“First stop, Coba, then we go to a Mayan village. Then a zip line—not sure about these folks and a zip line,” Broodje says, nodding to our mostly gray-haired tour mates. “Then swimming in a cenote—it’s a kind of underground cave lake—then Tulum.” He flips the brochure around. “This tour costs a hundred and fifty dollars per person and we got it for free.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“I don’t get it. You’re Dutch on one side, Israeli on the other. By all rights, this should make you the cheapest bastard alive.”
“Uhh-huh.”
“Are you listening?”
“Sorry. I’m tired.”
“Hungover more like. When we stop for lunch, we’ll get some tequila. Hair of the dog is what T.J. calls it.”
I bunch my rucksack into a makeshift pillow and lean my head against the window. Broodje pulls out a copy of
Behind us, a girl, the only other person our age, asks, “Ball courts? What kind of ball did they play?”
“A sort of basketball,” the guide answers.
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.
“You don’t like basketball?” Broodje asks her. “I thought Americans loved basketball.”
“She’s a soccer player,” an older woman says. “She was all-state in high school.”
“Nana!”
“Really? What position?” Broodje asks.
“Striker.”
“Midfield.” He taps his chest.
They look at each other. “Wanna go check out the ball courts?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Be back in a half hour, Candace,” the older lady says.
“Okay.”
Broodje looks at me to come, but I nod for him to go alone. When the rest of the tour sets off toward the lagoon, I turn straight for the Nohoch Mul pyramid, climbing the 120 near-vertical steps to the top. It’s midday and hot so there’s hardly anyone up here, just a family taking pictures. It’s still enough for the quiet to be loud: the rustle of the breeze in the trees, the squawk of tropical birds, the metallic chirp of crickets. A gust of hot wind picks up a dry leaf and carries it over the jungle canopy.
The stillness is interrupted by a couple of kids, who have started shouting each other’s names in bird chirps.
“
“Joshua, Allison,
The kids look at me, cocking their heads, as if inviting me to call out a name, too. I hold up my hands and shrug because I don’t actually know the name I want to yell. I’m not even sure I want to yell it anymore.
Back at the Monkey Bus, I find Broodje and Candace sharing a Coke, one bottle, two straws. When we lumber back on board, I slip into a seat next to an older man traveling solo, allowing Broodje and Candace to sit together in our row. When I hear them arguing about whether Van Persie or Messi is the best striker, I smile, and my gentleman seatmate smiles back.
After lunch, we stop at a traditional Mayan village and are given the option of a ten-dollar spiritual cleansing by a Mayan priest. I stay off to the side as the others take turns standing under a smoking canopy. Then we’re herded back on the bus. The doors wheeze open. Broodje climbs on, Candace climbs on, my seatmate with the sandals and the socks climbs on, the guide climbs on. Everyone climbs on, except me.
“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.”
“
“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.
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 cafe, 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
