Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe Read online

  Then he touched his cheek, looked at me, and said something else in Italian, laughing in an Italian sort of way. I stared at him like he was from Mars (which I think he may be), while my mother flipped through the book again. Of course, he translated himself before she could find any of the words. (WHY, exactly, was he speaking in two languages?) Touching his cheek again, he said to me, “Flower child?” and laughed some more. I grabbed the phrase book from Mom and began to search for the Italian word for “moron” (which, by the way, is not in there—what a useless book), but by then he had taken up the microphone and was speaking to the bus-load of people in some combination of Italian and English (and Martian).

  “Your little flower’s cute,” my mother whispered to me.

  CUTE. Yes, I strive for CUTE. And I especially want people of the boomer generation to think I am CUTE. So I peeled the number sticker off my shorts and put it over the flower on my cheek.

  I know that made no sense. But it was somehow satisfying.

  When we got to Pompeii, Sergio displayed more mad tendencies by producing from under his seat a red umbrella. There was not a cloud in the sky, but he carried this umbrella around Pompeii. I did find it useful, though, since I made the decision early on that I was going to stay as far from him as possible, and the red umbrella served as sort of a flag to show me where he was, so I could hang back a bit and not get lost. In the lost city. (Hehe.)

  When we were standing at Pompeii’s forum—which is a Roman-type gathering place, sort of like the grass fields on the Mall at the Washington Monument—we had a perfect view of the mountain, and Sergio told us what it was like for the people of Pompeii the day they got buried by the volcano. He said that people stood right where we were standing, probably talking about ordinary things and enjoying the view, when the ground started to shake. Then, before they could get home to their families or find their best friends, the top of Vesuvius blew off in an enormous explosion of lava, and even though the mountain was a few miles away, darkness fell over Pompeii within MINUTES, and 20 feet of ash covered the city within hours. And then it was all quiet. Very quiet. Very, VERY quiet. And it stayed like that, forgotten in time, until the 1700s, when someone was out digging a hole and found the place.

  I saw some of the original Pompeii people while I was there. And I don’t mean ghosts, either. I saw THE PEOPLE. Well, OKAY, they were models. You see, the archaeologists who dug out Pompeii found lots of bodies, but there wasn’t much left of them, except these perfect outlines of their shapes in hardened ash. So they filled the outlines up with plaster and made casts of the people. There are a couple of buildings that have these people-casts in them, frozen in time, running, hugging other people. Molto eerie.

  We didn’t see all of Pompeii because it’s really big, and I guess tour groups just get to see the guide’s favorite places. Sergio, as it turns out, has a special interest in frescoes, so we got to see lots of those. Frescoes, Delia, are murals that Italians have been painting forever and ever. They have some way of getting the paint to bleed into the wall, which sounds weird but seems to work pretty well, seeing how the frescoes of Pompeii were put there before 79 AD, then had a volcano erupt all over them, then were buried in ash for about 1,700 years, then were dug out and looked at by tourists for another 200 years or so, and the pictures are STILL there.

  One place that had really cool frescoes was the House of Venus. My fave was a painting of—can you guess?—VENUS, lounging about in a seashell with little birdies flitting around. (I do mean the GODDESS Venus, not the planet, Delia.) And then there was this other fresco-covered place with a SPLENDID name: the Villa of Mysteries. In it there was a huge mural that went all around a room and was sort of like a life-sized comic strip. You see, there were different panels, and a story was going on in them. But it wasn’t the kind of story you’d see in the Sunday comics, because it seemed to involve things like animal sacrifices and drinking blood. I can’t tell you anything else about it, though (oh, I know you are MOLTO disappointed), because when Sergio got to that part in the explanation, the panini I had eaten for lunch started rumbling in my stomach. Fearing that I might be the next thing spewing all over Pompeii, I wandered outside to wait until we moved to a new destination, which, I figured, HAD to be less gross.

  Uh, WRO-ONG!

  The next (and thankfully the last) house we went to was the House of Vettii. At first, it seemed like a completely harmless, cozy home. There were frescoes of cupids all over the walls, everywhere, doing all kinds of fun things—cooking, making jewelry and clothing, chariot-racing, surfing on the backs of crustaceans. (You know, typical cupidesque things.) I was making a little game of counting how many cupids I found and had sort of wandered off on my own, when I rounded a corner and happened upon this fresco that covered a whole wall in what turned out to be the entry foyer of the house.

  This thing, Delia, ranks right up there on my all-time, Top Ten List of Hideous Things I Have Encountered in Life. It was of a truly ugly figure, which had a HUGE you-know-what (think health class—the human body—males), and he was (I’m NOT making this up) weighing IT on a scale.

  My first thought: Did the Vettii family have any kids? Because, if so, I feel REALLY sorry for them. Not only did they have a volcano erupt all over them, but—and this may be worse, actually—they had to bring their friends home to a house with THAT next to the front door.

  My second thought: Must erase all memories of this experience from my mind FOREVER.

  My third thought: Where am I?

  (Hehe. I DO amuse myself, don’t I?)

  SO, I turned to leave the room, but found myself suddenly surrounded by Sergio and his roving band of tourists.

  “This fresco of the God of Fertility is one of the more important pieces in Pompeii,” Sergio was saying, and he went on about other stuff, but I was doing my best to block it out.

  “La-la-la-la-la . . .” I said to myself (NO, not out LOUD), until the crowd melted away, and I was alone again. Actually, my mother was standing next to me. I guess she’d had enough of Sergio’s twisted tour. I was glad she’d appeared, because there was something I needed to ask her.

  “Madre,” I said, pointing to the fresco, “don’t you think that’s inappropriate?”

  She was non-responsive. (Catatonic, perhaps.)

  I slipped the phrase book out of her hand, began flipping through it, and said, “I wonder what the Italians call a, uh—” which seemed to rouse her from her state. She grabbed the book away from me—rather rudely, in my opinion. (And I thought education was the POINT of the trip.)

  Before we left Pompeii we went to the gift shop so I could find a postcard of the Venus fresco to send you, but the first card I saw was of the fertility god, so I had to run, screaming, from the gift shop. (Okay, not really, but in my mind I did.)

  Guess what? I have just found some interesting Italian sentences in my mother’s little book (which doesn’t contain the Italian word for you-know-what, by the way), in a chapter entitled, COMMON PHRASES NEEDED BY TRAVELERS. Here’s a good one: “Dov’e la passerella?” It means “where is the gangplank?” And how about this one: “C’e tropp’acqua nella barca.” That means “there’s too much water in the boat.”

  Do you find it troubling that these are considered “common phrases”? I do. Especially since I just heard the ship’s horn, which means we’re heading out into open water.

  Tomorrow we’ll be at sea all day, and then we get to Barcelona the next day. (That’s in Spain, Delia.) But right now, I’m STARVED, so we are going to the dining room. Then there’s a party in the teen lounge, according to this little invitation I found on my bed when we got back to the stateroom today. It was under the claw of a lizard, which our porter (in land-speak: butler) had somehow made from a bath towel. I don’t know if I’m going to the party or not. Mom says there are teen parties every night, so I’ll have other chances.

  I’m kind of tired anyway.

  It’s MY vacation, after all.

  I do
n’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.

  I might want to READ or something, you know.

  Okay. I’m SCARED to go. I’ve SAID it. So leave me alone.

  p.s. I SAID, LEAVE ME ALONE!

  Sunday evening, still

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  I’ve just changed clothes to get ready for the party. Aren’t you proud of me? The black tank top I wore to dinner just wasn’t cutting it. It’s been tight anyway, lately, and after eating lasagna, salad, bread, cheesecake, and two iced teas—they stuff you like pigs here—I thought the seams would pop. Which can be VERY dangerous when you’re at a party, you have to admit. So, after rooting through my suitcase and trying on every top I brought with me, I finally picked a shirt that is sure to boost my confidence tonight: my favorite baseball jersey! Number 12! I hit four homeruns in this shirt, seven doubles, and one triple, so I think it should help me through a simple, little party. I’ve GOT my GAME on, Delia! I am GONE!

  Hm. I’m still here. Maybe while I’m waiting for the cheerleaders and marching band to arrive, I could write a bit more to you about, uh, DINNER—

  Yes, that! Tonight was the first time we had dinner in the big dining room, where we’re supposed to eat every night. We watched Mount Vesuvius fade into the distance through these huge windows (or else they’re pretty MAJOR flat-screen TVs), while a string quartet played in the background. Our waiter is this cute, old Greek guy with a black shawl, named Cristo. (The waiter is named Cristo, not the shawl.) He’s got to be at least eighty, or maybe a hundred, and you can barely hear him when he speaks, so we all had to lean over each other to find out what the two dinner choices were. The only thing I could understand was “lasagna,” so I ordered that. Good thing—it turned out the other was some vegetarian pilaf, or something, because this one woman at our table ended up with that on her plate. It looked WAY too healthy for a vacation food.

  The pilaf woman is named Linn, and she’s Vietnamese and was at the table with her husband and son—also Vietnamese—who didn’t say much. I think they only speak their native language, which is (I’m sure you guessed this) French. They live in Paris. My mother asked Linn where they live in Paris, and she answered, “Chinatown, of course,” with more than a hint of “DUH.”

  I’ve been thinking about this. She obviously thought my mother’s question was silly. I thought it was silly, too, but that’s because I knew she asked it just to have something to say, and not because the answer would mean anything to her. A response like, “I live on Lafayette Boulevard,” would have produced a politely enthusiastic nod from my mother and an immediate insertion of a large forkful of lasagna into her mouth, to cover up the fact that she knows absolutely nothing about the neighborhoods of Paris. But Linn didn’t know that. She just seemed to think that my mother should have assumed her family lives in Chinatown. Uh, WHY? Aren’t Vietnam and China two completely different countries? I mean, do all Asian people live in ONE place in Paris?

  Delia, you’re probably thinking, “Why is Brady asking ME these questions?” Or you COULD be thinking, “Why doesn’t Brady stop procrastinating and GET TO THE PARTY???” (To either question, my answer is the same: I don’t know.)

  Linn’s son is fifteen, and she told us his full name, which is something like Linn Chi Lahn. And, yes, it seemed strange that a boy would have the same first name as his mother, but then Linn explained that Vietnamese names are sort of backwards, and the first name is actually at the end, so he is called Lahn. My mother, then, wanted to know why she was called Linn (though if I were her, I would have been afraid of somehow appearing stupid again, but we’re talking my mother here), and Linn explained that her name was reversed when her family first immigrated to France, so she just got used to being called Linn.

  I remembered that something like that happened with my grandmother’s family. I don’t think they even had a last name, because they came from a shtetl a long time ago, where last names weren’t even used, and they ended up being called “Goldsmith” because, I guess, they WERE goldsmiths. So, anyway, I thought the Vietnamese name thing was kind of cool, since—as your message on my hand continues to remind me—I like to learn things. I was thinking of one of your other messages on my hand, though, when I first saw Lahn at the table tonight and asked myself, “Is this a code-red Euro-hottie sitting RIGHT here at my dinner table?”

  I have decided that, no, he is not code-red material. Orange, maybe, but that’s not enough for you, I guess. He is tall and nice-looking, but there’s a pretty significant language barrier, and I have to draw the line there. I mean, if I can’t talk to someone, at least a little bit, they CAN’T be code-red, and that’s THAT. YOU might be able to rate someone strictly on the basis of appearance, but that’s because you are superficial and I am not.

  This is so much fun—being able to say things like that, without you punching me in the arm.

  Hm. But what if I am already home and sitting next to you as you’re reading this? I suppose, in that case, I am running out of the room.

  ANYWAY. I personally need to know there are attractive thoughts inside an attractive head. Or, in the absence of that, I’d want him to perform some sort of athletic feat. (And, Delia, I’m not talking what’s inside his shoes. Definitely not that.) I did, for a moment, think that I might be able to communicate with Lahn, though, when his mother said, “Lahn speaks English.” But then Lahn gave his mother the same look I give my mother when she tells people I speak German just because I’ve taken it for one year at school. Some things are the same all over the planet, I suppose. Like the look you are required to give your parents when they act like they have recently escaped from the psych ward.

  Guess what I found out? (I know you don’t care, but tough.) We are supposed to eat at the same table every night, with the same people. It’s like they’re our boat-family, or something. It’s a pretty adult-heavy family, though—Lahn and I are the only kids. There is this couple from Canada, who have EXCELLENT Canadian accents, and these two grandparent-type women from California, who have California accents, which is to say they have no accents. Don’t you think it’s weird that certain parts of our country have MAJOR accents—like Alabama and Massachusetts and North Dakota—and other places have NO accents?

  Okay, okay. I’m sure, by now, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, “STOP THINKING, AND GO TO THE FRIGGIN’ PARTY!!!” Yes, you’re right. My mother went to a show with her Canadian siblings, so it’s pretty lonely here, just me and the pile of clothes that spilled out of my suitcase. Maybe I should put them away before I go.

  Nah. It makes me feel like I’m in my room at home, which is soothing. I could, though, put some more concealer over my cheek-flower. Between that and all the words on my hand, I feel like one of those tattoo-obsessed people. Which doesn’t help with my confidence level, LET ME TELL YOU.

  Oh, all right, all right. I’m GOING, I’m GOING.

  (a.k.a. Painted Lady)

  Sunday, still

  (Will it never end?)

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  I’m pathetic. You should start proceedings to divorce me as your best friend, because there is no hope for me. Ever. You should have seen me at the teen party tonight. It was total, public humiliation. I would jump overboard, but then there’d be the bigger public humiliation of a rescue. Running away once we land in Barcelona may be my only option. I can’t write this letter now, because I have to pack.

  Oh, OKAY. I’ll tell you about it. (THEN I’ll pack.)

  THE PARTY

  Everything started out FINE. I took the elevator to deck nine, where the teen lounge is, and the party was already going on. I was greeted by Pink’s voice over the speakers (GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!) and a very happy-looking guy in a sailor hat. (The little white type of sailor hat, like the one I bought for my five-year-old cousin when I was on the Cape May ferry last summer.) I can’t remember the guy’s name, so I’ll call him Gilligan.

  “Hello!” Gilligan sa
id, all excitedly. “I’m the youth activity director!”

  “Hi,” I said, noticing immediately that there were several foosball tables at one end of the room. There were only a few gamers at each one—all boys, perhaps even some Euro-hotties, I figured—so I began to think that maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, after all. I’m pretty good at foosball, and I’m way more comfortable in a competitive sort of atmosphere. My confidence was building, Delia.

  “Drinks and snacks over there,” Gilligan said cheerfully, pointing in the direction of a long bar, where there were sodas all lined up and glass bowls filled with—this is awesome—Mediterranean blue M&Ms. He started to say something else, but was interrupted when one of the gamers suddenly yelled, “TOURNAMENT!” which resulted in just about everyone in the room heading over to watch the foosball players. It was like some huge magnets inside the tables had been activated.

  So, figuring I’d wait till the crowd died down over there, I headed to the bar. First I downed a big handful of the blue M&Ms (for courage) and then looked over the sodas. Each had a maraschino cherry floating on top and a plastic animal hanging over the rim of the glass. I took one with a cute, little monkey.

  (In retrospect, I’m thinking that was a poor choice, given what happened next. Clearly, monkeys are bad karma for me—maybe a giraffe would have been better.)

  By the bar was a wall that showed music videos, and a few girls were dancing in front of it. Near them were a few puffy chairs, and one of them was occupied by a boy with dark, wavy hair and dark eyes. Italian, I figured. Or Greek. Or Israeli. Or some similarly attractive alien species. I sized him up, Delia, as almost certainly code-red. And all I needed to do, I told myself, was walk up and meet him. THEN, I told myself, task #4 on Delia’s (annoying) to-do list would be OVER. There was one little problem, though: TOTAL PANIC.