Wanderlost (5 page)

I try to laugh it off, and thankfully there's no hesitation on the other end when the boy responds with an easy laugh and, “Yeah, jet lag is the worst. Hey, so this is Sam. Of At Your Age Adventures Tours?”

I swallow and manage, “Hi. Hey. I mean, hello. At Your Age Adventures. Right. Hi. So, yeah. Everything here is really
perfect. Just perfect. More than perfect, actually. Top-notch.”

Shut UP, Aubree!

Another chuckle from the boy at the other end of the phone. “Okay, then. Glad to hear all is ‘top-notch.'” His voice is definitely teasing, but not in a mean way. At least, I don't think so. I exhale and try to force myself to calm down as Sam continues. “It's just that you missed your check-in call and Bento is waiting for you downstairs now, so we wanted to make sure you'd arrived in one piece and didn't, I don't know, maybe get distracted in one of those Amsterdam coffeeshops.”

Check-in call? Bento? I don't know anything about any of this. Maybe I
should
suck it up and call Elizabeth for the backup binder information after all. Maybe winging it is a monumentally stupid Plan B. Besides, having Elizabeth lose respect for me would be way better than having Elizabeth hate me because I mess things up so badly that the whole debacle blows up in both our faces and she loses her job with the congressman.

“Oh, no. Nope,” I tell Sam. “I had my coffee at the airport.” I need to get him off the phone so I can call Elizabeth pronto, but he probably already thinks I'm a total spaz from this conversation. Might as well make an attempt to sound normal first, so I don't leave him with a bad impression.

Sam's chuckle is a full-blown laugh this time. “Um, Elizabeth?”

“Yeah?” It's so, so weird to answer to that. I wonder if I'll be used to it by the end of the trip.

“You are aware that ‘coffeeshop' is a euphemism for a place
you can legally smoke marijuana in Amsterdam, right?”

Oh. Ooooh. “I . . . of course. Yes, sure. I totally knew that.”

Sam's voice is warm as he answers, “Sorry. I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. After all, you
are
the tour guide.”

“Right,” I answer, trying to sound confident. “That I am.”

“Well, Tour Guide Elizabeth. I should probably let you go meet your bus driver in the lobby. I'll text him and let him know you're headed down now. Sound good?”

Bento is the
bus driver
! Okay, this feels like progress. And actually, I don't know why I didn't think of this before, but the bus driver, Bento, will definitely have all the information I need to start the tour. Granted, it might not be as detailed as Elizabeth's binder (I don't think the entirety of Wikipedia is as detailed as Elizabeth's binder) but he'll obviously know where we're headed and when. I'm pretty positive I can get it out of him without letting him catch on that I don't have a freaking clue about either.

I suddenly realize Sam is still on the phone, waiting for me to respond.

“Sure, sounds good.”

The hint of laughter is still in his voice as he says, “Nice ‘meeting' you, Elizabeth. We'll talk soon.”

“Sure, okay. You too. Okay, then, loveyoubye.” I put the phone back in the cradle and then I pause as my words replay in my head.

Oh God.

I did not just tell a total stranger—my employer, no
less—that I
loved him
. Did not. I roll over and scream into the sheets of my bed.

Maybe he didn't hear me. He probably didn't. I was halfway to hanging up as I said it so the phone was already moving away from my mouth. And even if he did, I bet he thinks he just misunderstood me. After all, I'm guessing he's seen Elizabeth's file and he'd never believe someone as pulled together as her transcript indicates could ever be such a mess.

And she's not.

Aubree, on the other hand? Oh yeah. Aubree is
exactly
that much of a mess.

I don't see
anyone looking like a bus driver (not that bus drivers have a particular look, just that no one seems to be glancing around as if they're supposed to be meeting someone) when I get to the lobby five minutes later, so I flip through the postcards outside the gift shop while I wait. I find one showing the penis statue outside the lobby doors, which will not only make Madison laugh but also represents basically the only tourist site I've seen.

I buy it and scribble
Wish you were here (instead of me)
on the back and walk it over to the front desk. The clerk assures me he will attach the proper stamps, post it, and charge it to my room. The service here is even better than Mom's, and that's saying a lot.

I plop into a chair and try not to stare down every male who enters the lobby. A moment later, a man comes through the doors, blowing across the lid of a steaming cup of coffee (which he got where? The pot shop?), and crosses the lobby
straight toward me. “Elizabetta?”

He's a stocky Hispanic man who's about in his forties. He has puffy black hair and a healthy-sized mustache. When he smiles, which he does now, he looks like one of the Super Mario brothers.

“Elizabetta?” he repeats.

I stand and stick out my hand. “Hi, I'm Elizabeth. It's so nice to meet you.”

“Encantado.”

“Oh, sorry, I don't speak . . . um, Italian?”

He stares at me blankly. I stare at him blankly.

“Español?”
he asks.

Oh. Spanish. Nope, don't speak that either.

I hold my palms up and grin. “Señorita? Margarita? Gracias?
Uno, dos, tres, cuatro?
”

I've just given him the sum total of my Spanish vocabulary. More blank stares.

Then he begins speaking rapidly.
“No lo entiendo. La empresa de turismo me dijo que sabías español. Yo no sé nada de inglés. Estamos en un lío, Elizabetta.”

I blink slowly, then point to myself. “Um, si, Elizabetta.” That was the only word I understood of that stream he just spewed at me. At least I
think
he said Elizabeth.

He shakes his head and begins mumbling.
“Primero me encargan a ese grupo de turistas a última hora. Después me dicen que solo tengo dos días para prepararme y ahora me dan una guía con la que no puedo ni entenderme. Por favor! ¿Cómo se me ha
ocurrido aceptar otro viaje después del último desastre?”

I am beginning to get the distinct impression that this bus driver does not speak any English. I swallow as I remember who minored in Spanish in college: Elizabetta. I mean, Elizabeth. It must have been on her application to the tour company.

I fall back into my chair and blink a few more times. And then . . .

I laugh.

I laugh so hard I almost fall onto the blue-and-gold plush carpet in the lobby of the Hotel Krasnapolsky and I don't even care. Tears stream down my cheeks as I peer up at the bus driver. Now it's his turn to do some blinking. But then he cracks another smile. And then a full grin. Pretty soon he's laughing in a chair alongside me and neither of us acknowledge all the posh people checking in who are shooting us sideways looks.

I stick out my hand again.

“Elizabetta.”

He nods and holds my hand in his. Pointing with his other hand, he gestures at himself and says, “Bento.”

We might have no other way to communicate beyond charades, but at least I'm no longer alone in the world.

The next morning, my little circle of
compadres
(as it turns out, I'm remembering Spanish words left and right. Thank you, Dora the Explorer) expands even more when, at breakfast, I meet my band of jolly travelers.

Bento and I are the first ones to the hotel restaurant, which is this giant atrium with a ceiling of all glass windows where everything from the chairs to the chandeliers drips in gold. It could be a tourist attraction all on its own.

I prearranged my arrival time with Bento using an elaborate game of Pictionary. I still have no idea what we're supposed to be doing today, but I finally did remember enough to know that the activities are all in Amsterdam because we don't leave the city until tomorrow. There is a stack of brochures from the hotel lobby in the empty seat next to me and I'm planning to do my best at winging it.

After meeting with Bento yesterday and realizing our linguistic dilemma, I gave serious thought to calling Elizabeth. Serious, serious thought. But then I replayed her message a few more times and I just couldn't do it. If I need to I'll call her tonight, but I want to give today a try on my own. Just to see. I'm nervous, but it turns out anger is a pretty good fuel.

I haven't left the hotel since arriving yesterday, which I know is totally lame, but at least at the Kras I know how to obtain food (dinner last night: burger and fries again), make a phone call, and operate the television set. If the
Big Bang Theory
marathon I caught last night is any indication, I think I've solved the mystery of why Dutch people speak English with perfect American accents. If they would let me, I might possibly spend the next twenty-two days leading up to my flight home right here, ordering room service and watching sitcoms.

Sadly, that's not to be. Bento touches my arm and gestures
with his chin at the doors behind me. I spin in my chair.

You know those scenes in movies where the ragtag heroes suddenly band together and they stride in unison down the street in slow motion while the soundtrack blares? Picture that but with six senior citizens. Except in this case, nothing else is moving in slow motion. Just the group.

About twenty minutes later (okay, fine, maybe one minute that just feels like twenty) the ensemble arrives at the table.

“Well, hey there, little lady!” says a bulky gentleman wearing an “Everything's bigger in Texas” T-shirt stretched over his Santa Claus belly. “Are you our fearless leader?”

I smile and take a deep breath. Here goes.

“I am. I'm Elizabeth.” Still feels so weird to say. I expand my gaze to cover the group at large. “Welcome to Amsterdam, everyone! Please, have a seat.”

Following that simple instruction takes a few minutes of maneuvering as people shuffle around and one of the men holds chairs for the ladies (so cute!). Then all six sets of eyes turn to me. Another deep breath as I stand.

“Well, as I said, welcome. I'm really excited for our trip together. This is Bento, our bus driver.”

Bento stands.
“Buenos días. Seguro que ninguno de vosotros sabe español y podría traducir lo que dice mi intrépido guía, pero por si acaso, ¿sabe alguien español?”

Blank stares greet him. Bento gives a tight smile and mutters something under his breath before sitting again.

“Good golly molly, I thought I was escaping all the
Mexicali when I took off from Texas,” says Santa Claus belly.

Seriously? Would you care to file a missing object report for that filter you're lacking, sir? Good thing Bento can't understand a word of it, even if I'm embarrassed on his behalf.

“Well,” I say in my most cheerful voice, choosing to ignore Mr. Inappropriate. “Why don't we take a few minutes to do some introductions? I'll begin. My name, as you know, is Elizabeth and I recently graduated, uh, college. I'm a political science major, with a minor in”—whoops, I can't say Spanish, like the real Elizabeth would—“history. And you'll be my first tour group, so I'm really looking forward to having an adventure with you and, uh, please go easy on me!” I finish with a giant smile and my palms up.

Six smiles greet me. So far, so good.

Santa pushes back from the table and stands. If everything is bigger in Texas, that definitely includes his voice. When he speaks, his words boom across the empty restaurant.

“Well, I'm Hank Hermann from Dallas, Texas. This here little woman's my wife, Maisy, and we're here on our fifth honeymoon. We take one for each decade of marriage. Ain't that right, Maze?”

The tiny (maybe she's not from Texas) woman next to him stands, bobs her head, and giggles into the back of her hand. She looks at her husband like he's the quarterback of the football team. Hank pulls her up next to him and slides his arm around her. He is not at all subtle when he grabs her butt. She giggles some more.

I force my face into a neutral expression.

“Welcome, Hank and Maisy.”

Everyone else at the table parrots me as Hank sits and pulls a still-giggling Maisy onto his lap.

Next to Hank, a refined-looking man stands. He's African-American, with a full salt-and-pepper beard and a neatly trimmed buzzed haircut. His khakis are pressed with a sharp crease and, even though it's summer, he's wearing a navy blazer over a button-down dress shirt. He clears his throat. “
Goedemorgen
. That was Dutch for ‘good morning.' I try to learn the local ‘good day's, ‘please's, and ‘thank you's when I travel.” He clears his throat again and continues in his gentle voice. “My name is Mr. Fenton, I'm from Aurora, Colorado, and this is my third organized tour. I'm really looking forward to getting to know everyone.”

“How do you say that ‘good morning' again?” one of the women asks.

“Goedemorgen
.
”

The whole table repeats it.

Mr. Fenton stays standing to pull out the chair for the woman seated next to him. If I were a hundred years older, I'd totally be crushing on him.

The woman he helps up is on the frail side and I finally know what the expression “bird-boned” means. She looks like a flyswatter could topple her over. But her voice is strong and her smile is friendly.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Emma Jordan and I'm from
Connecticut, just outside of Hartford. I'm traveling with my closest friend in the world, Mary O'Brien, and this trip has been a dream of ours since we were little girls listening to the serial
Escape
on my daddy's radio.”

“Oh, I loved me that show,” Hank booms. A few others nod.

Mary stands too now and holds Emma's hand. She and Emma are like Jack Sprat and his wife, because everywhere that Emma is skin and bones, Mary is soft layers of fat. I'll bet a hug from her would be like being wrapped in towels straight out of the dryer. Her eyes are as warm as melted chocolate and her grin has everyone around the table smiling back at her.

“I'm going to warn you all right now that Emma and I can sometimes bicker, but pay us no mind. We thought it would help us get cast on
The Amazing Race
, but apparently they'd already filled the ‘old people team' spot by the time we showed up and we were worried if we waited for next season, one of us might not be around. So here we are.”

I stifle a laugh, but it turns out I don't need to because everyone else laughs out loud.

“Anyhoo, if it gets annoying, you just tell me to ‘shut up, Mary.' I promise I won't mind. Half the time I walk around saying it to myself anyway.”

Emma reaches over and bops Mary on the head, which makes everyone laugh again. With the exception of Texas Hank, I have the sweetest group of grans and grampses possible. Jackpot! Maybe this won't be so bad.

The last woman at the table pushes back and her chair scrapes along the floor. I cringe at the sound. She's got mousy brown hair and a double chin, even though she's pretty thin. Her shoulders hunch in and when she speaks, we all have to lean in a bit to hear her. “Hello, everyone. My name is Dolores Shemkovich. I'm from Dayton, Ohio.”

Her voice hits every syllable like she's giving a formal speech to the queen. Wow, though. From Ohio. What are the odds?

“I'm from Ohio too,” I tell her. “And our tour company is based in Dayton. What a coincidence.”

She looks over at me and gives a tiny shrug. “Oh, no, dear. No coincidence. You see, the company is owned by my daughter.”

Her daughter?!