the steep, cratered roads of the Guatemala highlands, the drops plunge deeper and deeper, until I’m certain the only thing keeping us from plummeting over the edge is my own willpower. I’m concentrating so hard my cerebellum aches.

  Then the lake appears through a crease in the mountains.

  It’s like a shock of blue light. A thrill punches my heart. I want to cry out, but stop myself just in time.

  The lake vanishes as we round a bend. I glance at Glenna Heron, passed out in her usual seat beside me. After showing me every one of her Chichicastenango purchases, she fell asleep—quite a feat, considering the bloodcurdling roads we’ve been scaling. I try the next seat over, because I want someone, anyone, to share the moment with. A white-haired couple stare at matching Dean Koontz novels. In front of them, Marcy distracts Dan’s driving with her animated screeching and flailing claws.

  No one seems to have seen the lake. But how could they have missed it? It was the color of a gas flame, so blue it nearly stung my eyes.

  I sit back in my seat, feeling like I’ve caught a glimpse of someone else’s dream.

  Forget being a blank canvas. This time, I want
to know. I pull out my Global Vagabonds itinerary from where I stuck it in my sketchbook, and unfold it. I locate Day 4: Chichicastenango and drop my finger to the next heading.

  Panajachel and Lake Atitlán, Guatemala

  Scenic drive (approx. 2 hrs) from Chichicastenango to Panajachel, a Mayan village on the shores of Lake Atitlán—famously called “the most beautiful lake in the world” by Brave New World author Aldous Huxley.

  “ ‘The most beautiful lake in the world,’ ” I read out loud.

  Suddenly, the minibus lurches to the side. A chicken bus—a retired American school bus painted in riotous hues—has careened into our lane to pass another. It swerves back just in time. For an instant, I look into the faces pressed against the oily bus windows.

  My gut still churning, I glance again at Glenna. No signs of life.

  We crawl through the narrow streets of a village called Sololá, a cluster of shabby buildings and courtyards surrounding a bustling park. Then we begin to descend. When the lake comes into view again, this time it remains. The stunning shade of blue isn’t just the lake—it’s the contrast of sky against heaps of white clouds, and the three volcanoes arching over the water like hooded gods.

  My heart’s so swollen with lake-love, I decide to wake Glenna.

  “Are we there yet?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.

  “Almost. But look—”

  “Why’d you wake me up, then? I was having the most wonderful dream. Let’s see, there was this man with a mustache, and he had a briefcase, and I think he was selling—”

  “Glenna! Look out the window.”

  “Pretty,” she says, without looking. “Anyway, I forget what the man was selling. But there was this field of butter beans …”

  I open my sketchbook, tracing volcano shapes without ever actually touching my pencil to the page. From time to time, I glance back out the window, wondering which village is Santa Lucía. In the center of the haze of blue water, I think I see a boat.

  In our shared hotel room, Glenna sits on her bed and watches me fix my makeup. I’ve showered and changed into a pale blue tank top and a flowy white skirt with silver piping along the hem. As I drape a silver necklace around my neck, I imagine Toby Kelsey sitting in Glenna’s place. Watching me get dressed to attend a hostel party with a bunch of aimless ruffians.

  Picturing his face helps me ignore the anxiety prickling inside my stomach. With the exception of Tijuana, it’s been way, way too long since I’ve gone out.

  Parties weren’t Toby’s thing, but he hated when I attended them without him. I quickly learned the fun factor of holding back Olivia’s hair wasn’t worth the ensuing interrogation: Was Mark Schulman there? I saw him checking you out in physics. I hope it was worth it, because you realize we’ve got to send in our portfolios in just three weeks, right? In a way, it was nice having someone care so much, since my parents could be so damned useless in that department.

  And then, after Toby and I broke up, breakfast cereal and serial television trumped putting on my party pants every time.

  And now … it’s like my social muscles have atrophied.

  But I know I’ll regret it if I don’t go.

  I established my alibi as soon as we arrived at our hotel. “Tonight, we’ll be having dinner at a Paraguayan restaurant on Calle Santander,” Marcy announced, clapping her hands. “After you drop your suitcases off in your rooms, meet us back in the lobby.”

  Once the rest of the group had filtered upstairs, I approached Marcy. “I think I’m going to skip dinner,” I said. “I’m not feeling too well.”

  She smiled knowingly. “You ate something from a street cart, didn’t you?”

  Thank God I didn’t tell her about my stolen camera.

  Now I check the ancient clock radio beside my hotel bed. “I promise I’ll be back tonight,” I say, for my benefit as much as Glenna’s. I’m not a hundred percent certain I can trust her, but telling her seems like the responsible thing to do. In case the boat is overtaken by lake pirates or something.

  “Okay,” she replies, adjusting her flowered hat.

  “It’s just for the evening. Please don’t tell Marcy.”

  “I won’t.”

  I touch my waist again to make sure my money belt is under my skirt. It’s not the sexiest accessory—more like a top secret fanny pack, or one of those vintage belted maxi pads our grandmothers suffered through as teens—but I don’t know how else to carry money since my bag was hijacked. I wave goodbye to Glenna, who looks almost wistful.

  As I walk down Calle Santander, several apple-red motor taxis whiz past me, beeping gaily. I pass a man selling snow cones from a pushcart. “Granizadas!” he calls, pointing to a row of syrups in skinny bottles like crayons. Wildflowers grow in the gutters, and butterflies flicker in the alleyways. At the end of the volcano-dwarfed street, the lake draws me toward it like a whirlpool of blue.

  But when I see the Mayanet Internet café, I can’t help stopping by. Just for a minute.

  To: “Olivia Luster”

  [email protected]

  Subject: I met a guy!

  I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Bizarrely, I start to feel guilty. As if somewhere across the lake, the ponytailed guy knows exactly what I’m doing.

  Delete.

  I jog the rest of the way to the lakeshore, where I’m the final passenger on the six o’clock boat. The driver cranks the motor, and as we roar into the fading light, the water changes from clear to pale blue to deep blue-black. It reminds me of all the times I sat on the beach back home, staying out until that last scrap of sun dropped below the horizon. The wind rushes against my face, tangling through my hair. I should be feeling weightless, wonderful.

  But the farther the boat rumbles from shore, the more nervous I get. I’m not even at the hostel yet, and already my hands feel like Mickey Mouse gloves. I sit on them, ordering my knees not to jiggle. I wonder what it would take to turn the boat around.

  A tsunami? A kraken?

  Maybe I could jump out and swim to shore. I’d probably be stuck there, but that’s all right. I could build myself a hut of sticks. Make sketchbook paper from chewed-up trees. Spend the rest of my days in solitude. Whatever happened to Bria? everyone would ask. I’d be like La Llorona, the weeping lakelady from the Mexican ghost story. Haunting, beautiful—and deadly.

  “Santa Lucía!” yells the boat driver.

  I jump to my feet but am knocked back as he cranks the wheel. Grimy water laps over my sandals, soaking the hem of my skirt. Fabulous.

  The boat bumps against the dock. Santa Lucía looks much smaller than Panajachel. Tin-roofed homes stagger up a sweep of hillside. About twenty yards up the road, which looks practically vertical, I see a hand-lettered blue sign: LA CASA AZUL. I reach for my camera. And then I remember.

  “Click,” I mutter sadly.

  The dogs find me hiding in the doorway. There are two of them: massive, woolly black beasts that bark like disgruntled sea lions. I stand very still as they snuffle their insolent noses against my hands and skirt. Just inside the room, I hear laughter.

  “Osa! León!” calls the bartender.

  The dogs back off—but now I’m exposed. I cross my arms and survey the space: part pub, part restaurant, and part collective living room. Six picnic tables are arranged on a dirty plank floor. One wall is propped open like a garage door, letting the evening in. Beyond it, there’s a patio deck furnished with potted plants and colorful hammocks. And everywhere, there are backpackers.

  I see:

  tanned skin

  tattoos—including, inexplicably, a winged hot dog

  bare feet (hairy ones) dreadlocks

  knit caps, including one with fake dreadlocks attached

  and lots and lots of linen

  But I don’t see the ponytail boy from the market anywhere. Distraught, I head to the bar.

  “They’ll be done cooking in about twenty minutes,” the bartender tells me in an (Irish? Scottish?) accent. He’s
short and lean, with freckled skin and pink knuckles ideal for rapping people’s skulls. “It’s five American dollars for the meal. Six if you want a Gallo as well.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” I admit.

  “Haven’t been in the country long, have you?” He opens the refrigerator behind him and withdraws a beer bottle bearing the red-and-yellow rooster logo I saw on signs all over Antigua. “Cerveza. Gallo is Guatemala’s national beer.”

  “Why a rooster?”

  “Down enough and you’ll be crowing like one.”

  I manage a smile. “Just dinner,” I say, rummaging in my money belt. The bartender grins. I realize I have my hand down the front of my skirt.

  “You’re not staying here, are you?” he asks.

  Why, is it that obvious? I shake my head. I consider asking about the ponytailed guy, but I don’t know his name, and I know how lame that will sound.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Henry Cavendish, like the Brit who discovered hydrogen—but that’s our secret. Call me Hal!” He opens the Gallo for himself and slurps noisily. “I’m the owner. But you don’t want to talk to me. I’m old and boring. You should run along and meet people. This crowd’s pretty friendly, as long as you don’t betray an interest in Top Forty radio.”

  “I’ll try to keep it quiet,” I say, stepping away from the bar.

  I scan the room for someone sitting alone. Or an empty bench where I can sit by myself. I should have bought the Gallo, anyway. I hate beer, but at least I’d have a prop.

  That’s when I see her: the blond girl from the plane.

  She’s talking to a pair of skinny backpacker girls, and she looks even more backpackered out than before. Backtastic, even. Backtacular. She sits on a table, monkeylike, with her bony knees splayed out. Her drawstring pants pool around her thighs.

  Of course she’s here. I can’t believe it never occurred to me. I focus all my mental energy on creating an escape hatch in the floor.

  When nothing happens, I duck my head and inspect the bookshelf beside me. I grab a book—The Canterbury Tales in French, but at least it’s illustrated—aim it toward the room, and peek over the top.