The Unredacted Files of a 62-Year-Old Backpacker

CW: References to substance use

As I clean vomit off a 19-year-old’s drunken face, I think about why I left my old life. I left because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life cleaning bodily fluids off other people’s children. My daughter would laugh if she could see me now.

The girl on the bunk next to me is wasted, but she’ll live. I raised two teenagers, after all, and once upon a time, I even was one. I prop her up on her side and again wonder what I’m doing in a hostel in Amsterdam.

“Thank you, Gwendolyn,” Jade mumbles as I shove her backpack behind her. She needs to be on her side, and thieves abound in the hostel’s overcrowded barracks. I caught a boy going through Jade’s unlocked backpack yesterday, but when I reported it, the manager shrugged. I suspect he’s getting a kickback. I would report them both to the Amsterdam police, but with the nonsense the manager puts up, we’re all lucky he doesn’t burn down the hostel around us.

When I left my husband to travel the world, I had pictured that Diane Lane movie in Italy. However, I do not have Diane’s budget, hence the hostel. Also, I now remember that at the end, Diane is rewarded for her kindness by having to host a free wedding for a younger couple. It feels like an accurate portrayal of how people see women my age: only good for what they do for others.

I glance at my phone again as I walk down the unhygienic hall to the somehow more disgusting bathroom. Two days ago, I texted my daughter a selfie in front of the Rijksmuseum, but she hasn’t texted back. I suspect she’s gone no contact again. Kelly went no contact for three years when her therapist reminded her about the time I smacked her bottom for running into the street. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but no contact feels like an overreaction. Kelly finally texted when she got pregnant, mostly to get free child care out of us. It worked.

I walk into the urine-scented bathroom and go straight to the sink, where I wash my hands. Spying a bit of undigested French fry on my Lane Bryant long-sleeve, I take off my shirt and wash it in the sink. I have a strong stomach, like all mothers do, but this is truly nasty. It’s hard to believe my persnickety daughter once stayed here, even in college. I need to get out of this hostel. I want to give up and go home, tail between my legs.

***

The next morning at breakfast, I sit with Jade and her paramour of the hour. Mike is a skinny Australian with a bowl cut, and he smokes weed out of a neon yellow bong as Jade and I try and eat the rubbery eggs and toast that constitute our breakfast.

Mike blows smoke at the ceiling and grins mischievously.

“This must be really weird for you,” he says. “Have you ever waked and baked?”

“Honey, I was a teenager in the seventies,” I tell him. “We invented waking and baking.” I haven’t actually woke and smoked, but I have certainly smoked my share of marijuana over the years.

“Oh, right. You want a hit?” He offers the bong, but I raise my hand in refusal.

“If I smoke now, I’ll need a nap after breakfast.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I could use a nap.” I want to point out that he has just woken up, but I resist.

“What are you up to today?” Jade asks as she nibbles at her toast. She is hungover, but it won’t last long. Oh, to be young again.

“I’m going to the Anne Frank house.” When I planned my around-the-world trip, it was on the must-see list. I need to check it off.

“Can I tag along?” Jade sits up eagerly, and I smile at her excitement.

“The more the merrier.” We glance at Mike, but he pouts.

“But we were supposed to go to the sex show.” He takes another bong hit.

“That’s not till tonight,” Jade reminds him.

“Oh, right.” I suspect he has lost track of the time of day. “You’re welcome to join us.” He asks me politely, and I know that some kind woman has done an excellent job of instilling good manners in this boy. He’s not a bad kid, just a moron, as we all were at that age.

“No, thanks, but I appreciate the offer.” Having lived through the AIDS epidemic, I can’t gather much enthusiasm for the sex industry here.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “Why did you come to Amsterdam?”

“I came for the culture and history.” I came so I wouldn’t die thirty minutes from where I was born. I know he wants to ask why I’m staying at the hostel, but he doesn’t have to. We’re all here because it’s cheap, and we can’t afford better.

***

On my walk to the Anne Frank house, I stop by a little bakery and buy a stroopwafel. It is one of Rick Steve’s must-eats in Amsterdam. Rick is right. It’s a caramelly delight, and I snapped a cute photo of it with a big bite taken out. I want to send it to Ed, my husband loves pictures of food, but I can't because he is now my ex-husband.

A twinge of guilt runs through my spine. I hadn’t wanted a divorce. I had wanted to explore the world with my partner, but there was always some excuse: we had to fix the porch, we needed to get Kelly through college, or let’s wait for retirement.

As I eat my cookie, I admire the brightly colored houses that overlook the canal. Warm sun shines on my scalp, and I walk along the sidewalk with a little thrill. I’m actually here. I smile at a local woman who glares back, but I’m unfazed. After leaving everyone I love behind, a surly European is nothing.

Ed’s final excuse had been a good one. Kelly needed us to watch our grandson. Family helps family, except family wasn’t changing poopy diapers. I was.

The truth is, I might have stayed if it hadn’t been for one autumn Saturday. I had planned a weekend outing for the whole family to pick pumpkins. Kelly texted to cancel because Jason had a cough. It was an excuse, of course. I had been with Jason the day before. She then asked if she could drop him off early on Monday because she wanted to go to Pilates before work.

“I won’t be able to watch him next week,” I had texted back in a rage. “You’ll have to find other childcare.”

My daughter immediately called. “Why are you punishing me for being careful? Don’t you want to spend time with your grandchild?”

My heart pounds as I remember that conversation, and I flush in embarrassment. How had I been so flippant? I feel a little dizzy, so I sit on a bench under a large tree and try to stay in the moment. I look at the canal’s dark water and wonder if fish are living in it. I’m following my dream, and I will not feel guilty for finally doing something for myself. I laugh to think about Ed’s offer to watch Jason. The man who “raised” two children, yet somehow never changed a diaper in his life.

My heart rate slows, so I consult my maps app for the quickest route to Anne Frank’s house. I am going to meet Jade there, but she has decided to rent a bike, and I’m not that adventurous. There are only so many things an old, overweight body can be asked to do.

I reach Anne Frank’s house and text Jade that I’ve arrived. She hasn’t, so I take a selfie in front of the house. I look too happy, so I straighten my expression and take a more somber photo. I send my daughter a photo of the house without me. I’m not sure why, other than that I need to share it with someone. Maybe, somewhere deep down, I want her approval.

Twenty minutes later, I give up on Jade and get in line. I’ve gotten my ticket, but it’s for anytime that day. I view the museum, which is heartbreaking, and I cry as most people do. Again, I’m glad I’ve come. This is why I wanted to see the world. This is why I couldn’t stay on the couch for the rest of my life.

I find Jade waiting on a bench outside when I exit. She looks dejected as I sit next to her.

“They’re sold out,” she says. “How was it?”

“Very moving,” I admit. “You can get tickets online.”

She nods and pulls out a joint, pinching the tip with a practiced hand. My phone vibrates.

“Please stop texting me pictures of the trip you abandoned us for. I have to set a boundary for my own mental health.” Tears fill my eyes, though I’ve done nothing wrong. The last time Kelly set a boundary, it was so she didn’t have to pick us up from the airport. My daughter only sets boundaries on things she doesn’t want to do.

“It’s so sad what they went through,” Jade says, at my tears, and I am confused until I remember where I am.

“It’s my daughter,” I admit. Then I find myself telling this child, whom I’ve only known a few days, my entire life’s story. Jade listens with respect and empathy. Halfway through, she hands me her joint, and I take a big hit, proud that I barely cough.

“I went no contact with my mother,” she admits as my story winds down.

“Why?”

“Because she treated me like an accessory, not a person,” Jade says. “Like I’m a Birkin bag to show off to all of the other rich mommies.”

“I don’t think I did that. I had faults, but that’s not one of them.” My life had been about my family, not the other way around. My entire life had been a series of favors for ungrateful people.

“Or she could just be a giant asshole.” I snort and cough through another hit, but that’s more from laughter. Mothers are not allowed to think their children might be assholes. Not because they aren’t assholes. There are plenty of assholes walking around, and all of them had mothers, but I think it’s because it would be a failing of our life purpose. I’m not sure why I’m worried about that. I’ve failed plenty in life. I failed out of school. Failed at work. Failed at a 30-year marriage. What’s one more failure in the grand scheme of things?

My phone vibrates again, and I check my messages. It’s from Kelly.

“This is what you’re missing,” she says, followed by a picture of Jason playing on colorful plastic playground equipment. I do miss the little boy with his cheerful playing and happy laugh. I tear up again, but Jade peers over my shoulder.

“Yeah, she’s an asshole,” Jade says, and deep down, though it feels terrible to admit it, I know Jade’s right. I have raised a selfish human, otherwise known as an asshole. I should go home and fix it, but even if I did, it’s far too late. I can’t muster up enough regret to buy a plane ticket home. I think about all of the people who want to travel the world but can’t. I’m doing something special, and my daughter should be proud. I was proud when she traveled, and jealous, though that’s another thing mothers can’t admit.

“I have an idea,” I tell her. I make her take several pictures of me in front of a boring brick wall. I choose the best one, and Jade teaches me how to apply filters that make me look ten years younger.

I send my daughter the picture with the caption, “This is what you’re missing…me.” Then I close my messaging app. For a moment, I believe it. I’m something to be missed, and not just for my babysitting skills. Kelly will likely ignore it or be offended. I can’t tell if it’s petty or empowering, but Jade loves it.

“You should start an Instagram account,” she says as we walk back to the hostel. She is too stone to ride her bike, and so it is much safer for the city of Amsterdam that she stays off it. “You can be like that girl in that show who lives in Europe.”

I think about the show about the girl with more fashion sense than common sense. It's silly, but sitting on my couch in the Midwest, dreaming of adventures, it was one of my favorites. I won’t be that girl, but even old women deserve adventures.

“Maybe I will.” We walk over a bridge, and I take another picture. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. But what would my handle be? The Travels of a Terrible Mother? Tales of a Runaway Grandma? Gwen in Transit?

I know the title. I grin as I walk. I’ll set up the account when I get back to the hostel. It’s perfect, and I can’t wait to get started.