Wanderlove (9 page)

And then I gave it up.

With a pathetic whimper instead of a bang. It wasn’t
this great big temper tantrum I threw, or a resolve I made,
or anything even slightly so dramatic. After we got the
results of SCAA’s fast-track admissions, art slowly shifted
from the light of my life to the bane of my existence. It
meant fights and shame. It hurt to talk about. It hurt to
think about. Before Toby and I broke up. And after, when
I told my parents I wasn’t going to art school after all.

So for months, I didn’t draw, and didn’t, and still
didn’t. Until I found I couldn’t—even when my heart was
the saddest and sickest it’d ever been. Giving up my art
made me need it more than ever. That’s the worst part
of all.

~ July 16, Santa Lucía, Guatemala

In the evening, I sit in a striped beach chair in front of La Casa Azul, my sketchbook on my lap. It’s been ages since I’ve drawn, but the absence of my art has never felt this physical.

A longing that aches like a Pacific cold-water swim. I blame Starling and all her talk about love.

I just can’t understand why it’s so difficult to do the thing I’ve done an infinite number of times, especially when I’m surrounded by sketchworthy scenes. The colossal black dogs Osa and León. An anonymous backpacker girl dozing in the shade. The glazed blue bowl of the lake.

But something stalls on the journey between my eyes, my brain, and my fingers. I don’t even know what to call it. Fear isn’t quite right.

I left my new/old backpack in the common room, along with the smaller daypack I bought in Panajachel. Though it’s barely dark out, the hostel buzzes with shouts and laughter, clinking bottles, the mournful plink-plunk of a mistuned guitar. Everyone’s gearing up for another evening of rooster beers and skinny-dipping. Everyone except me. I’m sure I’m damaging my backpacker cred—as if I have any to start with—but I want to be alone right now.

I’ve only been sitting for fifteen minutes when I see Rowan approaching. I slip my sketchbook between my thighs. He has a novel under his arm:
Atonement
.

“Oh,” he says when he sees me.

“Hi, Rowan!” I say cheerfully in an attempt to offset his hostility, which is starting to get on my nerves. “What brings you out here on this gorgeous evening? Have I stolen your seat?”

He blinks at me a moment, then recovers. “It’s not mine unless I’m sitting in it.”

“Great! I thought we’d have to battle it out. I may be small, but I can kick some serious ass.” Half smirking, Rowan ruffles the pages of his book with his thumb. “Actually, I thought I’d go read down by the water.

There’s a new group here tonight, I think I mentioned, and they’re dead set on a karaoke competition. My eardrums already ache in anticipation. Also, just too many people.”

“You’re not big on people, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say
that.
Just . . . when faced with the choice between small talk with strangers and peace and quiet, I’ll choose the latter every time. You know?”

“It depends. Are we talking naked karaoke?” Rowan pauses a second and then cracks a smile. “Could be. But I assume naked karaoke with strangers isn’t your thing?”

“Depends on the naked strangers.”

We grin at each other for a moment past stupid, and it’s really decent, and I’m so proud of myself I could backflip. Finally, Rowan starts for the lake.

“Are you coming?” he calls over his shoulder.

I’m so surprised it takes me a second to reply. “Um, I don’t have a book.”

“Did you say . . . no book? No
book
?” He pretends to pull a knife from his chest. “We’ve got to remedy that. Just grab one from the book exchange inside. Hal won’t care. If you’re feeling overly ethical, leave a few quetzales.” My first impulse is to decline. Because—admit it—there’s something perversely appealing about sitting all alone, feeling sorry for yourself, especially when the scenery’s stunning and there’s a party going on behind you.

But that’s not what this trip is about. It’s about jumping in. Making up for all the times I held back. And if I’m not quite ready to rip off my clothes and sing “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” I should probably go read by the lake.

I’m about to stand up when Rowan shrugs. “No big deal.

See you in the morning, then.”

Apparently, I took too long to decide.

I watch him trudge down the slope toward the water, allowing myself to feel shitty for exactly ten seconds. Then I open my sketchbook. I pick up my pen.

And for the first time in months I draw.

PART  2

The Jungle

Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.

~Pablo Picasso

The secret to so many artists living so long is that every painting is a new adventure. So, you see, they’re always looking ahead to something new and exciting. The secret is not to look back.

~Norman Rockwell

Day 5: Breakdown

Guatemala City, Guatemala

Guatemala City is one of the most dangerous cities in Latin America. Petty theft is rampant, as are violent crimes. As a result, we will not be spending any more time than necessary in Guatemala City after our airplane lands.

I crumple up my Global Vagabonds itinerary and shove it into my daypack. Most of the destinations differ from ours, but it’s the closest thing to a travel guide I’ve got if you don’t count Rowan and Starling. I’m sitting beside two strangers on my first chicken bus ride, with half my ass hanging over the seat, one leg braced in the aisle.

As far as I can tell, there are no chickens.

I’m profoundly disappointed, but I suppose the name is metaphorical. Though the ride is cheap, I’ve quickly learned any money saved is eclipsed by liters of sweat, kicked ankles, malodorous human beings, white-knuckled feats of highway navigation, and other forms of discomfort. Maybe it would be bearable if I had a window seat. All I’ve seen during our three-hour journey are hips, backs, and the undersides of bosoms.

And we had to sit through four . . . entire . . .
hours
of this before our arrival in the supposedly savage avenues of Guatemala City.

Okay, so they
do
look kind of savage. When my plane landed, it was late, and the Global Vagabonds shuttle rocketed straight to Antigua. Now, as I stagger down the bus steps and attempt to find my land legs, my eyes are whirling in every direction. The streets swarm with schoolchildren, businesspeople, cowboys, Mayans. I see uniformed guards with machine guns flanking the entrance of a bank. Another guard stands a couple of doors down, defending an ice cream parlor.

Overhead, menacing-looking tangles of wires crackle with electricity.

As Rowan strolls off to collect our backpacks—they were riding on the roof of the bus—Starling turns to me. “Is it just me, or is your bladder about to explode?”

“Ew,” I reply.

We each pay a quetzal for a wad of toilet paper at the bus station bathroom, otherwise known as the Chamber of Stinking Horror. It seems more women missed the toilet than made it. Breathing through my mouth, I hover over the seat until my legs cramp.

When we make it out alive, Rowan is waiting in front of the station entrance, our backpacks gathered around his legs like good little children. Mine’s the largest by far. I’m already considering ditching that second pair of jeans I insisted on packing.

“That bathroom reeked like hot death,” Starling says.

“But for some reason, I’m starved. Can you guys grab some snacks while I get our tickets?”

“We need tickets?” I ask. On our last bus, we just climbed on.

“Sometimes you do, sometimes you don’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“Experience. Meet me inside in ten, okay?” I watch her dark blond bundle of hair glide over the crowds. Her confidence must be a result of her all that experience, because I feel utterly helpless. A little more Spanish comprehension would probably help.

Reluctantly, I follow Rowan to a row of street carts outside the station and attempt to select a snack, but the chaos all around us keeps stealing my attention. An orange dog brushes my leg, startling me. Its face is peppered with scars. Why are creepy Guatemalan dogs always brushing against me? I realize I’m standing a little too close to Rowan.

“We’d better hurry,” he says.

I turn back to the carts. The meats heaped on crusty black grills don’t tempt me. Neither do the wobbly towers of flan. I hesitate in front of a fruit cart. Everything looks spotty, dented, bruised.

“It all looks like it’s been in a battle.”

“Maltreated mangoes,” Rowan says.

Is he actually joking with me? I smile tentatively. “Abused avocadoes,” I try.

“Warmongering watermelons.”

“There aren’t any watermelons.”

“That’s because they lost the war.”

Still smiling, I pick up a small green fruit. “What’s this?”

“It’s a guava.”

“Is it? My friend Reese had them on a tree in her yard.

They looked different, though.” I recall how we tossed them in the golf course pond by her house, along with oranges and persimmons, testing to see which would float. I learned to skip stones in that same pond, during the drowsy summer before ninth grade. Not long after, I met Olivia at freshman orientation and started dividing my time between the two of them. Until I met Toby and didn’t have time for either.

“Cuánto queso?”
I ask the vendor.

Rowan stares at me, obviously impressed by my Spanish fluency. Except the fruit vendor is staring at me too. “Oh,” Rowan says, starting to grin. “You meant
‘Cuánto cuesta?’ ”

“That’s what I—” I pause. Oh no. Oh God. I totally asked,
How much cheese
?

“
Dos por uno
,” the vendor replies, shaking her head.

Dying of humiliation, I hand her a quetzal and take two guavas. I dig my fingernails into one and break it open.

It’s crawling with bugs.

I scream and throw it into the street. It explodes in a blossom of juice, like a tiny smashed jack-o’-lantern. I hop around, alternately shaking my hands and wiping them on my jeans.

Rowan looks like he doesn’t know whether to comfort me or crack up.

“I feel like they’re all over me! What
are
they?” Rowan goes over and inspects the splatter. “Some sort of beetle . . . Ooh, maggots.”

I hurl the other guava into the trash. That takes care of my hunger.

Rowan buys a bag of candied peanuts for Starling, and we head inside the crowded bus station. The space stinks of perspiration and sour fruit, of bus exhaust and dog pee and probably human pee. A toddler screams at the top of his lungs, but his weary-looking mother does nothing to calm him. Stray dogs weave in and out of people’s legs. A few yards away, a pair of teenage boys stare at me with their arms crossed. I try not to make eye contact.

Starling meets us at the station’s single empty seat. While we wait for our bus, we play musical chairs, and it’s my turn to sit first. Rowan leans against the wall and tinkers with his dive watch. Starling stands in front of me, knock-kneed, with her hands in her pockets.

“Whenever I’m in a crowded place like this,” she says in a low voice, “I always think the floor’s going to cave in.” My blinking is audible. “Why’s
that
?”

“Didn’t you hear about the giant sinkhole?”
Giant sinkhole?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Guatemala City sinkhole. It just opened up beneath a bunch of poor people’s homes, and the houses and everyone in them fell into this underground river of sewage and got swept away.”

I glance at Rowan in disbelief.

“True story,” he says. “Though I heard it was just one home. Three people.”

“It was, like, five hundred feet deep,” Starling says. “Can you imagine? What a way to go—death by sludge!” If I really concentrate, I think I sense a rumble beneath my feet. Probably from the buses. But I can’t help imagining a sweeping ocean of sewage, brown and loathsome, rushing beneath a fragile crust of asphalt. I pull up my feet onto the chair, as if that will save me. “Could it happen again?”