Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
Oh my God. The Italian food on the plane is better than the Italian takeout around the corner from my apartment. And I thought their insalata caprese was to die for.
The movie is starting. It’s the new Hugh Jackman! OH MY GOD, I HAVE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN! I AM GOING TO EUROPE WITH MY BEST FRIEND AND THEY ARE SHOWING A HUGH JACKMAN MOVIE ON THE PLANE.
If only the Armrest Nazi would MOVE HIS ELBOW.
PDA of Cal Langdon
PDA of Cal Langdon
As usual, the food on this flight is barely edible. And what passes for entertainment in this country these days is truly depressing. The in-flight movie appears to be yet another romantic comedy about a harried young career woman who finds love in a completely unexpected place. My traveling companion is watching it with rapt attention, as she swills from her many, many bottles of water. She is clearly envisioning herself in the role of the harried young career woman.
I think I can say with a certain amount of confidence that she is NOT picturing me in the role of the handsome young leading man. In fact, her marked lack of enthusiasm for me borders almost on the comical. She is taking great pains never to allow her elbow to touch mine on our mutual armrest, as if she fears she might contract some sort of deadly virus from doing so.
And all this, because I happened to remark on her rather remarkable penchant for bottled water.
Oh, and the Crazy Cat thing. Or Wondercat. How was I to know Wondercatis a comic strip, and that she is its creator? I haven’t read a comic since Mark and I were kids, and used to shell out 35 cents a week for the latest edition of Spider-Manat the Big Red Food Mart. I certainly have never made a habit of reading comic strips in the newspaper—not since I turned ten. The newspapers I choose to read don’t have comic strips in them.
Although I don’t suppose it would be politic to admit that, seeing as how the tome we all work for features two pages of comics daily—not to mention horoscopes and Dear Abby. In fact, now that I’ll be living in one place for an extended period of time, I suppose I’ll have to start subscribing. So I have that to look forward to. In addition to so many other joys I’ve missed while I’ve been living out of a bag, such as apartment hunting, buying various electronic devices like a toaster and stereo equipment, and waiting all day for the cable guy who promised to come between ten and two, and then didn’t show.
Ah! Domesticity! How I haven’t missed you!
But I suppose domesticity can have its benefits. Mark is happier than I’ve ever seen him. He seems almost to welcome the noose that awaits his neck at the end of this journey. Although I suppose when the noose looks like Holly…
And she does, I’ll admit, seem to think about topics outside of her nails and yoga and Must See TV, unlike most of the American women I’ve encountered lately. I even had an intelligent conversation with her last week about Gore Vidal.
But I had intelligent conversations with Valerie in the early days, as well.
And as for this friend of Holly’s… I don’t know. I suppose allowances must be made because she’s an artist.
But is cartooning really art? My mother would surely think so.
But Mom thinks the lint she picks from the dryer and hot-glues to clothespins is art. And sadly, she is supported in this belief by the art community of Tucson, where she’s lately set up a studio.
Still, though she may be an artist, Ms. Harris does have very shiny hair. It’s brown, like her eyes.
The tattoo of a cat head—Wondercat, I’m supposing—she wears just above her right ankle is somewhat off-putting, however. And her mouth never seems to stop moving. Now she’s telling the flight attendant how much she enjoyed the male lead’s last film, in which he played some kind of mutant.
This seat is so uncomfortable. I can just fit into it, if I don’t inhale.
Oh, well. I’ve slept in worse places. At least there aren’t any guerrillas hiding in nearby undergrowth, waiting for the opportunity to slit my throat. Or snakes.
God, I hate snakes.
So that’s something, anyway.
___________________________________________
Benvenuti in
(Welcome to)
Alitalia Inflight Menu
Colazione
(Breakfast)
Spremuta fresca di arancia
Omelette alle erbe fini con funghi, pomodori e bacon ala griglia
Assortimento di tieviti e pano tostate caldi
Caffe, te, latte
Freshly squeezed orange juice
Herb omelette accompanied with mushrooms, grilled cherry tomatoes, and bacon
Assortment of pastries and croissants
Coffee, tea, milk
___________________________________________
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
Cell Phone Guy was right. There is plenty of water on board this flight. There’s also a lot of wine. Being drunk by the very loud group of people behind us. Who keep yelling to the flight attendant in Italian so I don’t know what they’re saying. But it doesn’t sound very nice.
I also don’t think it’s necessarily appropriate to drink wine with breakfast, which is what they just woke us all up to have. I would have preferred to sleep for the rest of the flight, since it seems like we just had dinner after all.
But they came around with the cart and asked us all if we wanted breakfast and that woke everybody up, and now we’re all cranky. But especially me because I fell asleep with my mascara still on and I guess it got kind of gunked up underneath the sleeping mask they gave us, and when the flight attendant woke me up to ask me if I wanted breakfast and I took off my sleeping mask, I still couldn’t see him because my eyelashes were all stuck together. And then he said, “Oh, no, I think not,” about me wanting breakfast in a kind of horrified voice.
So then I had to hurry to the bathroom to try to pick the chunks of mascara from my eyes before Cal could see it. Which he didn’t, thank God, because he was still asleep.
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that Cal woke up while I was gone, and I guess went to the other bathroom, where I suppose he brushed his teeth with the little kit they gave us just like I did, because his breath was minty fresh when he replied to the question I asked him, which I only asked him to be polite and make conversation, something I’ll be sure not to do again where he’s concerned.
Anyway, I asked him if he was excited about the wedding, he said, “Not exactly.”
Which is not especially something you want to hear from the best man of your best friend’s husband-to-be, in my opinion.
I have to admit I was so shocked I just sat there and stared at the thing on the wall that counts down the kms until we get to Roma (425). I couldn’t think what he meant by it.
It seemed to me that the only thing he could mean by it was that maybe he doesn’t like Holly or something, which is ridiculous because of course who doesn’t like Holly? She’s very kind and pretty and is the art director for a huge urban newspaper, which is a thankless job that doesn’t pay nearly as well as it should, considering the fact that she has to work with crazy cartoonists like me, not to mention all the other psychos at theJournal , like that Dolly Vargas from the Style section who is always on Holly’s back for not making the reds in the Valentine’s Day issue red enough.
Plus she completely adores Mark. So why wouldn’t Cal like her?
So I asked him—maybe a little defensively, I’ll admit, but hello, I’ve known Holly for years, and if it weren’t for her, Wondercat would never have seen the light of day, but would still be just a silly sketch in my notepad, and I still wouldn’t be able to pay my American Express bill every month—what he had against her, and he said, totally politely, “Oh, I haven’t got anything against Holly. I think Holly’s great and Mark’s lucky to have her. It’s just marriage I have a problem with.”