Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe Page 2
I’m wondering something. Are all parents as totally weird as mine? I mean, take the idea for this trip, for instance. Every other Catholic-Jewish (or Cashewish, as YOU say) kid I know has a confirmation, a bar mitzvah, or a bat mitzvah, because their parents do the, uh, normal thing and pick a religion. But my parents? They invent, for their daughters, the “not mitzvah,” an “educational coming-of-age trip.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m NOT complaining. I’m sure a trip to Europe is a whole lot more fun than CCD or Hebrew school, and I’m REALLY glad we saved up all this money so I could do it. I’m lucky, too, that they didn’t change their minds about the whole thing, which they almost did after Irene’s trip to Greece with my dad, when she called home every day, screaming (very expensively) about how she threw up all over a hydrofoil, and how they almost had to spend the night on the streets of Athens because their reservations got screwed up, and how a car suddenly appeared on the sidewalk and almost ran her over, and yadayada. It’s just that the thought of being away with only my mother is a little scary. I’m used to buffers—television, computer, music, telephone, dad, sisters, the snake.
My mother says there will be lots of teenagers on the cruise ship, but how will I ever get up the courage to introduce myself to strangers without you there to make me do it? As we both know, Delia, YOU are the social one. SO, the thought of being around a whole bunch of new people without my best friend is FRIGHTENING. You HAD to have KNOWN this, so WHY are you torturing me with this last (EXTREMELY BOSSY) order:
#4: MEET A CODE-RED EURO-HOTTIE.
WHY would I EVER agree to this?
Hm. I think the question is, actually: Why DID I ever agree to this?
Better question: How do I DO it?
I know, I know. You told me a million times. (How can I forget? I had to wrestle you to the ground to keep you from writing the instructions on my leg.) You meet a guy that’s Euro—that is, from Europe—and then you rate his level of hottiness on a color-coded scale. Sort of like the ozone and terrorism warning systems, only red means GOOD when it comes to a hottie, and not that you should stop breathing air or move into your basement.
Simple. Except for that “meet a guy” part. How do I do THAT? I think you have to be, well, sort of, uh, YOU to pull this off.
You know how Ms. Heath went on and on (and on) in Human Growth about those “raging teenage hormones” that change the balance of chemicals in our brains and make us feel different? (Which, by the way, is pretty much what is happening in a mentally ill person’s brain.) Well, I think that’s your problem. Not that you’re mental, but that you’re DIFFERENT lately. You are (and don’t take this the wrong way, or anything) OBSESSED with the opposite sex. That’s why it would be easier for YOU to find these Euro-hotties.
It’s NOT that I’m afraid of BOYS, Delia. I’ve played baseball since I was five, you know, and my teammates have ALWAYS been boys. Of course, we don’t TALK. And I’m not entirely sure they have even figured out I’m a girl, but whatever.
I know, I know, you keep telling me it will be EASY. That Euro-hotties will be everywhere in the Mediterranean. EVERYWHERE, you say. But I’m wondering something, Delia. How do YOU know so much about the Mediterranean? Have you ever BEEN to the Mediterranean? Huh? HUH?
I’m arguing with you, and you’re not even here.
SAD. Molto (that’s Italian for “very”) sad.
Friday night, or maybe early
Saturday morning, over the Atlantic Ocean
(I’m thinking Bermuda Triangle)
* * *
Dear Delia,
I’ve been inside airplanes for so many hours I have lost my grip on reality. You’re probably thinking that you can’t lose something you never had, and my answer to that is: Go away. Oh yeah, you’re already away. I mean, I’M away. OBVIOUSLY, I’m going stir crazy in this seat. Earlier, I had this incredible urge to do laps of high-knees in the aisles. (I know you think that’s a double funny—the way people look running with their knees going up in the air AND the way “high-knees” sounds—but that’s because you’re very immature). Unfortunately, high-knees are something you definitely have to do with a group of people, so I just walked up and down the aisle instead. After a while, though, the flight attendants appeared with the food and drink carts, which made me feel frighteningly like Ms. Pacman. So I had to sit back down.
We are on the way to Rome now, which I should be glad about since we almost missed the plane. Or I should say we THOUGHT we almost missed it, the WHOLE time we were running in the Chicago airport, which is about as big as the entire city of DC, I’m pretty sure, AND as crowded. We were really, really late getting to Chicago on account of the storm, but Mom kept telling me (over and over, even though I never expressed any concern, whatsoever) that the flight to Rome HAD to be delayed because ALL the flights were delayed, etc., etc. But when we FINALLY got to Chicago and saw the monitors in the airport, we discovered that the Rome flight was SOMEHOW, by some MIRACLE, on time, which I figured had to do with the Pope, since he lives in Rome. (Which I took as a sign that maybe I should consider Catholicism for a religious pastime.) We were at Gate 400, I think, and we needed to get to Gate 3, so we ran and ran and ran and got to the gate JUST IN TIME for the digi-sign over the counter to flash with the message: FLIGHT 70 TO ROME DELAYED. (So I lost interest in Catholicism. Oh well.)
I collapsed on the floor in a heap of human tiredness, and my mother—in an absurdly optimistic way—said, “Well, we’re getting there, aren’t we?” To which I replied, “Mom (gasp, gasp), we’re further from Rome than we were when we started the trip this morning.” She responded to this by saying, “Do you have to be so contrary?” And I responded to that by saying, “Yes, actually,” and I went on to tell her about the chemical imbalances in my brain, and how being a teenager is practically a form of mental illness. She didn’t say anything (I mean, what is there to say?), but just collapsed in a heap of human tiredness next to me.
Now we’re scrunched into VERY uncomfortable seats in the middle of this HUGE plane. I asked my mother why we couldn’t get window seats, and she started talking about airlines and hubs and cruise packages, so I told her to never mind. To make matters worse, my head is killing me. I think it’s doing the same thing as this water bottle I have here. When the plane took off, it started bloating out like it would explode (the water bottle, not the plane) (luckily). It was like that until I opened the top to drink some, and then it went back to its normal size. I wonder if it would help my head if I could open the top of it like that. (Clearly, I am experiencing oxygen depletion or something, so don’t mind me.)
I started watching the movie to distract myself, but then I realized that it’s one of those flicks about a beautiful model-like woman falling in love with a gray, wrinkled guy. I’m trying not to look at it, because I know she’s bound to kiss him at any moment—argh! (Or, as Georgia would say: erlack!) Even though I’m listening to music now on my headphones, I guess Mom thinks I’m still listening to the movie, because every once in a while she looks over at me and giggles—figuring, I guess, that we are sharing some girlish thoughts about the movie. (Yeah . . . uh-HUH.)
OMG! The person in front of me just threw up! This is worse than the movie! Get me OUT of here! Wait a minute! I’m on an AIRPLANE! I can’t go ANYWHERE! OK, I’ll just get OUT OF THIS SEAT and walk up and down the aisle for the next six hours or however long it’ll be before we get to Rome. OMG again! The food and drink carts are back! I’m STUCK! HELP! THEY’RE GOING TO EEEAATTTT MEEEEEE!!
Wishing you were here,
It might be Saturday morning
* * *
Dear Delia,
I’ve never been so tired in my whole, entire life. Not even the time you made me stay up all night before that all-day band performance. (NO, I haven’t gotten over that yet.) I feel like an old sock that’s been worn by a hundred people, then dragged along the street for a few years, then stomped on by elephants, then used to clean toilets. In the boys’ locker room.
> That was the worst flight EVER. You should have seen my water bottle squeezing in when we were landing in Rome. My head was squeezing in like that, too. You know those little toys with the eyeballs made of goo that pop out when you squish the head? Well, my head did that. My eyeballs were on the floor. Really. REALLY. (Okay, FINE, don’t believe me.)
When we got off the plane, we were greeted by a brigade of smiling Italian teenage boys in berets and uniforms. I immediately thought, “Delia would LOVE it here!” A couple of them smiled at me, even, and winked, and I started thinking that maybe it wasn’t going to be so hard to find Euro-hotties, after all. I was so completely out of it from sleep deprivation and the head-squeezing thing that I careened right over to where they were standing and started to actually introduce myself (although I’m not entirely sure I remembered my own name at that point). THEN I noticed the guns. Each of those cute Italian guys was carrying a MAJOR automatic rifle. You KNOW how I HATE guns.
(Well, you wouldn’t want me compromising my beliefs just to meet a Euro-hottie, now, would you?) (Of course you would.)
“It’s because of terrorism, dear,” my mother whispered pseudo-calmly as she guided me (with a death-grip on my arm) past the guns-and-berets guys.
Then we got on yet ANOTHER form of transportation. I bet you can’t guess how many different ways I’ve traveled since I left DC. Hey, I know! I’ll give you a quiz:
To get from Washington, DC, to a cruise ship near Rome, you must:
a) ride in a car
b) walk
c) run
d) use one of those people-mover-floors that are like escalators, only flat
e) use an escalator (would the verb be “escalate”?)
f) use an elevator (elevate?)
g) fly in an airplane
h) take a bus
i) all of the above
Well, here’s the answer: (i) all of the above. SERIOUSLY. We’re on a bus now, heading for a seaside town near Rome. It’s called Civitavecchia (pronounced CHEE-vit-a-vekkia), according to my mother, who asked me to practice saying it. I refused, though, on account that there is no reason for me to know how to say the name of this town. We’re going there to get on the boat, and then the boat LEAVES there. It seems to me that I’ll only need to say the town’s name if I happen to fall out the window of this bus and then have to tell someone where to take me when they pick me up hitchhiking. The window next to my seat is about six inches square, so I don’t think I’ll be falling out of it today.
So, HERE I AM in ITALY! I guess it’s time to describe some thrilling adventures! Well, I’m looking out the window, and I can see a, uh, road. There are cars and buses. And it’s really, really hot here. I don’t think there’s air-conditioning on this bus. Which is making me pretty sleepy. Really sleepy. Really, REALLY sleepy. Oh, look! It’s the ocean! I’ve never seen that EXCELLENT shade of blue...
Sunday
(I know this because the mat outside
the elevator in the ship says so)
* * *
Dear Delia,
Oh, my. I must have fallen asleep writing that last letter. I woke up and my pen was smashed against my cheek. I haven’t been able to get rid of the purple mark it left there, so this morning I turned it into a little heart. But I thought that looked silly, and, anyway, I remembered that purple hearts are things that soldiers are given when they get injured in war, and it didn’t seem right to have one on my face. So I made it into a circle, which looked REAL silly, because why would a person have a purple CIRCLE on her face? So I got my blue pen and made petals around the circle, and now I have a flower on my cheek. It looks really, well, RIDICULOUS. I tried to scrub it off, but it’s no use, and now my cheek is red. With a purple and blue flower on it. My sunglasses cover it just a little, but not nearly enough. I sure hope I don’t run into, uh, ANYONE.
It is PARADISE here, Delia, let me tell you. The sun is shining, and here I am, next to a sparkling pool, looking at Mount Vesuvius and listening to a Caribbean band. (And wondering if this band realizes they are on the wrong sea.) I slept twelve hours last night and then ran some laps on the top deck of the boat, gazing out at the INCREDIBLE, hypnotic BLUE of the Mediterranean. It doesn’t look at all like the Atlantic Ocean. It’s SO much darker. Somewhere between Hope-diamond blue and midnight blue. How nice it is to be surrounded by all this blueness. Mediterranean blue is my NEW favorite shade of BLUE.
I am TOTALLY rejuvenated now, and except for the obnoxious flower on my cheek, and the stupid writing all over my hand, life is GREAT. I’m actually wearing the bikini today, Delia, BELIEVE it or not. (SEE? I’m making progress with the LIST.) I put it on and looked in the mirror of our stateroom (that’s cruise-speak for bedroom), and I started to think that maybe I didn’t look too awfully bad in it, and I was STEPPING OUT of the cute, little door (which makes it seem like we’re living in a hobbit hole), when my mother said, “You know, Brady, you really HAVE developed quite a bit lately.” At which point, I grabbed a big T-shirt from my bag and put it over the bikini.
SORRY. I’m just not ready. There’s NOTHING wrong with swimming in a T-shirt, anyway. So WHAT if it gets caught up around your neck and keeps your arms from going over your head when you’re trying to do the freestyle? Who CARES if it bloats up and makes you look like a blowfish when you’re doing the backstroke? What of it?
Through the fog of jet lag, I am starting to remember some things about yesterday’s arrival at port. It wasn’t “thrilling,” but I’m going to tell you about it anyway. In Civitavecchia, we went to this building at the docks, where bunches of people were sitting around on benches with their suitcases, all looking extremely tired. Every once in a while, someone in a uniform called out a number or a letter or something, and people slowly got up and grabbed their suitcases, woke up their other family members, and schlepped (as my grandmother says), slow motion, across the hot room and into a line.
I watched this for a while, and in my quasi-sleep-state I was convinced I was on Ellis Island. It made perfect sense, too—at least in the la-la land I was in. It was not air and land travel which had worn me out, but TIME travel. I was a composite of my ancestors who had journeyed from Russia and Germany and Ireland, sick of Cossacks and Nazis and bad potatoes. I was ONE with their struggles. That IS, until I fell asleep again on my backpack.
I woke up thinking about those ancestors this morning. I felt, at first, kind of guilty, because they were poor immigrants, and they couldn’t afford to take vacations, I’m sure. Of course, they probably would have had no interest at all in going back across the Atlantic to get on a BOAT, of all things. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my great-great-grandparents (or whoever) would be really happy if they knew I was able to take such a COOL trip. It would mean that their idea to come to America had been a good one. Right? Didn’t they want their descendants to have better lives? Wasn’t that the point?
Okay. I’m done with that now. I feel better.
The ship sailed during the night and arrived early this morning in the port of Naples, Italy. My mother keeps saying we should go see the city, but I keep saying we should stay at the pool for a while longer. The water is actually very cold in the pool, and—here’s a shocker—it’s salty. This weirded me out at first, but then some waiter-type person who was delivering drinks with little umbrellas (the drinks had the little umbrellas, not the waiter-type person) told us that the pool is emptied every night and then filled up with water right out of the sea. Is that cool, or what? (Cold, actually. As I’ve already said.)
“What about Pompeii?” my mother has just suggested.
Pompeii! Now, THAT has potential. Lost world and all.
Ciao, baby!
Still Sunday, early evening-ish
* * *
Dear Delia,
Pompeii is very cool, a little weird, and decidedly creepy. Except for all the roofs being gone from every building, the town looks just as it did in 79 AD right before it was co
vered in spewing ash. (Spewing Ash. That would be a good name for a band, don’t you think?) It was there one day—a regular Italian town with, like, 20,000 people living in it—and then it WASN’T there. It was HISTORY. (Hehe.)
We took this bus there with an Italian guide who had one of those hairdos that’s parted real far over on the side and then lopped over the top of the head, very convincingly (NON) covering up a humongoid bald spot. His name was Sergio.
He gave us stickers to wear—big, round, green things with white numbers on them. I was number 11, and—choosing not to put this big round thing on my top, for fear of drawing unneeded attention to my, uh, TOP—I placed it on the right butt of my shorts. Which, for some reason, caused a reaction from my mother.
“Brady,” she said, “don’t you think that’s inappropriate?”
“What’s wrong with wearing a sticker on the right butt of my shorts?” I asked her.
“It’s just, somehow, inappropriate,” she said.
(I know what I’m getting her, now, for her birthday. A thesaurus, so she can find some synonyms for “inappropriate.” This is becoming tiresome.)
Even though this made no sense to me, I decided to be an accommodating daughter, and I peeled the sticker off the right butt of my shorts. Then I put it in a different place: the left butt of my shorts.
Her reaction to this was a LOOK and a gesture with her hand. But since I don’t have ESP, and I’m not fluent in sign language (her hand-wave looked something like the one I’ve seen for the word “elephant” . . . or maybe it’s “cabbage”), I had no choice but to ignore her.
I did end up moving the sticker again, but it was not because of my mother. It was because of Sergio.
You see, he said something in Italian to us as we were taking our seats on the bus, IN FRONT (mio madre’s idea—PLEASE!), which my mother scrambled to translate from the Italian phrase book. But before she found anything, he WINKED at her and repeated what he said, in English, with a major Italian accent (probably fake, just to impress tourists), which was, “Beautiful ladies, welcome!”