The Lost Girls (46 page)

“But you had Brian,” I pointed out as Jen paused, then chose the left-hand fork at a spot where the trail divided in two. “You weren't in the position to be blown away.”

“Yeah, maybe. But it says something that I stayed with him for so long. I knew, deep down, that he and I weren't right for each other.” She studied the ground directly in front of her feet, then eventually glanced over at me with a sad, almost apologetic expression. “It's just that I watched all of my girlfriends experience total hell dating in the city, and I didn't want to go through that. I chose the safe route.”

“Well, that's not necessarily a bad thing,” I said, trying to reassure her. “You've had two healthy four-year relationships under your belt, and you've gotten some serious practice in making things work. The only relationships I ever had crashed and burned, big-time.”

She slowed for a second, unscrewed the cap of her water bottle, and took a sip. “Yeah, but you've
dated
. Really, really dated. You've seen what's out there and had the chance to figure out what you do like and what you don't. Other than my two boyfriends, I've never really been asked out by anyone.”

“But you will when we get back,” I said, taking a slug from my own bottle. “And besides, where did all of that dating get me, anyway? We're in the exact same spot now.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I looked up at the patch of sky that I could see between the trees and realized that it was starting to get dark—and quickly. Wordlessly, we picked up the pace.

“Well, what do you want to do? Are you ready to go back to the city? Or are you thinking about somewhere else?” Jen asked.

That's what I'd wanted to talk with Jen about. The very idea of reentering my life in New York right now made me want to turn tail into the redwoods and start a new career as a recluse.

We'd come this far around the world, and I felt as though I'd
just
begun to explore a different side of myself, to establish an identity beyond my résumé and business card. For so long I'd been afraid that I might be wasting my life if I didn't achieve something tangible, accomplishments that would earn me respect in the eyes of others. Now I was starting to understand that my all-work attitude might leave me one very lonely lady in a decade or so. All the bylines and résumé bullet points in the world wouldn't make up for the time I'd miss with fam
ily, friends, a guy…or just hanging out with myself. They ultimately wouldn't make me happy. A sense of true, authentic satisfaction—the kind I'd first felt as a gymnastics coach and then years later with the girls at Pathfinder—didn't really come from some external place.

Finally accepting that realization was what made me feel so conflicted about returning to New York. I told Jen that earlier that day I'd gotten an e-mail from an editor I'd worked with as a freelancer asking if I might be interested in coming to work for her after I got back to the States—if I planned to come back. There was a good chance that she'd have a senior-level position open in late summer, and she'd like to talk to me about filling it.

Old personality traits die hard. Her suggestion absolutely thrilled me—it would be a
huge
promotion, about four steps up the editorial ladder, and I'd never have to be an assistant again!—but it also terrified me. I knew how easy it would be for me to get sucked right back into my old overachieving ways. I didn't want to find myself chained to a desk chair again at twenty-nine…and then thirty…and thirty-one. As grateful as I was to have a job lead at this point, I wasn't sure how Manhattan would fit into my life or how I'd fit into Manhattan. Could I have a career—and everything else I wanted too?

I hadn't acknowledged my feelings until now, but they hit me full force: I was ready for something more than just a job. I wanted what most women secretly (or not so secretly) want deep down—to fall in love, to be a girlfriend or wife, to come home to someone who wanted to come home to me. I'd never really made much space in my life or my heart for those things before. And though I didn't know where I'd live after the trip was over, I was sure of one thing: I wanted my life to look a whole lot different than it had the year before I left.

Jen brought me back to the present by asking me when the editor job would start.

“Not sure,” I said, relieved to spot an open patch in the trees ahead. “She didn't mention a date.”

“Well, it sounds like you've got some time to think about it. Don't turn her down just yet,” Jen urged, her steps growing even more purposeful as we moved toward the trailhead.

I breathed out a small puff of relief. It looked as if the fork we'd taken earlier had been the right one.

“I won't,” I promised. “I just wonder sometimes if it's really possible to strike a balance in New York. Don't you ever ask yourself if some things might just be easier—finding a great guy, a nine-to-five job—in another city?”

Jen laughed. “
All
the time. I bet it's easier to find those things in
any
other city.”

I grinned. “Yeah. Back when I used to go to the health and nutrition conferences in Chicago, I could swear the whole place was crawling with gorgeous corn-fed boys just itching to get your number and ask you out.”

“Totally…and what about Denver? One of my coworkers told me that not only are there tons of sexy weekend warrior types but that people bike to work and leave the office at five on the dot,” Jen added.

By the time we'd reached the clearing and made it back to our car, Jen and I had worked our way through all of the cities that might have a romantic or work-life edge over New York: San Diego, D.C., Boston, Austin, Portland.

“Hey, forget picking one city,” I said, now totally caught up in the idea of moving somewhere else. “Since we've already uprooted our lives and are travel professionals at this point, why don't we just do a tour of
all
the good places before we settle on one?”

“I love that! We could call it Crossing State Lines for Love or New Yorkers Beyond Borders,” Jen suggested.

“No, wait, I got it!” I said, unlocking the doors and sliding behind the wheel. “Finding a Mate in the Fifty States.”

“Hey, that's pretty good,” said Jen, flashing me a grin as she slid into the car next to me. “Maybe you could start a career as a writer.”

“I've been thinking about it.”

SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND
MARCH–APRIL

A
manda, Holly, and I had been walking along the coastal track of Abel Tasman National Park for nearly four hours when we reached a fork in the road. Tamped down in the soil was a sign warning us of a tidal crossing ahead. The instructions were straightforward:
GO LEFT DURING LOW TIDE
(40
MINUTES
).
STAY RIGHT DURING HIGH TIDE
(1.5
HOURS
).

“Umm, I think I forgot my tide schedule at home. Should we assume that it's high or take our chances?” Holly said.

“I don't know, and it doesn't say anywhere,” I replied, kneeling down to inspect every square inch of the sign on the off chance that we'd missed a timetable.

“Well, both paths lead to the same place. One just winds really far out of the way,” Amanda added, perusing the crumpled trail map she'd stuffed in her pocket. “I guess we shouldn't have cut it so close to dark.”

Since entering this richly painted paradise via a water taxi named Vigour, we'd made it a point to stroll at a leisurely pace, taking the time to appreciate the azure waters, emerald forests, and golden sand beaches that saturated all 360 degrees of our panoramic setting. But now, neck and neck with twilight, we
decided it made more sense to take the shorter route and hope the tide was still at a safe distance from the shore. We set off in a mad dash down the path's west wing. But, as we'd soon discover, we had chosen unwisely.

In less than thirty minutes, we reached a clearing in the path and could see the entrance to the campground about two hundred yards ahead. Unfortunately, the rocky inlet that carved the section of coastline between us and our desired destination was already flooded with waves.

“Well, I guess we know what time the tide comes in,” I said, scanning the area to see if there was an alternate route.

“Oh, man. What should we do? Turn around and go back the other way?” Holly asked.

“I don't think we have time. It'll take at least two hours to retrace our steps and follow the low-tide trail to the end and I don't love the idea of us walking so close to the edge of the cliff with only our headlamp light,” Amanda replied.

“Yeah, you're right. And the cabin is right there too. It doesn't look
that
deep,” Holly said, walking to the edge to inspect the water. “I'll go across if you two will.”

“There's no way to know how far down it goes in the middle, but it's only two or three feet here. So I say let's go for it,” Amanda said, glancing at me for approval.

“What the hell. Worst case, we turn around,” I said, bending to unlace my hiking boots.

Since Amanda, Holly, and I had created our own tour package, combining an independent trek and an overnight campout with a guided kayak excursion the next morning, the only clothes in our possession were the outfits currently affixed to our bodies and an extra set tucked away in our small day packs, meant to double as both pajamas and a boating ensemble. It wouldn't have been a crisis if everything got soaked, but it wasn't ideal considering the increasingly cooler climate. And in view of
the miraculous fact that my iPod was still going strong after nearly a dozen countries and countless planes, trains, and auto-rickshaws, I wasn't about to sacrifice it now. All three of us in agreement, we ducked behind some rocks, stripped down, and changed into our bathing suits. With everything else stuffed into our bags or lashed to the outside by the straps, we began our slow creep across.

“I love how we were the only ones left on the entire trail and somehow managed to get ourselves stuck in freezing cold water during high tide. It's so perfectly ‘us,' I swear,” Holly said, always the first to laugh off our latest in a long and distinguished string of screwball predicaments.

“Don't worry. We can do it, girls. I believe in us. ‘Chariots of Fire' is playing,” Amanda replied, pulling out one of her classic trip mantras. “Just be careful in this section. It's really slippery,” she added as the water rose from her hips to above her waist.

“Oh, this is so
Stand by Me
. It's awesome,” I said. “Except with no leeches, thank God. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I found a leech on my foot at summer camp?”

“I think we might have heard that story a few dozen times,” Holly teased. “But I'm so happy I get to live one of your movie montages, Baggy.”

The girls had grown to expect my consistent stream of analogies, relating certain moments or events to scenes from my favorite films, and they always responded with the appropriate amount of sarcasm. But during our time together on the road, we'd learned to appreciate one another's various methods of creative expression for what they were, a vehicle for viewing the world.

Of course I had plenty of my own original interpretations of our travels. But when I was placed in a situation that seemed epic or nostalgic enough to warrant a spot on the silver screen, I felt more alive somehow. And oddly comforted. As if I were
a character in a romanticized version of my own life story and someone or something bigger than myself was watching and rooting for me. As a child, I'd incessantly fantasized about embarking on a life-changing journey into the wilderness with my best friends, as in Stephen King's coming-of-age classic. And now here I was, wading through a stream with Amanda and Holly, living out an even greater adventure. Sure, my ass was totally numb from the frosty waters and the bottoms of my feet were being poked by razor-sharp pebbles, but it was a movie moment nonetheless.

“And darlin', darlin', stand by me,” I belted out. “Ohh, stand by meee…ouch, shit, killer rock ahead, watch out!” I yelped as I pitched forward and my bag started slipping off my head.

“Okay, you're not allowed to sing if you're going to drown in the process,” Holly said, simultaneously grabbing my stuff to save it from falling in the water, before we both cracked up.

“Yeah, and Jen, don't you know that's not our theme song today?” Amanda said. “It should be…‘In high tide or in low tide. I'll be by your side. I'll be by your side,'” she sang with an affected Bob Marley accent as the three of us continued splashing our way through the water until we finally reached the other side.

Laughing at the sight of ourselves shivering in bikinis, our feet caked in mud, we trudged up the grassy incline toward the communal barracks where we were to bunk for the night. It was then we realized we weren't the only ones laughing. A gang of fellow trekkers, who'd clearly taken the higher and drier route to camp, had been watching our manic tide crossing from a picnic table under the trees. As we approached, they erupted in cheers and claps.

“Well done there, girls. We weren't sure if you three were going to make it across there for a second,” an older man with a white beard called out with a chuckle.

“Oh, we knew we'd make it,” Holly said. “And it was a good substitute for a shower too.”

“Right you are. And definitely more fun than the way we came around,” he replied. “Well, anyway. Glad you're here. There are still a few more beds inside. No electricity. But there's a kerosene burner for cooking if you need it.”

After drying off with our shared hand towel and changing back into our semidry hiking clothes, we pulled out our food stash and constructed a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, soup, apples, and chocolate bars. Surprisingly, many of our roommates had long since eaten and turned in for the night, so we relocated to a far-off corner of the common area so we wouldn't wake anyone.

Huddled in a semicircle, headlamps in place, we entertained ourselves per the usual, rotating one magazine around the table and chattering away about anything and everything that came to mind. You'd think that after ten months of traveling together, we would've run out of things to talk about, but we hadn't. Sometimes our conversations were inane: Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon and the “Would you rather” game (“…sleep with ten huge spiders or one large rat?”). Other times the topics were more serious: Could we start a nonprofit organization focusing on women's and children's issues? Debates about the environment and the Kyoto Protocol. Reaffirming our vow to take a vacation together once a year for the rest of our lives and “arguing” over our first post-trip destination. But tonight was reserved for our favorite pastime: quizzing one another on the random details and personal stories that we should all know at this point.

Amanda: “Name two jobs Holly had in college.”
Ding.
Me: “Pizza delivery girl and driving the lead paint detection bus.” Correct!

Me: “What was the ridiculous name Amanda came up with
for her childhood cat that was white? Bonus points for correct spelling.”
Ding.
Holly: “What is W-Y-T-E-K-A-T?” Correct!

Holly: “Amanda. What cartoon character did Jen most look like growing up?”
Ding
. Amanda: “Annie?” Holly: “Wrong! Ha! She wanted to
be
Annie, but she
looked
like Strawberry Shortcake.” Correct!

More amazing still than our ability to entertain ourselves anytime, anywhere was how—without even trying—we'd gotten to know all the silly details about one another that on the surface seemed insignificant but as a collection represented who we were as people. Amanda and I had always said that even though we hadn't become close friends until our twenties, in our collective memory, we'd been pals since the playground. And at this point, Holly was fully painted into that scene with us, racing to the swing set to claim the best seat, then deciding all of a sudden that mine looked more fun than hers and asking me to trade.

Before the trip, I'd known Holly as the gorgeous, athletic, bright, and bubbly girl who everyone claimed was one of the nicest people they knew. And while she still was all of those things, I'd grown to understand her as an extremely passionate, conscientious, and unfailingly patient and sympathetic confidante who stood strong by her convictions and had an uncanny ability to see the best in everyone and find the sunny side of almost any situation—a trait that did not come as easily to me. To this day, it still amazes me that Holly had stuck with the trip even after all the stumbling blocks, like maintaining a long-distance relationship, having her magazine column crash, and then barely having enough funds to get the whole way around the globe. But Amanda had been right that day at the Indian consulate in New York when she'd said that the trip wouldn't work without Holly, that Amanda and I needed her to balance us out. And that when it came to our round-
the-world adventure, three Lost Girls were definitely better than two.

We'd foiled the dastardly plans of bag slashers, defended one another against maniacal cabdrivers, convinced embassy officials to put a ‘“rush order” on visa applications, and raced to clinics in the middle of the night to assuage fears of parasites. So crossing an inlet together as the waters of high tide rushed in to greet us? It was all in a day's work. And I couldn't wait to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

 

T
hough we'd certainly tallied an impressive number of badass activities during our time in New Zealand—rafting over a twenty-one-foot waterfall, sliding down the steep volcanic slopes of Mount Tongariro, attending an Abel Tasman pirate party, and hiking the legendary Franz Josef Glacier in the Southern Alps—I hoped to up the ante during our next stop: the country's adventure capital of Queenstown. Sailing down the scenic State Highway 6, the three of us were poised in our typical road trip stance: me at the wheel belting out radio tunes, Amanda riding shotgun, feet propped on the dashboard, harmonizing with me—though considerably more on key—and the earplugged, eye-masked Holly power napping in the back.

Upon arrival in hostel rooms, it generally took about 8.5 seconds before the contents of our backpacks exploded across the floor, bed frames, doorknobs, pretty much every available surface. To be fair, we treated our car equally. Wet clothes were strewn across the back windowsill, drying in the sun; rolls of toilet paper and bottles of hand sanitizer overflowed from seat pockets; a collection of half-empty soda bottles, assorted snack bars, and lollipop wrappers was sprinkled on top of muddy sneakers, guidebooks, and some weird Maori tribal tongs (possibly for salads, who knew?) that Holly had just
had
to buy in
Rotorua. To us, this scene epitomized the freedom of the open road, which we reveled in after months of public transportation slavery. And with hours of uninterrupted bonding time came impromptu pit stops, moments of pure goofiness, and frequent conversations about the state of our precarious futures.

“So I know we were just kind of joking around that day in the redwood forest, but I'm seriously starting to wonder. Maybe living in another city after the trip would be good for me,” Amanda said, turning the volume knob until the music faded to a low background hum. “I mean, if we went to Colorado, life would be full of hikes and skiing and rafting. Just like it is here.”

“I know. It'd be amazing. As much as I love big cities, I really miss being outdoors and having some semblance of a well-rounded life. I mean, the entire year before we left on the trip consisted mainly of working late, eating disgusting amounts of take-out dinners, drinking too much at happy hour, which prompted ham, egg, and cheese hangover sandwiches the next morning and lazing around Brian's apartment in sweats. I was
gross
,” I said, rolling down the window to inhale the intoxicatingly pure air.

“Well, at least you had a boyfriend and made some time for friends. Until I met Jason, I just sat at home and wrote articles and totally neglected all social invitations. I seriously can't let that happen again,” Amanda said, pulling her windblown curls up into a loose bun. “Do you remember our list? We need to make another one.”

The list was a sheet of notebook paper we'd hung on the fridge of our first shared Manhattan apartment, covered with all the fun things we wanted to do that summer in the city, plus a few future life goals: Take a jazz class at Broadway Dance Center. Get half-price tickets to
Rent
and
Les Misérables
. Join the Niketown running club. Have drinks at the Rainbow Room.
Score an invite for a weekend in the Hamptons. Volunteer for New York Cares. Get promoted in less than a year. Go on a date in Central Park. The list had gone on and on, and aside from a few items, we'd accomplished everything and continued to add more. But sadly, that piece of paper had disappeared years ago.