The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World

by Kristin Rockaway

  “Well”—Seth was sputtering at this point—“I think that, you know, this kind of behavior cannot be tolerated at McKinley, and, so, some serious action needs to be taken to—”

  “Seth, cut the shit.” The gruff voice blared through the speaker. “I know what you do around here. I didn’t work my ass off to build this company so that you can run around sticking your dick in everything that moves. You can’t carry on like this and then act surprised when it comes back to bite you in the ass.”

  The color drained from his face. Even the swollen bruise between his eyes was now pale. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Dad, this isn’t—”

  “I know exactly what’s going on here and I want no part of it.”

  Seth’s expression changed from stricken to indignant. “Well, maybe I will call the cops, then.”

  “If you bring any negative press to this company, so help me God, Seth, I will disown you. Every day, you make me more and more sorry that I gave you this job.”

  Click.

  A dial tone pierced the air and Elizabeth pressed the OFF button, plunging us into a desperately uncomfortable silence. She licked her lips and shuffled some papers on her desk. “Now that that’s behind us, let’s move forward.” Her face was all business, as if we didn’t just endure a heated conversation with the head of McKinley regarding allegations of assault and sexual misconduct. “We have the pressing matter of these audits being woefully behind schedule, and we still need to deliver the data to our auditors by close of business on Friday.”

  This time, I didn’t bother to bite my lip. Instead, I let out a big, boisterous laugh. Elizabeth was not only persistent, but she was also completely out of touch with reality. “That’s not going to happen,” I said.

  She didn’t look nearly as amused as I was. “It has to.”

  “Well, I can’t work with this injury.” Seth leapt to his feet, his condition suddenly becoming a medical crisis. “I need to get to the hospital right away.” He ran from the room with his hand concealing his mangled face.

  When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth turned her stony brown eyes on me. “Well, Sophie, it looks like this will fall to you.”

  “I can’t do this by myself in four days,” I protested. “Not even if I work around the clock.”

  “As I see it, you don’t have much of a choice.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I was helpless and screwed. I sat there with my mouth agape, my gaze traveling around the sterile office. Elizabeth’s MBA diploma hung on the wall, framed in a tasteful brushed nickel picture frame. The shelves held thick books with titles like Effective Project Management and The Functions of the Executive. There were no photos on her desk, not a single sign of a life that existed outside this room—no smiling loved ones, no solo poses in front of tourist destinations. Just a black leather blotter and some color-coordinated folders.

  In that moment, I realized I did have a choice. My life wasn’t something that happened without my input. I guided my life where I wanted it to go. There were two paths stretched out in front of me: the safe, sensible, no-nonsense plan and the wild, risky, uncharted territory. I only knew where one of those paths ended up, and it definitely wasn’t in a place that would make me happy.

  I stood up, looked into Elizabeth’s wretched eyes, and said, “I quit. Effective immediately.”

  Her jaw fell open, and I bounced out of the room, feeling a thousand pounds lighter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next few minutes were blacked out from my memory, like my sudden burst of courage had knocked me unconscious. When I finally came to, I found myself hovering over my desk on the thirty-third floor, trying to figure out what to take with me and what to leave behind. So much of what I’d surrounded myself with, day after day—those color-coded folders, that state-of-the-art laptop, that smartphone—wasn’t even mine. It was all property of McKinley Consultants Worldwide. Only two things belonged to me and me alone: that bag of cold Cantonese food and that caricature Carson had hand-delivered alongside it. I grabbed them both, one in each hand, slung my half-empty briefcase over my shoulder, and bolted from the room with my heart beating against my rib cage.

  On wobbly knees, I walked through the hallway, past people in suits who were no longer my colleagues. When I reached the reception area, Jeanette gave me an easy, friendly wave, like nothing had changed. When I realized it was the last time I’d ever see her sitting behind that front desk, the last time I’d ever stand in that elevator bank and press that DOWN button, I smiled. A goofy, gleeful grin, stretching from ear to ear. Because I’d done it. I’d made the risky choice. I’d decided not to compromise my happiness.

  I floated through the lobby and sailed through the revolving glass doors. Outside, the city surged with excitement. People hustling back and forth along the pavement, cars weaving in and out of traffic. The energy pulsed through me. I could go anywhere. I could do anything. I was no longer bound by schedules or obligations. My life was my own.

  I can’t wait to tell Carson.

  Except I couldn’t tell Carson. I didn’t know where he was, or if his cell phone was still working. For all I knew, he could already be at the airport, booking a ticket to Australia. Or back to Hong Kong. Or wherever he felt like going. And from the way we’d left things not even an hour ago, I wasn’t sure if he’d ever want to speak to me again.

  That’s when the enormity of what I’d done struck me like a supersonic jet. I hadn’t just burned a bridge at McKinley; I’d blown it up with a nuclear bomb. My career was poisoned. Any chance of ever getting a positive job reference had been completely obliterated. I would never work at another consulting firm, never get into a reputable MBA program. Not to mention, I now had no income, no way to pay my rent at the end of the month, no way to keep building a savings account. I don’t even have a goddamn phone.

  My adrenaline rush was officially over. Now I was in full-on panic mode.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  I stood on the corner of Sixth Avenue, clutching my bag of food in one hand and my drawing in the other, trying hard not to hyperventilate. Unsure of where to go next, I looked around, desperate for an answer. To my left, a hot dog vendor served a line of hungry customers. To my right, the Empire State Building shot high into the sky. Straight ahead, a red double-decker tour bus lumbered along the asphalt. As it passed me by, I could hear the muffled drone of a disinterested, incoherent voice buzzing through the speakers. I glanced up above the second-story railings, at those poor, cheated tourists who paid forty-nine dollars each for a half-assed drive around Midtown with a tour guide who neither knew nor cared about this incredible city.

  I could do a much better job than the guy behind the microphone.

  My gaze fell to the paper clutched tightly in my hand, and my own cartoonish face smiled back at me. At that moment, I realized it wasn’t just a drawing, but a guiding light. The Sophie in the caricature was doing what she loved most in the world. She’d found a way to make it work. Come to think of it, she also looked a hell of a lot like the adventurous girl on the cover of The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World.

  Without a second thought, I dashed down the sidewalk, toward the corner of 46th and 7th, where the CityLights Sightseeing Bus Tours sold their tickets from a storefront the size of a toilet stall—and, frankly, not much cleaner than one. An unsmiling clerk sat behind the sales booth, leafing through one of those free daily newspapers they gave out at the entrance to subway stations. She didn’t look up when I approached. Or when I cleared my throat to get her attention. Finally, I said, “Excuse me?”

  She shot me a slit-eyed look and pointed to the wooden box bolted to the wall beside the kiosk. “Complaints can be filed over there.”

  For a second, I considered registering a grievance about our shoddy tour from the day before. But I shook my head to clear the thought and pressed on with my original goal.

  “I w
ould like to apply for a job,” I said.

  The clerk stared at me but didn’t move. I wasn’t sure if she was being dismissive, or if she was merely contemplating whether to take me seriously. Admittedly, I’m sure I looked somewhat insane. My Brooks Brothers suit was rumpled, and my hair was coming loose from my once-tightly cinched bun. A leather briefcase hung from my shoulder, and I was carting around a smelly old bag of food. I was half businesswoman, half fruit loop. But there was no backing out now.

  “May I speak to the manager, please?” I asked, my voice sweet as candy.

  The clerk rolled her eyes and spun around on her stool, before hoisting herself to her feet and disappearing behind a back door. In her absence, I took a second to arrange myself into something resembling a stable, employable human being. I set the bag of food and briefcase down at my feet, placed the caricature on the counter in front of me, and removed the clip from my hair. With a quick glance in the plate glass windows of the storefront, I fluffed out my curls and tried on a sensible, professional smile. Deep breaths. You can do this.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned around to see a balding gentleman emerging from the back room, the clerk trailing behind him with her arms crossed over her chest. He looked friendly—friendlier than the clerk, at least—but I could tell he was looking over my shoulder and out onto 46th Street, trying to locate the closest squad car should my presence require police intervention.

  “Hello,” I said, making sure to smile. “My name is Sophie Bruno, and I’m interested in applying for a position as a tour guide with your company.”

  He answered without skipping a beat. “We’re not hiring.”

  “Uh…okay.” I hadn’t prepared myself for this scenario. In fact, I hadn’t prepared myself for anything at all. The last job interview I’d had was three years ago, for McKinley, and to get ready for that, I’d researched and rehearsed for days. Now I was out of practice and flying blind. “Well, maybe you could find some room for me somewhere. Or let me substitute on days when guides call in sick.”

  “We’re already fully staffed and have an adequate coverage policy in place.”

  He already had one hand on the knob of the back door. I couldn’t let him get away so easily. “I really think you’d be impressed with my vast knowledge of the city.” I spoke in a breathless rush. “At least let me audition. I can give you an impromptu performance, right here.”

  The clerk snorted, and the manager smiled through his fading patience. I could feel my cheeks burn.

  “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you leave your résumé, and we’ll call you if we have any openings.”

  Résumé. There was another thing I’d conveniently overlooked in my impulsive decision to switch careers. My current résumé was woefully outdated, and perhaps worse, contained nothing related to the travel and tourism industry. I started to think about ways I could spin my current job functions to be relevant to giving bus tours. Excels at production of color-coded spreadsheets. Powers through checklists despite rapidly changing priorities and a hateful Big Brother of a boss.

  My hands tightened around the paper I’d placed on the counter. I held it up for them to see, as if a sketch of me conducting a tour of New York City qualified me for the job. “This is what I specialize in,” I said, fully realizing how crazy I was beginning to sound. “I’m excellent at crafting itineraries and providing spontaneous narration based on the needs and whims of the customers.”

  The clerk was in a full-on cackle, and the manager’s lips twitched as if he was suppressing his own fit of giggles. “We have the itineraries all planned out here at CityLights. Our tour guides just need to read from a script. So why don’t you come back after you’ve put together a proper résumé and drop it off with Alicia here?” He patted the clerk on the shoulder before retreating to the back room and slamming the door behind him.

  Without a word, I picked up my briefcase and walked out the front door. I left behind the bag of food, a parting gift to thank Alicia for her hospitable reception. Out on the sidewalk, I stood with my shoulders slumped and my head swimming with regret.

  What did I just do to my life?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Just then, I was distracted from my own self-loathing by two men engaged in a heated conversation that was becoming louder and more aggressive by the second. One of them sported a red jacket with the CityLights logo emblazoned on the breast. The other man wore a fanny pack and clutched a brochure in his clenched fist.

  “It was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago,” Mr. Fanny Pack said.

  The CityLights employee murmured unintelligibly into a walkie-talkie before turning to the tourist and saying, “The bus is caught in traffic.”

  “Well, how much longer before it arrives?”

  “Sir, I can’t tell you that now. There’s police activity at Penn Station and all vehicles have been pulled over for inspection.”

  A collective groan sounded from the crowd of patrons standing at the curb, about a dozen tourists waiting for their indefinitely delayed tour bus.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I have tickets to a show in three hours!”

  “Can we get a refund?” asked Mr. Fanny Pack.

  “No refunds,” said the man in the red jacket, before turning away and lifting the walkie-talkie to his mouth again.

  I empathized with these sightseers. All they wanted to do was explore the big city and enjoy their vacations, and now their plans were falling apart. Of course, the police activity at Penn Station was out of everyone’s control, but couldn’t the tour company have handled this situation in a more pleasant manner? Allowed refunds, or rescheduled their tours, or at the very least offered them an apology and a smile? Maybe it’s for the best that they didn’t want to hire me. They’re the perfect example of how not to run a business.

  And then I wondered how I’d do things differently if I ran my own tour company. For one thing, I wouldn’t set my schedule based on an idealized vision of New York City traffic patterns. Every day, there was some reason for unforeseen gridlock: a visiting dignitary, a criminal act, a special performance. New York required you to stay on your toes, to keep things spontaneous.

  I looked down at the paper in my hands. At the woman with the smile and the unruly head of curls. At the thought bubble floating above her head: Sophie’s Spontaneous Tours.

  Find a way to make it work.

  “Excuse me,” I found myself saying, loudly so the whole crowd could hear. “Is anyone interested in participating in a walking tour?”

  The people exchanged quizzical looks, doubtful of this stranger in the wrinkled business suit. I quickly realized I needed to do a better job of selling myself to these tourists than I’d done to the manager of CityLights. So I took a deep breath, and I stopped overthinking it. I just let the words flow straight from my heart to my mouth, with no filter, no script, and no plan.

  “My name is Sophie, and I’m a real New Yorker. Over the course of my life, I’ve spent thousands of hours pounding the pavement, searching for the most fascinating sights, the most intriguing stories, and the most surprising facts about this city. I know these streets like the back of my hand, and now I’d like to share them with you.”

  The crowd was silent, blinking at me. Even the guy in the red jacket had lowered his walkie-talkie to listen to my speech. I continued while I still had their attention.

  “On my walking tour, you’ll get to follow in the footsteps of a local. We’ll go off the beaten path, exploring hidden gems most other big-box tour companies won’t show you. As an added bonus, you’ll have personalized attention. Any questions about things we see? I can answer them. Any requests to turn down a side street to investigate? I’ll honor them.”

  I held the caricature high and smiled widely, trying to match the enthusiasm of the woman in the picture. “I’m Sophie, and this is my spontaneous tour.”

  Mr. Fanny Pack rested his hands on his hips. “I just paid this
tour bus forty-nine bucks and they won’t refund me. I’m not shelling out any more cash.”

  The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

  “Well,” I said, making it up as I went along, “I normally charge thirty-nine dollars for a two-hour tour. But under these exceptional circumstances, seeing as your bus is MIA and all, I’d be happy to honor your bus passes in lieu of cash payment.”

  “You can’t do that,” said the guy in the red jacket.

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s perfectly legal.”

  Mr. Fanny Pack turned to his travel companion and then back to me. “Okay, we’ll do it.”

  “Great!” I squealed, collecting the tickets in my eager hand. Even though I was being paid for this gig in nonrefundable vouchers for the worst bus tour in the city, my enthusiasm was hard to contain. This was my dream job. And I was doing it. Even though I didn’t really know what I was doing. “Is anyone else interested?”

  Four foreign teenagers huddled beneath the blue scaffolding that lined the sidewalk, speaking to each other in hushed German, discussing what I assumed to be the pros and cons of cashing in their bus passes to wander around the city with this random American. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man in the red jacket duck into the CityLights storefront. I had to get this tour on the road before he alerted the manager to the fact that I was stealing away all their clients.

  “Last call,” I said. “Anyone else?”

  “We’d like to join your tour,” said one of the German boys, before handing over four red ticket stubs, which I promptly stuffed in the pocket of my blazer.

  “Great!” I advanced toward 7th Avenue, letting a mob of passing New Yorkers obscure our departure. “Now if you’ll follow me closely, our first stop is just around the corner.”

  At this time of day, the pedestrian plaza between 7th and Broadway was teeming with people, the postlunch crowd was out in full force, taking photos in front of the wild, blinking lights of Times Square. I ushered my small group to the center of the strip and came to a stop south of the long, winding TKTS line, then launched into a spur-of-the-moment speech.