Wanderlost (4 page)

I race back
toward the gate, but as soon as I reach the security line, I hit a roadblock. I've already exited the secured part of the airport and there's no way they'll let me pass through without a boarding pass for an outgoing flight.

This is a nightmare.

I veer to the side of the line and flag down one of the officials. He doesn't look all that friendly, but maybe it's because he has passengers asking him stupid questions all day. I explain my situation and his eyes soften.

“I'd like to help you,” he tells me in perfect English with only the faintest of accents. “But I'm not permitted to leave this area. Perhaps you'll have more luck talking to an AirEuro representative at the check-in desks.”

He points me in the right direction and I take off at a run. I'm fairly sure I look like a certifiable crazy person as I attempt to race through the terminal, dragging my suitcase behind me and keeping one hand wrapped around my
could-spill-forth-at-any-moment frontpack.

I'm huffing by the time I reach the airline attendant.

“Um, hi, do you speak English?” I ask.

She smiles easily. “Of course,” she says in flawless, accentless English. Okay, why does everyone here sound more American than I do?

“I left my whole life on the plane,” I tell her. Total understatement too.

“Well, I'm here to help. We can file a report for your missing item and when we locate it, we'll alert you.”

I stare at her for a beat or two before saying, “No, please, you don't understand. I can't file a report and wait to hear from you. I'm supposed to lead a bus tour of senior citizens through nine countries over twenty-two days starting
tomorrow morning
and all of the information I need to do it is in a binder I left in the seat-back pocket along with my cell phone. So, see, you wouldn't even be able to contact me to let me know you found it because I don't have a phone. And I'd say you could call me at my hotel, but I don't have a hotel. Well, that's not true. I
do
have a hotel, because the tour company booked one for me, except I don't remember the name of it, because I didn't think I'd have to memorize it, since every single detail I need is in a binder my sister made me. And she's home waiting for her court date because she was arrested and she sent me here instead, which is insane because I've never even been farther away from Ohio than Evanston, Illinois, where my sister went to college, and . . .”

I run out of breath. The desk clerk has every right to call security and have me tossed into the Netherlands version of an insane asylum, but she doesn't. Instead she picks up the phone and rattles off something incredibly fast in a language that sounds like most of the letters are formed in the grunting part of the throat. She pauses and places her hand over one of mine.

“What flight were you on, love?”

I give her the details and she's off and running again. Finally she replaces the receiver.

“I sent someone to the gate to see if we can flag down the plane before it takes off, though it's very possible the cabin doors are already closed. But don't worry. We'll also check with the lost and found to see if the cleaning crew has turned anything in. And there may be some of the attendants from your flight still lingering in the airport, and if so, we'll do our best to locate them.”

My knees go weak at her kindness. Someone to take care of me. This is all I want right now. I'm groggy from the sleeping pill and sticky from the running and panicked from, well, the panic, and this woman's eyes are puppy-dog friendly. Maybe she can take me home with her.

“This will all take some time,” she says. “Perhaps there is something you need to take care of while you wait? Exchanging money or having a meal?”

“Yes, please. The food court?” I use my shirt's sleeve to wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. A cup of coffee would be heavenly.

“Of course. Let me tell you where you can find it.”

She whips out an airport map identical to the one in my binder and circles Lounge One.

“Now, my name's Marieke, so if someone else is here when you get back, you just have them ask for me, okay? M-A-R-I-E-K-E. Like Mary Kay, the makeup company, yes?”

I want to throw myself into her arms. “Okay,” I manage over the lump in my throat.

I cling to the airport map. Marieke is back on the phone before I'm even out of sight.

This is in fate's hands now.

The caffeine from the steaming cup of coffee adds to the jitters I already have from worrying about the binder and my phone. But I try to block it all out and just focus on the aroma and the American-ness of my accompanying bagel.

I am calm, I am zen. I am calm, I am zen. I figure if I can repeat this enough, maybe I can trick my brain into believing it. It sort of works.

When I feel human again, I head back into the terminal. All around me people are moving efficiently. Zooming by with luggage carts, walking with authority to their terminal, pausing to buy cheese at the cheese store.

Holy crap, there's a cheese store. An entire store selling only . . . cheese. In the airport. Somehow this strikes me as ridiculously exotic. These Europeans. They like their cheese enough to have a whole cheese shop in the airport. If the
airport has cheese shops, what amazingness could possibly be waiting for me outside here?

For one of the first times since Elizabeth hatched her crazy plan, I allow a twinge of excitement to float above the fear of the unknown. I have no binder, no phone, and no clue where I'm going, so how is it remotely possible that I'm a little bit giddy? Over a cheese shop.

Is this hysteria? Am I about to lose my marbles in the middle of Schiphol Airport in front of people from nearly every nation in the world? I don't know, and at the moment, I don't even care. I just know I have to keep moving before the enormousness of everything hits me.

On my way back to the AirEuro counter, I stop in a gift shop and buy six travel sewing kits, each containing one safety pin. There. My backpack now looks like Dr. Frankenstein stitched it up, but at least I can wear it properly again.

Is it time to go home yet?

“I'm sorry that took so long,” I tell Marieke.

“That is no problem. But I'm so sorry, too. I do not have your belongings.”

Well, so much for my mini bubble of zen. It pops.

I slump against the counter as Marieke tries to comfort me.

“We are doing everything we can to locate them. We've left word for the plane, so when they land again in Philadelphia, we'll have them do a thorough search for your items and they'll be sent directly back here. We'll take care of messengering
them to your hotel. How long are you in Amsterdam?”

“Only for two days. But I don't know the hotel. Oh God. I'm supposed to meet my passengers tomorrow morning in the lobby restaurant and now I'll never find them. How many hotels does Amsterdam have?”

“More than a thousand.” Marieke looks worried I'll pass out.

Instead, I thump my head onto the counter separating us. She places a hand on top of mine and pats it gently. “I'm so sorry. Do you remember anything at all about it?”

If I could have any superpower in the world, right now I'd pick photographic memory. I strain to remember the printouts I studied on the plane. Honestly, I didn't read too far ahead because every time I tried to, I got overwhelmed. My brilliant plan was to just peek at the next day. And now I can't even remember that much.

“I think it was something Polish. I remember in the photo there was a tall statue in front of it.” I blush. I don't want to tell this perfectly lovely woman that the reason I remember that is because I giggled at how much the statue in front looked a whole lot like a giant, er, part of the male anatomy. “Um, and I'm pretty sure it said something about a royal palace nearby.”

Marieke's face lights up. “Does the statue look a bit, hmm . . . how do I say this in English? Ah. Phallic?”

I nod hard.

“By any chance, could it be the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky?”

Polsky, Polish . . . “Yes! I think that's it!”

“Let's be sure.” She picks up her phone and places a call. I hear a whole lot of a mumble jumble with my name in the middle. Dutch is a very strange-sounding language. As she talks, Marieke catches my eye and smiles, nodding.

She hangs up. “They have your reservation and your room is being prepared for you as we speak. It will be ready upon your arrival.” Her eyes sparkle. “You're leading quite the fancy tour. That's one of the nicest hotels in the city and it's centrally located in Dam Square. It's very easy to board a train here and take it to Centraal Station. From there, it's less than a kilometer walk straight up Warmoesstraat. I can write that down for you.”

I try to remember if a kilometer is longer or shorter than a mile. Shorter, I think. Marieke is looking as proud as if she just solved the
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle.

“You see? It's not so bad after all. Besides, you must be very capable if you are entrusted with leading a tour group. That is quite a lot of responsibility.”

“Trust me, they didn't pick me for my troubleshooting skills. They didn't even pick me at all.”

I'm tempted to smack my head back onto the counter. Marieke steps around the counter to stand beside me and places one hand on my arm.

“Well,
I
see a very resourceful young woman in front of me. You are dealing with a difficult situation, but you have not let it get the best of you. You remembered enough about your
hotel to help us locate it. I see you have even problem-solved your broken backpack. I think you are not giving yourself enough credit.”

I have to fight to contain my sniffles. Does she not grasp that I am two seconds away from throwing up all over her pristine Dutch counter? Instead I manage a weak smile.

“Good girl,” she says. “Now, I know where to find you if—no,
when
—we find your things. Leave word at the hotel with your next destination when you check out. We'll make sure you get them, one way or another. Okay, so now for the train into town. I can point you in the direction of the platform.”

“Um, is, uh . . . is there any chance you could take me there?” So pitiful, I know, but right about now I just want to be led around by the hand somewhere, anywhere.

Marieke looks confused. “It's quite easy, but if you'd like, I have a break in ten minutes. You can wait here and I will walk you over to where the trains depart and help you buy the right ticket.”

“Yes, please,” I say.

She gives me a friendly smile and says, “Traveling can take the wind out of one's sails. I see it every day. But don't worry, you'll be back to yourself in no time.”

And where exactly would that get me?

Marieke kindly walks
me through the steps for buying my ticket from a kiosk and for getting euros from an ATM, and guides me onto a ramp right in the middle of the airport to the waiting tracks below. Twenty minutes later I'm stepping off into the chaos of Centraal Station. Centraal—it's practically English except for the extra
a
. They seem to like their extra letters here, judging by the street names on the map Marieke drew me. Prins Hendrikkade, Sint Olofspoort, Warmoesstraat.

I wonder how many tiles the Dutch version of Scrabble has.

I let the people stream past me for a few seconds, trying to take it all in, processing everything into two categories: “mostly familiar” and “WTF.”

Mostly familiar: the station itself looks like your standard-variety train station, the signs are also in English, and the people look pretty normal except that they're freakishly tall
and wear waaaay cooler shoes.

WTF: the voice on the announcement over the loudspeaker and the general chatter around me sound like someone has taken a regular soundtrack and amped it up to Alvin and the Chipmunks speed. The suitcases everyone rolls beside them are mostly hard plastic in bright colors, totally different from what people at home use. Oh, and the snack bar where I stop to grab a water has something like forty thousand varieties of black licorice, including salted. Blech.

I've been dropped in a land of awesome-shoed, licorice-chomping, giant people.

I clutch Marieke's map in my fist and pull my non-primary-colored suitcase behind me as I step into the hazy sunshine of Amsterdam. I'm greeted with the sight of super-old-looking buildings splaying out on roads leaving the station like bicycle spokes. And speaking of bicycles . . . Holy bicycles, Batman.

They are everywhere. Like, seriously thousands of them. I stop in my tracks, earning two angry dings from a handlebar bell on one of them.

But whatever, because
oh my God
, I'm in EUROPE. It looks so . . . European!

I spin in place, trying to implant every detail into my brain. I may be in completely over my head, but I'd be an idiot not to notice how the buildings are so beautiful with all their scrolls and fancy windowsills and their turrets. And the church spires! I feel like I'm in Peter Pan's London. Look at the canal I'm about to cross over! There are funny long boats
floating on it. I stand in place in front of the station for probably five full minutes, just drinking it in, while people stream past me.

Eventually I register that my backpack is getting heavy and when I shift, I feel a prickle where my brand-new “perfect for walking all over Europe” sandals are starting to rub a tiny blister on my heel. Plus, a bead of sweat down my back tells me I could really, really use a shower. Adrenaline gives way to a deep-boned fatigue.

I let the promise of a drawn-curtained hotel room, a room service lunch, and a nap pull me down Warmoesstraat, a wide boulevard with a streetcar chugging through it. According to Marieke, this street will drop me in the center of Dam Square, tourist mecca of the city. The road is nonstop souvenir shops, each one displaying orange soccer jerseys, tulip bulbs in pretty packages, entire walls of felt slippers shaped like wooden clogs, and windmill
everything
. Basically, all the things you'd think of when you think of Holland. You couldn't buy a single one of these things in Ohio. Not one.

I see the seedier stuff too: youth hostels that have signs decorated with cartoon drawings of pot leaves, a sex museum, ads for tours of the Red Light District, where prostitution is legal—your basic “Vegas, the European edition” stuff—and it just adds to the we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore feeling. It's all so exotic and I can't even process whether that's a good thing or a bad thing right now.

It's only about a fifteen-minute walk, but I'm on full
sensory overload by the time I roll my suitcase past the penis statue and spy the blue awning of the Hotel Krasnapolsky.

I knew the bus tour would be first class all the way, but wow. The lobby looks like something out of a movie. I pass Elizabeth's passport over to the desk clerk, snatch the key she hands me, and stumble to my room. It's only eleven in the morning, but I feel like I've just spent a day chopping firewood (not that I've ever actually done this. But it looks tiring).

After five failed attempts to get the door unlocked, the little light finally clicks to green and I push it open, drop my bags on the floor, and flop face-first onto the bed.

And this is only the first
morning.

I wake up several hours later, totally disoriented.

After a room service meal (a burger! Fries! Just like at home, despite the fact that they serve mayonnaise with the fries, instead of ketchup) and a soak in the ridiculously long bathtub (custom-fitted for the ridiculously giant Dutch people), I'm feeling . . . I don't actually know what I'm feeling. My internal body clock is so screwed up it seems like midnight even though it's four p.m., and somehow being on the other side of the world is almost this physical sensation where I can just s
ense
every bit of the distance in my bones. Plus, I can't even wrap my head around the suckitude of not having my binder and phone. There may be canals and cobblestones and museums and streetcars out my window, but at the moment I just want my mom.

Or Elizabeth. Well, it's not so much that I want her, because I'm still incredibly pissed at her, but I do have to face facts and admit that I need her. I'm counting on her having backups of her backups of all the material in my missing binder and overnighting them to me STAT.

I grab the card that has directions for placing international calls off the top of the phone and when I uncover the keypad beneath I see the message light blinking. No one else knows I'm here, so it could only be Elizabeth, calling to tell me how sorry she is and how badly she underestimated me. I pick up the receiver and push the button. Immediately, Elizabeth's voice is in my ear.

“Hey, Bree! If you're listening to this, you must be in your hotel. I hope the flight went well. Listen, I'm not a fan of the way things went down at the airport, but I understand that you were really nervous about the flight and the trip, so let's not worry about it, okay? I just wanted to say congratulations on getting there and I hope you're having an amazing time so far. Don't stress out—this trip is going to be so good for you and will totally expand your horizons and all that. You'll see! If you need anything, I'll be standing by my cell phone, ready to help. I'll even sleep with it, so call day or night. Talk to you soon! Bye!”

Um . . .

I play the message again. I guess someone could listen to it and think, Oh, she's being nice and supportive, but that's not what I hear. “Congratulations on getting there” sounds a little like “Wow, I did not think you would get there in one piece
and that deserves major kudos” and “I'll even sleep with it” kind of sounds like “Odds are one million percent that you're going to have an emergency, so I'll just be here ready and waiting to bail your ass out.”

And what the actual hell with the whole “you were nervous, so let's not worry about it”? Is she trying to say I didn't have the right to be angry with her or to storm off? What if I don't
want
to forget about it?

It's one thing for
me
to have doubts about all of this, and especially about my own abilities, but for her to have them too makes me feel like shit. She's supposed to be my cheerleader.

Plus that whole “expand your horizons” comment. Fine, so I've never left home before . . . or really wanted to. It's not like I'm missing the sense-of-adventure gene, it's just that, well, I might be missing the sense-of-adventure gene. I like things predictable and familiar and safe and easy. So what? That's practical, is what that is. I don't happen to see that as the character flaw my sister so very obviously does.

I don't know why I ever had any thoughts that doing this tour for my sister would bring us closer. All it's doing is showing me how totally different we are. And how very little she knows me . . . or wants to. It seems like she just wants to fix me, or turn me into some mini version of her.

Well, you know what? Not. Gonna. Happen.

Although this means I can't ask her for help. I
really
can't call her in tears and tell how I've monumentally messed things up right from the start. She'll fix it. Of course she will. But
she'll never, ever forget it. I don't even know if I care about having her respect, but . . . yes I do. I totally do. She's my big sister, whom everyone has always compared me to my whole life, and I've always fallen short in those comparisons. If I call her now, it's just one more example of Elizabeth being perfect and Aubree being the screwup.

I drop the phone in the cradle.

I pick it back up. I do have to call her, because otherwise she'll freak out. But I don't have to mention the binder. I'll call her and tell her everything is perfect. Maybe rub it in a teeny-tiny bit how ah-mazing Europe is and drop an oh-so-innocent question about her court case. It's totally passive-aggressive and borderline babyish, but, after all, aren't I the baby in the Sadler family? I'd hate to disappoint.

This is probably going to cost a small fortune, but I don't care even a little bit. I listen to the strange double ring and try to imagine Elizabeth lounging in her bed, reading some boring Russian classic novel even though she'll never have assigned summer reading ever again. Picturing her room gives me a sudden lump in my throat as I calculate just how many thousands of miles away I am.

My mother answers. Why is my mother answering Elizabeth's cell?

“Um, hi, Mom. Where's Elizabeth?”

“Bree? Are you at the camp? Why didn't you call me the minute your plane landed? You sound funny. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you? Where are you calling from,
anyway? The number that popped up is all weird.”

Yes, please, Mom. Could you catch the next transatlantic flight, pretty please? I take a deep breath and start spinning a doozy of a lie.

“I'm totally great! I'm here at the camp and everything's great. The kids are really great and Madison's already introduced me around to everyone, which is great. It's just . . . great!”

I wonder if she'll pick up on the fact that I said
great
about eight times in the span of four seconds. But she just laughs and says, “Oh, honey, that sounds fun.”

“You know it! The best!” I invent some quick details about the cabins and the drive to the camp and hope my mother buys it all. She seems to. Finally I ask, “Um, Mom, could I talk to Elizabeth now?”

“Oh, sweetheart, she's in the shower. I just love that you girls have gotten so close these last few weeks. I know she'll be thrilled that you asked for her. Do you want me to have her call you back?”

No. No, this is perfect. Mom can tell her I arrived safely “at camp” and I won't need to be fake and pretend our fight at the airport didn't mean anything to me when she's so obviously over it already.

“That's okay. Actually, I had to borrow the camp director's satellite phone because my cell doesn't get any reception out here in the woods, and I should get it back to her. I'm guessing this is costing a fortune so I'll probably just stick to
letters from here on out, okay?” There. Hopefully that explains away the international phone number on the caller ID and my lack of further communication. I don't know what numbers satellite phones use, but I'm betting Mom doesn't either. Plus, Madison has enough letters and postcards already written and signed by yours truly to get through the whole trip.

“How am I going to survive without hearing my girl's voice every day?” I try not to groan as Mom adds, “But as your dad keeps reminding me, my baby is all grown up now and I'm just going to have to deal with my empty-nest syndrome. At least I'll have Elizabeth here until it's time for you to come back. I'm glad you're having fun. Oh, and Aubree?”

I pause.

“Don't forget to use bug spray, sweets. If you start to run low, just send a postcard and I'll ship you more.”

I mumble something in agreement; then Mom signs off with her typical “Love you!” to which I reply with my equally typical “Loveyoubye,” so ingrained by now it comes out as all one word, and place the receiver back in the cradle.

I fall back on the bed. I dodged a bullet not having to talk to Elizabeth, but it does still leave me with the problem of: no binder = no tour information.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force a few deep breaths. It doesn't help in the least. I'm just working up the energy to stand and do something, anything, to try to figure out where to go from here when the phone rings. Dammit, I told Mom not to have Elizabeth call me back. Then again, clearly
Elizabeth wouldn't trust that I actually made it in one piece. Of course she'd need to hear it with her own ears. I snatch the phone off the receiver and huff, “I
told
Mom you didn't need to call me back!”

A deep, warm voice with a whole lot of amusement in it barely misses a beat before responding, “Oh, but you know Mom these days. She's always so distracted. Between her quest for that Mrs. America crown and the beekeeping operation she started in the attic, who can blame her for forgetting to pass along a message here and there.”

Wait. What? The voice is American and most definitely male. He sounds young. Well, not little-kid young but more my-age young. Which makes . . . no sense.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” I stammer. “I think maybe you have the wrong room.”

“Oh, no, that was just me trying to be funny and clearly failing miserably. Let's start over like boring people this time. Hello, is this Elizabeth?”

“No, it's Au—” Oh crap! It
is
Elizabeth. Or at least, it is Elizabeth according to anyone who would possibly have this number. “I mean, yes. Yes, this is Elizabeth Sadler. Sorry. Um, jet lag.”