The Lost Girls (53 page)

SANTA CATALINA, PANAMA
MORE THAN TWO YEARS LATER

D
uring the final days of our trip we made a promise—a pact, actually—that our explorations together could not and
would
not end with the punch of a reentry stamp. We swore that no matter where our individual paths led us, we'd go away together every year for the rest of our lives to guarantee that the bond we'd forged would remain strong. It took us longer than expected, but twenty-six months after we returned home, we dug out our old backpacks, double-checked that our passports had enough blank pages, and hit the road again. Our first post-trip destination: Santa Catalina, a fishing village turned surfers' paradise on the Pacific coast of Panama.

After a five-hour flight, six-hour bus ride, forty-five-minute cab ride, and ten minutes in the back of a cattle truck, we arrived at Oasis Surf Camp, a collection of rustic bungalows on an isolated volcanic-sand beach. Well, almost. As our driver pulled onto the sandy earth littered with twisted driftwood and broken coconut hulls, he gestured to the far bank. Because it was high tide, he couldn't go any further. We'd have to travel the rest of the way on foot. So, dry clothes and backpacks notwithstanding, we did what we'd always done in a situation like this:
we hiked up our shorts, hoisted the bags above our heads, and waded across the river.

After retrieving the keys to our triple—a small but clean room with bunk beds, concrete floors, and a cold-water shower—we did something we almost never do: we each claimed a mattress and immediately collapsed into a deep sleep.

 

T
he afternoon had almost fully transitioned into evening by the time we woke to the sound of animated voices. Creeping outside, we were greeted by our next-door neighbors, Paul and Itzel from Miami and Juan, a local Panamanian who managed a 150-acre cattle ranch nearby. A little embarrassed to be rolling out of bed at 6 p.m., we explained that we'd just been in an accident.

Earlier that day, just three kilometers shy of Santa Catalina, our driver had jerked his taxi into the opposite lane—at the exact moment that another truck had whipped around a curve. By the time the three of us had realized we were going to be in a head-on collision, there was little we could do but send up the world's most abbreviated prayer, then brace for impact. Despite the sickening crunch, we—along with everyone else in the accident—had walked away with nothing but scrapes, deep bruises, and a mild case of whiplash.

We hadn't gotten two sentences into our story when Itzel interjected.

“Oh, my God, that was
you
?” Her face was aghast as she leaned forward in her white plastic chair. Although it had been only a few hours since it had happened, they'd already heard about the accident—apparently, everyone else in the town of 350 had too.

“Yeah, those cars were totaled,” said Paul, echoing his friend's sentiments. “You girls are lucky to even be here right now.”

Breaking out a bottle of rum, Paul suggested we toast to surviving the near miss—and to finding our way to Oasis. We all decided to contribute a few words—to our health and safety, to new friends, to continuing on with the journey, come what may. But it was Juan, making his toast in Spanish, who said it best. “
Hoy es el día que ustedes nacieron
.
Bienvenido al resto de su vida
.”

Today is the day that you are born. Welcome to the rest of your life.

 

A
fter our experience in the taxi that morning, it had been our knee-jerk reaction to want to hop the first flight back to the States, to retreat to the safety and familiarity of home. We resisted, and our trip turned out to be exactly the reunion we'd been anticipating. During the ten days that followed, we went scuba diving off the deserted Isla Coiba, explored hidden beaches, went horseback riding with Paul, and surfed each morning and night. We stayed, because if there was any resounding lesson that we took away from our year of wandering, it was that we would no longer make decisions based in fear. We wouldn't hightail it home at the first sign of trouble or remain in a stagnant situation simply because we were afraid to challenge the status quo.

Back when we first starting calling ourselves The Lost Girls, a tongue-in-cheek nickname we invented long before we ever stepped outside the country, we sort of assumed that the goal of the journey would be to get
un
-lost. We thought the trip would yield the kind of earth-shattering, value-bending, shout-it-from-the-mountaintop epiphanies that would help us discover just what we wanted out of our short existence on this planet. We thought the trip would instantly change our lives. We wanted to be
found
.

Looking back on it now, we might have been putting a teensy bit too much pressure on the universe—and ourselves. Though
we'd had some epiphanies along the way, we wondered: Had we learned enough? Did we really change? Would our new attitudes last after returning home?

As it turned out, yes.

After traveling solo for a month in Australia (and finally digging her electronics-free existence), Amanda returned to New York, confronting her fear of morphing back into a stressed-out workaholic. She accepted the senior editor position when it was offered but negotiated a more flexible schedule with fewer hours spent behind a desk. Thanks perhaps to this change in attitude—or maybe just the change of pace—she found that her heart was open to new friends, new passions and, shortly after her return, her next great love. After writing an article on a dance program benefiting young girls in Spanish Harlem, she decided to pick up where she left off in Kenya and now teaches and mentors through city youth programs.

Holly came back to her old apartment, but not to her old life. Though she and Elan reside on different coasts, they still keep in touch. To live more in line with her priorities, she began to spend more time with the people she loves and pursue the activities she cares about the most. She decided to turn down editorial job offers in order to take the less secure route as a freelance writer. She now spends her nonworking hours traveling to Syracuse to visit her family. She trained for her second marathon as well as her first triathlon and continues to practice yoga a few times a week. She remains in contact with Sister Freda in order to support Esther's education. She's also checked off more destinations on her travel wish list: hiking the Leaping Tiger Gorge in China; swimming with stingrays in the Bahamas, and visiting her seventh and last continent, Antarctica.

Despite her fears that Manhattan might be geographic kryptonite to single women, Jen returned to the city, where she threw herself headlong into dating. To her surprise, she quickly
found romance…then didn't…then did again…then didn't. Until she finally chilled out and remembered one of the most important lessons she'd learned on the road: it's okay to be alone for a little while. Of course, once she accepted this, she found the real love she'd been searching for. In addition to immediately landing a dream gig at an independent film channel, Jen decided to devote a portion of her time volunteering with kids in inner-city schools. Though she still isn't a fan of Internet cafés or doing assignments on the road, she continues to create Excel spreadsheets and travel itineraries and is currently planning her next international getaway.

For all three of us, friendships have taken on a much greater significance—and not just between our trio. Instead of canceling plans, we started making them again, and we've been amazed to watch our circle of Lost Girls grow. The three of us, as impossible as it sounds, have become even closer on a new journey together: writing this book about our adventures. And those adventures aren't over—not even close.

As we were putting the finishing touches on this book, we learned that
A Tree Grows in Kenya
, the play we wrote with Irene at Pathfinder, has now been distributed across the country. Girls all over Kenya perform the play and have made Wangari Maathai, a woman all but unknown to them before, into a role model. That's something that couldn't have happened if we had stayed on the tried-and-true path in New York, if we'd never decided that our dreams were bigger than our fears.

Though we can't predict where the road ahead will lead, there's one thing we know for certain: uprooting our lives to take an unconventional detour was one of the most challenging things we ever did, but the experience taught us that getting lost isn't something to avoid, but to embrace. The only leaps of faith you'll ever regret are the ones you don't take.

W
e'd be truly lost without…

Our parents:

April Baggett
, my best friend: for inspiring my travel bug in the first place. Thank you for always being there to listen to me wherever I was in the country (or the world) and for however long I needed you;
Bruce Baggett
: my handyman hero, partner in crime, and dancing role model: for always fueling my imagination and teaching me the value of hard work. You once wrote to me, “follow your instincts and your heart,” which are words I continue to try to live by; And to you both,
my ever-patient mom and dad
: for giving me faith that a marriage can last forever—and that raising a child on public television can lead them to places they only ever dreamed about.

Kathy Barone Corbett
, for leaving the door to home always open, and showing me unconditional love. Anything I have or will ever accomplish in my life can be traced back to the lessons you've taught me.

Patrick Corbett
, for always supporting my dreams without judgment. Whether helping me move to the city for the twelfth
time or getting me a plane ticket home, you've never left me lost or stranded.

Maureen Pressner
, for always supporting my writing career, even when I was working in crayon. Not everyone could give their mom chapters to edit, but you were a true professional, never judging the content of the book (or my character!) as you cheerfully gave me your notes. Thanks also for creating the gorgeous maps in this book!

Robert Pressner
, for encouraging me to travel now, work later. And for advising me to “do what you love and the money will follow,” then lending me a few bucks during the times it didn't.

Our superagent,
Kenneth Wright.
Thanks for taking a chance on three unknown writers and Lost Girls, guiding us through the often tumultuous process of publishing our first book, and finding it amusing (rather than annoying!) when all three of us talked over one another in meetings.

Everyone at
HarperCollins
who believed in our project, especially
Jonathan Burnham
and
Serena Jones
. And a huge debt of gratitude to our editor,
Stephanie Meyers
, for wholeheartedly adopting our project and allowing our individual voices to shine through.

All those friends
who inspired us, counseled us, provided storage space in their attics and basements, offered us their futons to crash on, bought much-needed cocktails, read our drafts (even the roughest early versions), and/or eased our transition back into the “real” world:
Aimee and Mike Stafford; Bindu Swamy; Catherine Hanson; Chantel Arroyo, Courtney Dubin; Courtney Scott; Courtney Thom; Dean Arrindell; Jenna Autuori; Jenny Depper; Kateri Benjamin; Kristin Luna; Jessica Rosenzweig; Marco Antonio Palomino; Melissa Braverman; Mike Bristol; Nadji Kirby; Nyoman Neuva Reviannossa Suastha; Pierre P. Lizee, PhD; Sarah and
Pete Wildeman; Steph and Danny Spahr; Stephanie Davis; Stephanie Sholtis; Stephen Bailey; and Trisha Posen
.

The friends and “characters” who joined us on the trip and the new ones we met along the way:
Beth Frey; Carmi Louw; Chloe Douglas; Eric Pain and Nora Thompson; Hugh Williams; Irene Scher; Kate Corbett; Marlena Krzesniak; Sam Effron; Sarah Bailey; Simone Morgan; Stephany Foster Spahr; the Irish Lost Girls (Georgia, Suzie, and Sadhbh); and Paul Meyer and Itzel Diaz
.

The creative types, media professionals, and travel gurus who helped us launch LostGirlsWorld.com and supported us in our journey from the very beginning:
Alan Phillips; Jodi Einhorn; Mark Ledbetter; Molly Fergus; Nina Lora; Patty Hodapp; Patrick Sasso; and Tracy Schmitt
.

Shana Greene
and all of those at Village Volunteers who devote themselves to helping others, especially
Joshua Machinga; Mama Sandra; Emmanuel and Lillian Taser; Sister Freda Robinson
and the remarkable men and women who support her medical clinic.

Chris Noble and Christy McCarthy
at World Nomads and
Chris Ford
at Auto Barn. We appreciate that you forgave us so quickly for utterly destroying the roof of your Ambassador van, then subsequently provided a getaway car so we could hit the beach and shred at surf camp (and “keep travelling safely”).

Lulu
, the stinky but lovable Boston terrier and Lost Girls mascot.

 

Also a huge thanks from…

 

Jen:

To my consummate parental figures—
Sharon and Wes Andrews
,
Lil Slebodnick and Patrick Gibbons
, and
Nic and Brigitte Monjo
—for never judging me when I wore the same
set of pajamas for days on end and for making my self-imposed writing retreats a little less lonely. To
Kevin Brennan
. Who would have thought I'd travel around the world to find what I was searching for right across the Hudson River—who? Thank you for making the long journey so worthwhile.

 

Holly:

To my sister
Sara
, for being my accountant and therapist during my travels, and my sister
Kate
, for always meeting me on my journeys. My life is infinitely fuller because you are both in it. To
Meg Foye
, a fellow Lost Girl, for being the greatest editor and turning into an even better friend. Meg, you
are
the rock! To
Enver
, for teaching me how to love and let go. To
Sophie, Frank, Adam, and Barry Barone
, for reminding me that life is short and the time to live is now.

 

Amanda:

To
Jeff Cravens
, who stood by me through every step of the process. Thank you for sharing your energy, passion, and creativity. I couldn't have completed this chapter of my life without you. To
Jennifer Pressner
, my first-and-always best friend, my fellow adventurer. I might never have learned to explore (and certainly wouldn't have gotten into as much trouble!) if you hadn't showed me the way. To
Nadine Pressner,
who invited me to North Carolina so I could finish the really difficult pages and let me borrow Mia when I needed a buddy. To
Aunt Karen and Uncle Eddie
, who've repeatedly allowed me to store my worldly possessions in their basement and fed me heartily during my New York layovers. To
Bruce Kirk
, the role model who taught me everything from turning the perfect cartwheel to surviving in the desert. To
Jeff Baker
, who helped inspire my travels and has generously offered to edit anything I write, whether it be a novel or a grocery list.