A kiss for you.

Moments before I’d kissed her for the first time, Lulu had said another one of her strange things: I escaped danger. She was emphatic about it, her eyes had a fire to them, just as they had when she’d come between me and the skinheads. It had seemed a peculiar thing to say. Until I’d kissed her. And then I felt it, as visceral and all-encompassing as the water around me now. Escaping danger. I’m not sure what danger she’d been referring to. All I knew was that kissing Lulu made me feel relief, like I’d landed somewhere after a long journey.

I turn onto my back, looking at the canvas of a star-spangled sky.

“Tabula rasa . . . time to hacer borrón y cuenta nueva, wipe the board clean,” the singer chants.

Wipe the board clean? I feel like my board is too clean, perpetually wiped bare. What I want is the opposite: a messy scrawl, constellations of indelible things that can’t ever be washed away.

She must be here. Maybe not at this party, or on this beach, or at the resorts I visited, but somewhere here. Swimming in this water, the same water I’m in now.

But it’s a big ocean. It’s an even bigger world. And maybe we’ve gotten as close as we’re supposed to get.

Eighteen

JANUARY

Cancún

The bus is shaped like a monkey, it’s full of old people, and I don’t want to be on it. But Broodje does, and after dragging him to half the resorts on the Mayan Riviera, I’m not one to argue.

“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 Voetbal International. The bus chugs off. I fall asleep, waking when we arrive at Coba. We plod off the bus, standing in a little clump as the guide tells us about the ancient Mayan ruins, a series of isolated temples and pyramids half overtaken by the trees and vines of the jungle. “It’s very unique,” she says. “This is one of the few ruins you can still climb. And you’ll also be interested in the lagoon, La Iglesia, or church, and of course, the ball courts.”

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. “Josh!” the girl squawks, as her brother laughs.

“Allie!” the boy, Josh, presumably, chirps back.

“Joshua, Allison, shh,” their mother chides, gesturing to me. “You’re not the only ones up here.”

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.”

“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.”

I knock at it. It sounds like a hollow log. “I’ve had worse.”

“What are you, some kind of a professional adventure eater?”

“Something like that.”

“Where are you from?” She holds up a hand. “No, wait, let me guess. Say something else.”

“Something else?”

She taps a finger to her temple, then snaps her fingers. “You’re Dutch.”

“Good ear.”

“Not much of an accent, though.”

“Very good ear. I grew up speaking English.”

“Did you live in England?”

“No, it was just my mother didn’t like speaking Dutch, thought it sounded too much like German. So at home, it was English.”

She glances at the phone on the table. “Well, I suspect there is a fascinating story behind that, but I’m afraid it’ll have to remain a mystery.” She pauses. “I’m a day late already.”

“Late for what?”

“For Mérida. I was supposed to be there yesterday, but my car broke down, and, well, it’s been a cascading comedy of errors. What about you? Where are you headed?”

I pause. “Mérida—if you’ll give me a ride.”

“I wonder what would piss off David more—driving alone or giving a ride to strangers.”

“Willem.” I hold out my hand. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

She narrows her eyes at my outstretched hand. “You’ll need to do better than that.”

“Sorry. I’m Willem de Ruiter.” I reach into my backpack for my stiff new passport and hand it over. “Here’s some identification.”

She flips through it. “Nice picture, Willem. I’m Kate. Kate Roebling. And I’m not showing you my passport because the picture is very unfortunate. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

She smiles and slides my passport back across the table. “Okay, then, Willem de Ruiter, traveling adventure-eater. The garage just opened so I’m grabbing the car. Assuming it’s actually ready, I’ll be hitting the road in about a half hour. Does that give you time to get packed and ready to go?”

I point to my rucksack on the floor next to me. “I’m always packed and ready to go.”

Kate picks me up in a sputtering Volkswagen jeep, the seats torn, the foam stuffing coming out. “This is fixed?” I ask, climbing in.