“Willy, you coming?” Broodje calls.
He sees me hesitating by the door and comes back down the aisle to talk to me. “Willy, all is good? Are you mad that I’m sitting with Candace?”
“Of course not. I think it’s great.”
“Come on.”
I do the calculations in my mind. Candace said she was in town until the eighth, longer than we are. Broodje will have company.
“I’m getting off here.” As soon as I say it, I feel that familiar relief. When you’re on the road, there is always the promise of the next stop being better than the last.
His face goes serious. “Are you staying away because of what I said before, about you getting all the girls? Don’t worry. I think one actually likes me.”
“I’m sure of it. So you should make the most of it. I’ll see you back at the airport for the flight home.”
“What? That’s in four days. And you don’t have your things.”
“I have what I need. Just bring the rest to the airport.”
The bus driver guns the engine. The guide taps her watch. Broodje looks panicked.
“It’s okay,” I reassure him, tightening the straps on my rucksack.
“You won’t get lost?” he asks.
I paste on a reassuring smile. But of course, the truth is, that is exactly what I intend to do.
Nineteen
Valladolid, Mexico
Two hitched truck rides later, I find myself on the outskirts of Valladolid, a small colonial town. I wander around the central square, full of low-rise, pastel colonial buildings reflecting in a large fountain. Soon I stumble upon a cheap hotel.
It feels a world away from the Mayan Riviera here. Not just the lack of megaresorts or partying tourists, but how I got here. Not looking, just finding.
I have no schedule. I sleep when I’m tired, eat when I’m hungry, grabbing something hot and spicy from one of the food carts. I linger late into the night. I don’t look for anyone. I don’t talk to anyone. After the last few months on Bloemstraat, the boys always around, or if not them, Ana Lucia, I’m not used to being alone.
I sit at the edge of the fountain and watch people and, for a minute, indulge myself imagining Lulu being one of them, imagining that we really had escaped into the wilds of Mexico. Is this where we’d go? Would we sit at a café, our ankles intertwined, our heads close, like that couple over there under the umbrella? Would we walk all night, ducking into the alleyways to steal a kiss? Would we wake up the next morning, untangle our bodies, pull out a map, close our eyes and decide where to next? Or would we just never get out of bed?
No! Stop it! This is pointless. A road nowhere. I get up, brush off my pants and return to the hotel. Lying in bed, I spin a twenty-peso coin around my knuckles and ponder what to do next. When the coin falls to the floor, I reach for it. And then I stop. Heads, I’ll stay in Valladolid another day. Tails, I’ll move on. Tails.
It’s not pointing at the map. But it’ll do.
The next morning I go downstairs in search of coffee. The worn dining room is practically empty—one Spanish-speaking family at one table, and in the corner by the window, a pretty woman about my age with hair the color of rust.
“I was wondering about you,” she calls in English. She sounds American.
I pour some coffee from the samovar. “I often wonder about me, too,” I reply.
“I saw you last night at the food carts. I’ve been trying to brave up to eat at them, but I wasn’t sure what they were serving or if it would kill a gringo like me.”
“I think it was pork. I don’t ask too many questions.”
“Well, it didn’t kill you.” She laughs. “And whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
We stand there for a second. I gesture to join her at the same time she gestures for me to take a seat. I sit down across from her. A waiter in a tired tuxedo drops off a plate of Mexican sweet bread.
“Careful there,” she says, flicking at her own stale bread with a turquoise-painted nail. “I almost chipped a tooth.”