So then I realized he’s one of those monogamy-phobes.
So I told him about how lobsters mate for life, and if they can do it, why can’t we, and he looked at me sort of funny and said, “Yes, but they’re crustaceans.”
To which I replied that I knew that, but that lots of mammals mate for life as well, such as wolves and hawks (at least that’s what Rutger Hauer said in Lady Hawke , so I assume it’s true), and how I think it’s romantic and the way things should be.
And then Cal said, “If it’s so romantic, how come over fifty percent of marriages end in divorce? How come the leading cause of death for pregnant women in the US isn’t complications from childbirth but murder by their spouses?”
What can you even say to something like that?
I swear, if this guy starts spewing those little factoids of his about divorce and murder rates while Holly’s within hearing distance, I’ll kill him. KILL HIM. She’s got enough on her mind right now without hearing THAT kind of stuff… I mean, what with her mother and all.
Ack! We’re landing! In a few minutes, I’ll be on foreign soil, for the first time in my life! I’m sure the Armrest Nazi, being a seasoned world traveler, would think it’s stupid, but… I’m so excited!
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
I got it! My first stamp in my passport! It’s kind of smudgy and you can’t really read the date. But it’s THERE!
Though it TOOK long enough to get it. What is with the LINES in this place? I mean, seriously, do you think they could have opened more than one customs booth? There must have been three hundred people in line ahead of us. This NEVER would have happened in the US. I mean, Americans just would not have put up with it.
Still, it gave me a chance to look around and realize right away that my shoes are all wrong for this country. NO ONE here wears Steve Madden slides. NO ONE. The Italian women have slides, all right, but they have these wicked pointed toes and tiny little heels. Plus they are all wearing long pants, not jeans like Holly and I, and they have these cashmere scarves thrown casually over one shoulder even though according to the Weather Channel it’s going to be 24 degrees Celsius every day while we’re here, which is in the 80s. I think.
So what’s up with that?
Also, it was just SLIGHTLY disturbing when the Customs guy was all, “And where in Italy are you staying,” and I said, “Le Marche,” hoping I’d pronounced it right, and he made a face and went, “Why would you go THERE?”
Frankly, I do not believe that by offering me his opinion on my final destination that he was allowing me to pass without delay or hindrance into his country, as my passport says he has to.
Besides which, he’s wrong. Holly always said her uncle’s house was in the most beautiful section of Italy there is. And okay, according to my guidebook, Le Marche (also known as the Le Marche in English) isn’t that well known to foreigners. But her uncle seems to have liked it well enough to spend a million bucks on a sixteenth-century villa there.
Besides, what’s not to like? Le Marche “forms the eastern seaboard of central Italy—with the Apennine Mountains, noted for their bare peaks and dramatic gorges, forming a natural boundary between it and Umbria and Tuscany. The areas nearer the coast are celebrated for their fertile rounded hills topped by ancient fortified towns.”
Um, at least according to my guidebook.
And OK, maybe it’s not super popular with anyone but Italians (except for my customs agent). But my guidebook also goes on and on about its unspoiled beauty….
Whatever. Why is my bag always the last one to get through the fricking carousel? And why is Cal laughing so hard at it? My bag is not funny. OK, I painted a Wondercat head on it. But that’s only because it’s a black rolly bag, and there are only five billion other black rolly bags that look exactly like it. At least I can tell mine apart from all the others at a distance of a hundred yards.
Plus, my bag’s not as big as HOLLY’s. I mean, I didn’t cram a wedding gown into MINE. Just because HE has this dinky little backpack, Mr. Jet-Set-Travel-Guy—
Oh, here’s the taxi stand, at LAST. I can’t WAIT to get to the hotel and take a nap. Even if it IS only ten in the morning here. I’m so TIRED….
What is that incessant BEEPING coming out of my bag? Not just MY bag either… EVERYBODY is beeping!
e-mails
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>
Fr: Claire Harris <charris2004@freemail.com>
Re: You
I hope this thing works! You said you’d be able to get emails in Italy, so I hope you get this. Everything here is fine, don’t worry. Well, Dad stuck his hand in the wood chipper again, but he was wearing his chain-mail gloves, so he just broke a blade, didn’t lose a finger. He is so forgetful sometimes!
Anyway, I know I’m not supposed to say anything to Holly’s mom about how she and Mark are eloping, and you don’t need to worry, I haven’t said a word, even though I saw her at book group last night and she was practically in tears when we were discussing the scene in which the couple in the book— another one by that nice man who wrote A Walk to Remember … he’s just so talented. But why do all his characters have to die at the end?—got married.
When we asked what was wrong, poor Marie said all she’s ever wanted is to see Holly settled. You know how Holly was always dying her hair purple and getting things pierced and dating the most inappropriate people all through those years you two were in school together. (Thank goodness you were never like that! You’ve always been so sensible. I thought your new friend Malcolm was so sweet when I met him last July. How is his investment banking job, anyway? I’m so happy you’ve finally found someone so responsible! And he looks so young ! You’d hardly know he was your age. Must be good genes!)
I really wanted to say something to Marie like, “Well, you aren’t going to have to worry much longer about Holly staying single,” but of course I didn’t.
Although I sort of wish I had said something now, since Marie went on to say, “I don’t care who she marries, as long as he’s a nice Catholic boy! I have nothing against this Mark of hers, but he’s, you know. Not one of us .”
Oh, dear. I don’t think Marie is going to be very happy when she gets Holly and Mark’s telegram telling her they’ve gotten married.
And Mark is such a nice boy, too. It’s such a shame.
Well, I hope you arrived safely. Be careful of pickpockets in Rome. I hear they like to careen past tourists on Vespas through those little narrow streets and snatch handbags and cameras right off by the shoulder strap! So be sure not to wear your shoulder strap slung across your body or you could be dragged to your death.
Love,
Mom
PS Love to The Dude!
PPS What is Mark’s friend like? Is he nice? I’m sure he must be, if he’s a friend of Mark’s!
___________________________________________
To: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>
Fr: Ruth Levine <r.levine@levinedentalgroup.com >
Re: Hello!
Hi, sweetie! I know you’re off to Europe today with your little friends, but I just wanted you to know that last night we had dinner with the Schramms—you remember, you learned to swim in Susie Schramm’s backyard pool when you were four—and Lottie Schramm told me that Susie is a corporate lawyer in—get this—NEW YORK CITY! Yes! She works at a firm called Hertzog, Webber, and Doyle on Madison Avenue (so fancy!), and lives on the Upper East Side, not three blocks from your own place! Isn’t that incredible? I’m surprised the two of you have never run into one another at H & H Bagels!