Lost in Wanderlust

Chapter Seven - Chris

Here are some little known facts about Gibraltar.

One) it exists

Two) er...well, that's pretty much all I've got. I mean, it exists. You think it wouldn't. You'd think that the British weren't so damn stubborn as to cling onto a barren corner of rock that offers nothing more than casinos, cheap booze and ferry passengers. But it does, blindly, stubbornly, and it shows with every Union Jack and sun-lined face of the few locals who stick it out.

Naturally, my opinion of Gibraltar isn't the best. You can't blame me.

Especially when the inexplicably-coveted Jamie Cooper has shoved me onto a dangerous tram/gondola thing and we're dangling high above the stamp-sized country, on our way to meet certain doom at the top of "The Rock."

The tram jerks wildly and I close my eyes, trying to keep down the alcohol that's swimming in my stomach. I don't want to open them, don't want to acknowledge the tourists who are packed in this sardine can, don't want to look out the window, and certainly, most definitely don't want to look at Jamie and her strange bravado. I can tell she's looking at me, probably grinning all white teeth and smooth cheeks, enjoying how green my skin is turning.

"Are you afraid of heights too?" she asks. I can tell a fear of heights is just as ludicrous to her as a fear of dying. I don't say anything. I pinch my eyes closer together and suck in a deep breath through my teeth.

"Did you want to do the interview?" she asks. "Ask away..."

Her voice sounds soft and it feels like some sort of trick. I open one eye and look at her. She has a cotton candy wand in her hand and she's slowly feeding the pink fluffy stuff into her mouth. She seems as serious as she can be, considering she looks like she's five years old.

"OK," I say slowly, still keeping one eye – the one closest to the window – shut. "What made you want to be a travel writer?"

She licks her fingers and shrugs. "I don't know."

"Come on," I say, sounding more desperate than I would have liked. "Help me out here."

She finishes licking and I notice a sense of relief flood through me. There was something bizarrely – and wrongly – erotic about that and I am glad she's stopped. My pants are especially grateful.

"Fine," she says. "I guess it was just the most convenient way out of my parent's house. This was a while ago, of course. So on a whim, I became a flight attendant, flew to Brazil and never flew back. I worked scamming tourists at a fishing village until my cover was blown, then I hightailed it to Argentina where I started writing pamphlets for local attractions."

"As you do."

She smirks at me. It's almost smug. "It's a pity I threw your book away, though. Now you can't write any of this down."

Now it's my turn to look smug. Well, as smug as I can look with one eye shut, face pale with the threat of vomit. "No worries. I've pretty much got a photographic memory. Or something like that. I can remember everything if I need to. It's almost scary."

I'm not lying. I really can remember everything if I put my mind to it. It's a very conscious act, but I've been perfecting it since I was young lad. I'd often zero in on the experiences, moments, and words that I'd want to remember forever. It means I have a glut of happy images and thoughts to look back on...and none of the bad.

Except for right now. I'll always remember the things that Jamie tells me because I'm willing myself to. Unfortunately that means I'll remember every moment with her.