The waiter totally took it in stride though. “Frizzante?” he asked me.
I had no idea what he was talking about, but remembering I was in Italy and not France, I managed to say Si and not Oui.
My first foreign language exchange! I’d spoken English with the Diet Coke guy and Mr. Gladiator’s pimp. And OK, the exchange hadn’t been in the actual language spoken in this country. But it had still been foreign.
Then the bread basket came, with a little pot of silky white butter, and we dug in, because even when she’s crying, Holly can still eat, which is one of the many reasons I love her.
And I told her how lucky she is her father ISN’T here, since, like her mom, he doesn’t exactly approve of Mark. Which is ridiculous, because Mark is totally perfect husband material, being completely sweet and thoughtful and funny and self-deprecating and totally the opposite of his horrible friend Cal the Modelizer in every way. Plus Mark’s even reasonably good-looking. Oh, and a doctor. With a weekly health column in a New York paper that’s read by millions. What more could the Caputos ask?
A Catholic, apparently.
Sometimes I get so mad at Holly’s parents for what they’re doing to her, I just want to spit.
But then, Mark’s parents are just as bad, in their own way.
“L–like it even matters to us,” Holly sobbed, as the waiter reappeared with two glasses of white wine on a tray. “I mean, I haven’t been to church since I was eighteen! Church was their thing, not mine. And Mark hasn’t set foot in temple since his bar mitzvah. We have no intention of raising our children any particular religion. We’re going to bring up the kids a-religious. And then when they’re old enough, they can decide which religion—if any—they want to belong to.”
I nodded because I had heard this many times before. The wine in the glasses the waiter was putting down in front of us seemed to catch the sun and dance around before my eyes like fool’s gold in the bottom of that stream Laura found on that one episode of Little House on the Prairie .
“Why can’t they just respect that this is the man I love?” Holly asked, picking up her glass and taking a gulp. “And, yes, he’s Jewish. Get over it.”
I sipped my wine too—
And nearly spat it out! Because it wasn’t wine at all! It was champagne!
Only better than champagne! Because the bubbles in champagne usually give me an instant headache.
But these bubbles were tiny and light—barely there at all.
“What is this?” I asked, in wonder, holding my glass up to the light and looking at all the lovely bubbles.
“Frizzante,” Holly said. “Remember? He asked, and you said Si. It’s like…fizzy wine. Don’t you like it?”
“I love it.”
I loved it so much, I had another glass of it. By the time Mark joined us, I was in a VERY good mood.
Fortunately, so was Holly. There was so much people-watching to do in our corner of the piazza that she soon forgot all about the wedding we’d seen, and her yearning for her dad to give her away at her own. Soon we were able to pick out the American tourists as quickly as the Italians obviously could. I don’t mean to say anything negative about my countrymen and women, but hello, the Fab Five have their work cut out for them.
Holly was instantly cheered, as always, by the sight of Mark. He asked for a menu and got one—in English!—and ordered mussels and an antipasto platter, and we sat and ate chunky crumbles of parmesan and fresh tangy olives and buttery slivers of salami and garlicky mussels and had fun watching other suckers get fleeced by the handsome, morose gladiator and his pimp.
Then the shadows started getting longer and Mark checked his Blackberry and said we should be getting back to the hotel to change for dinner. So we got the bill—which Mark insisted on paying—and started back, Mark with arm around Holly’s waist, and her head leaning on his shoulder, her unhappiness from a few hours earlier blissfully forgotten.
And I wished SO HARD that awful Modelizer Cal was with us, so he could see how cute Holly and Mark are together, and how great a couple they are, and what sweet parents they’ll make, and what a crime it would be if they didn’t get married. I mean, how could anyone look at Holly and Mark and think, for even one minute, that marriage is an antiquated institution that ought to be abolished? They are living proof that it works. Just because Modelizer’s wife turned out to be a money-grubbing beeyotch doesn’t mean—
Ooooh! I got an email! On my Blackberry! PLEASE let it be Julio!!!!
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>
Fr: Malcolm Weatherly <malcolmw@snowstyle.com>
Re: Ciao!
Hey, babe! How’s it hang in? So ya there yet? Whaddaya think? Pretty rad, huh? Yeah, I-ty blew my mind when I was there last year for the European Open. Even the freaking coffee tastes better there.
But I don’t get the whole “everything closing from noon to four and lunch and everybody serving nothing but pasta after ten” thing. Bummer if you wake up at one and want a freaking waffle.
But make sure you try one of those bidets. It’ll change your life!
Stay away from those I-ty Latin Lover types. I know how those guys operate. They only want a green card, anyway. Not that you’re not, you know, totally hot.
Aw, gotta go, I’m up next on the half pipe. Luv ya.
Mal
PS Know what? I kinda miss The Dude. Give him a big kiss for me, willya? Oh, you can’t, cause you’re in I–ty. Sorry.
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
Isn’t that sweet? I miss The Dude, too. If he were here right now, he’d be curled up around my feet.
And my toes would be losing all circulation because he weighs so much. But still.
I don’t understand why Julio hasn’t written, though. What if he forgot? To feed The Dude, I mean?
But how could he forget? I stuck a giant sign on his dad’s door, to remind him….
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Walking through the piazza behind Mark and Holly.
Well… while I was looking at them, and thinking how cute they are, and what a shame it was that Modelizer Cal wasn’t there with us to see them and all, I got a pang.
A PANG.
I’ll admit it. I mean, I am totally happy for Holly and in full support of this elopement scheme. Really, given the situation, I don’t see how she and Mark have any choice BUT to elope.
But seeing them together like that, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her—I felt a pang.
Because where is MY Mark? Really? Where IS he?
Because I know he’s not in Canada right now, hitting the half pipe—or the full pipe. Or even both, as in Malcolm’s case. I mean, I like Malcolm and all, and we have a blast together. But I can’t really picture him strolling through the piazza with his arm around my waist. Skateboarding through it, certainly. But having a nice glass of bianco frizzante as the sun sets? Not so much.
I’m sure he’s out there, somewhere. My Mark, I mean. He has to be, right?
But what if I never find him? Or what if I already met him, and I messed it up somehow? This would not be unusual, since I mess up everything. I mean, what if My Mark was DAVE who cheated on me with Amy Jenkins (that whore)?
Oh, God, no. Fate would never be so unkind.