a (not so)
lonely
planet
a (not so)
lonely
planet
karina kennedy
Copyright © 2021 by Karina Kennedy.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 221 River Street, Ninth Floor, Hoboken, New Jersey 07030.
Printed in the United States
Cover design: Jennifer Do
Cover image: Shutterstock
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-312-5
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-525-9
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1: How Not to Seduce a Man
Introduction
Chapter 2: How Not to Say Goodbye
Chapter 3: How Not to Fly
Chapter 4: How Not to Get Arrested at the Airport
Chapter 5: How Not to Get Picked Up
Chapter 6: How Not to Impress Your Friend’s Friends
Chapter 7: How Not to Discuss Hemingway
Chapter 8: How Not to See Roma Like a Tourist
Chapter 9: How Not to Ride in Coach
Chapter 10: How Not to Earn a Nickname
Chapter 11: How Not to Stick to an Itinerary
Chapter 12: How Not to “Find My iPhone”
Chapter 13: How Not to See The Blue Grotto
Chapter 14: How Not to Hitchhike
Chapter 15: How Not to Sleep With a Virgin
Chapter 16: How Not to Love and Leave
Chapter 17: How Not to Go Unnoticed
Chapter 18: How Not to Command the Gaze
Chapter 19: How Not to Apologize
Chapter 20: How Not to Admit Defeat
Chapter 21: How Not to Lie Low
Chapter 22: How Not to Create Art
Chapter 23: How Not to Win An Argument
Chapter 24: How Not to See the Italian Countryside
Chapter 25: How Not to Dream
Chapter 26: How Not to Disco
Chapter 27: How Not to Refuse An Offer You Can’t
Chapter 28: How Not to Choose
Chapter 29: How Not to Be a Prize
Chapter 30: How Not to Have Phone Sex
Chapter 31: How Not to Do Things the Easy Way
Chapter 32: How Not to Wonder, Woman
Chapter 33: How Not to Spew the Hooch
Chapter 34: How Not to Expose Yourself
Chapter 35: How Not to Talk
Chapter 36: How Not to Take the Wrong Ride
Chapter 37: How Not to Choose Your Ending
Acknowledgments
for my mother, who first explored Italy with me and is not allowed to read this book.
Chapter 1
How Not to Seduce a Man
Ristorante La Brezza, Positano, Italy: Tuesday, 11:26 p.m.
The dynamic lesbian duo I meet on the train from Rome to Positano are full of wing-woman potential. I’m traveling alone, so the refined, blonde Parisian one who reminds me of a beautiful wood nymph invites me to join them for dinner with her friends. Her saucy British girlfriend, more nympho than nymph, orders me to come. I accept out of curiosity and fear of insulting the Brit, who was clearly Wicked Spice, a sixth girl, kicked out of the group for bad behavior. Anyway, I didn’t just come to Italy to research a book. I came to meet people and have adventures. This qualifies as both. Positano is a sleepy, gorgeous town near the Italian Riviera, and the warmly lit trattoria is right on the blue-green water. I have no idea he will be there. Dinner is eccellente. Dessert does not go as planned. If you are ever traveling on your own Italian-love-cation, here are some things I learned.
HINTS FOR NOT BEING “TOO AMERICAN”:
1. Espresso is to be enjoyed after dessert, not with. (What are you, a hedonist?)
2. Fragola and Limoncello are digestive liqueurs. Not shots. Trust me. (You don’t want to be cleaning your own strawberry-lemon smoothie off the floor of your pensione bathroom at 2:00 a.m.)
3. Italians don’t do doggie bags. (Even if they were the best meatballs you ever had in your life, don’t try to put the last three in your purse.)
The meal is finishing up.
AT THIS POINT, IF: you’ve been playing footsies with the sexy photographer across from you, only to realize it’s actually the female Alitalia pilot or the leg of the table . . .
YOU SHOULD: start the Escher-esque climb of steps back to your pensione.
DO NOT: do what I do now.
I take a slow look around the table so it doesn’t seem like I’m looking at him. I know him. He’s a certain half-French, half-Italian photographer from the Roman fountain last week. The cocky, handsome stranger had pissed me off, and I’d taken the high road, instead of a ride in his sports car. Since that day, I’d distracted myself pretty fantastically, but Frantonio (I’d decided to call him this since I never got his name), kept slipping back into my mind.
Tonight when we were introduced we both pretended not to recognize each other. Now, he sips espresso, listening to his friend talk about football while staring at me. Is it hot in here? When we met in Rome, he had the upper hand. I decide now that tonight will be different. Seduction is a fine art to be practiced by masters. Rembrandt. Degas. Renoir. Me, I’m more of a Pollock. It’s definitely hot in here.
I fill my glass with ice from the Prosecco bucket, lift my hair, and roll the glass gently against my neck, willing him to watch me. How sexy is this? Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the bright red “Luscious Passion” lipstick on my glass, and I now have red smears on my neck as if I’ve been recently strangled. Sadly, I am unaware of this. Seeing that I’ve got his attention, I shift my weight so the neck of my dress drapes open enough for the lace of my bra to show. Glancing down, I then remember my one sexy bra had smelled like a gladiator in the Colosseum after he’d been beaten and buried for thousands of years. Tonight I’ve worn my sensible, once-white-now-gray-and-fraying Target bra. I quickly sit up straight again. Or at least what I think is straight. The pictures on the wall opposite all slope downhill as if I’m on a cruise ship. I’m sure it has nothing to do with all the wine I’ve had.
I know he recognizes me also. How could he not? It was only a brief encounter, but I remembered every inch of him. I allow my eyes to wander over his nicely shaped forearms, his dirty blond, perfectly ruffled hair, the graceful arc of his collarbone, his strong jawline peppered with stubble, and the firm curve of his lip. But what’s been creeping into my dreams are those eyes, framed by his glasses—deep brown with hints of gold and playful, curling lashes. He is gorgeous. Here’s a second chance to see what’s behind door number one. It’s now or never. I rise slowly. I’m not a person who passes up risky potential for a safe bet. As I walk toward the hall that leads to the bathroom, I throw Frantonio a sexy smile. Andiamo. Let’s go.
IF YOU’VE MADE IT THIS FAR, FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Quick pee and hand wash.
2. Cleavage hike.
3. Breath check.
4. Pit sniff and pit wipe.
5. In the hall, drape yourself against the wall and channel your best Jessica (Biel, Alba, Simpson, for me it’s Rabbit).
6. Wait.
DO NOT:reapply previously mentioned “Luscious Passion” red lipstick.
Back hallway, Ristorante La Brezza, Positano, Italy: Tuesday, 11:45 p.m
.
I don’t have to pretend to check my phone too long before I hear footsteps.
“Waiting for someone, chèrie?” His accent is a musical mash up of nationalities.
“My phone isn’t working,” I lie.
“We meet again,” he smiles. “A force of nature pulls us together, peutêtre?”
“Yes, we both had to pee,” I say coolly.
“Very funny. Come now, you can’t deny, there is some kind of . . . magnetism.”
“I think that’s called lust.”
“Well, une rose par tout autre nom—?” He laughs.
“Why does everything sound sexier in French?” I ask.
“Because, it’s the most powerful language in the world,” he winks. “First Rome, now here. Surely you can feel the energy between us even now?” He smiles. I wet my finger, hold it up, like a sailor testing for wind.
“Hmmmm . . . not really getting anything,” I say with a straight face. This coolness with men was taught by my mother, who’d been abandoned by my father. It was reinforced by my Catholic school nuns, and finally perfected out of self-preservation as a nerdy teen who hid behind romance books and took teasing to heart. Later in college, I slowly began to grasp my own natural sex appeal and use this coolness as an ambush instead of a barrier. Now, it takes all my self-control to act indifferent when Frantonio takes my finger and puts it into his own mouth. This is definitely gross, yet somehow sexy at the same time, as I immediately imagine how his tongue and lips would feel elsewhere on my body.
“Adesso?” he asks. “Now can you feel it?” He takes a step closer to me.
“Is it like a woozy, sloshy feeling? Because I’m definitely getting that. I thought it was the wine and that very rich sauce on my meatballs . . .” I trail off as he leans in even closer. I can feel the heat from his body. He reaches out and fingers the tiny star I wear on a delicate chain around my neck. This was made in high school from one of my father’s bowling trophies after I found his soldering iron and started permanently sticking things together in his office (my revenge for his extended absences). I wear it because it reminds me to look up, aim high, and navigate with confidence. Right now, with my heart thumping like an overloaded washing machine, I’m faking every ounce of confidence.
Frantonio slides his hand behind my back and pulls me toward him. His other hand brushes my hair from my shoulder as his warm breath and stubble tickle my neck, sending an uncontrollable shiver down my legs. He kisses me first lightly and then harder. I kiss him back and run my fingers through his perfectly ruffled hair.
AT THIS POINT, YOU SHOULD:step back, blush beautifully, let him ask you out.
I DO NOT.
My Jessica Rabbit morphs into Sharon Stone as I lean my head back for him to kiss my neck, and then arch my chest up so that he can bend down to kiss my breasts. I slip my hand into his shirt between the buttons as I slide one knee up his leg. Here, my other foot suddenly slips on the Travertine marble, sending my thigh smashing into his crotch as I fall to the floor, my arm still caught in his shirt, ripping it open like the Incredible Hulk. My ass on the cold tile, I watch Frantonio lean against the wall, moaning in pain, glasses askew, “Luscious Passion” smeared down his chin and chest, swearing in both French and Italian. Fuck! (Right now you’re thinking, I wouldn’t fall. Probably not. But, I’m the klutziest person I know, with the exception of my mother. More on this later.)Quickly, if not gracefully, I scramble to my feet, run through the kitchen, smash into a guy hauling garbage, and escape through the back with spaghetti on my arm. I don’t stop until I’m crawling up the last of the eighteen flights of steps to my pensione at the top of the hill. It is here that I realize the designer purse-that-turns-into-a-clutch my friend Sarah gave me is no longer clutching anything. It’s come open somewhere along the way, and now everything is gone, including my room key. Fortunately, I’ve left my window open. Unfortunately, my room is on the second floor.
IF YOU: find yourself in this situation, DEFINITELY DO NOT:
1. Cry.
2. Vomit outside your neighbor’s window.
3. Attempt to climb a thirty-year-old rose trellis.
4. Fall, ripping your dress open.
5. Tell the old man who runs the place you thought there was a fire.
6. Silently freak out like a coked-up mime because you lost your wallet and phone.
7. Forget you’re dripping with sweat and your mascara looks like Courtney Love’s.
8. Get out your tablet and video call your best friend, who is also your ex . . .
. . . and still in love with you.
Introduction
You’re probably thinking, “Introductions go at the beginning of books, not after the first chapter.” You’re right. But you would have skipped it. We all do. I think it’s best if we’re properly introduced before you see me with my pants down . . .
“My mother is a fish.” It’s a line from As I Lay Dying, one of my favorite books, and also what my father told me on one of our little fishing trips. I hated fishing, but Dad was a chartered yacht captain who sailed off for weeks, so I took any time I could get. He said he’d fallen in love with a mermaid long ago on one of his journeys. They’d lived together on a beautiful island in the South Pacific and had a baby. But fish are not like people. They don’t mate for life. One day, she swam away, leaving him with me. When my father returned to Key West, Rosalie, the innkeeper’s daughter, took pity on us and invited us to live with her. She and my father eventually married.
Of course, this was all a silly story. Probably. It’s just always been hard for me to reconcile how two people as different as my parents got together. Dad’s traveled the world and Rosalie’s never even left the country. Also, I’m probably more like a mermaid than I am like my mother. Also, I love the water. Being in it, on it, around it. Like me, fish don’t swim in a straight line. They’re impossible to hold onto. The tighter you grasp them, the more likely they are to slip into the sea and disappear forever. Rosalie never understood this. Each time my father came home from a voyage, she would try to hold on tighter and keep him from leaving, but he always did. During those longer and longer trips, she would then grip me more tightly. This made me want to swim away too.
My name is Nativity Marina Taylor. Rosalie wanted something biblical and Dad liked nautical. Despite my Sunday school and Catholic school education, Jesus and I are still figuring out our complicated relationship. When I was nine, I stopped answering to Nativity and claimed Marina. I grew up in a place other people escape to, but I wanted to escape from. Florida is the country’s fun, sticky, dangly part that should be kept in its pants. Swamps and beaches, guns, drugs, gators, theme parks, tourists, retirees, rednecks, politicians, immigrants, millionaires, and homeless people. It’s a schizophrenic tropical paradise where heat madness is a valid legal defense. (A good thing to remember when you move back in with your mother after college.)
I feel like Rosalie and I are polar opposites. She watches every flavor of CSI while quilting things to raise money for charity. I watch raunchy comedies and adventure romance films for the cute meets and the sex scenes. (I never bother with the endings, they’re all the same.) Mostly Rosalie and I do not enjoy each other’s company. But we do have one thing in common. My father abandoned us. So up to this point, we’ve been stuck together like barnacles. But now, I’ve got a get out of jail free card. My friend Mike who works for an airline has given me a buddy pass. A super cheap, open-ended ticket to Europe! I feel like Charlie with his golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
Not so long ago, a woman traveling alone was seen to be of questionable moral character. But you’ve read the first few pages of this book, so any questions about my moral character have already been answered. I am a writer and a restless spirit. Remember Choose Your Own Adventure books? At the end of each chapter you’re given a choice. Depending on your choice, you turn to a certain page, read, make another choice, etc. I loved and hated those books. I kept my fingers stuck in
different places so I could look at all the options, change my mind, choose again. Who wants only one adventure?
My plan has always been to save up money after college and go abroad, to research my first book. I’m taking a creative non-fiction essay I wrote as an English major and expanding it into a book. This will be a noble contribution to the world of literature. Never mind that I grew up reading more adventure romance novels than noble contributions to the world of literature. And, never mind the real reason I want to go to Europe is to have exotic lovers and awesome adventures. The point is, now I can go!
As an intrepid explorer, I am unwilling to miss out on a memory, willing to bend the rules, unafraid of my own beauty, and ready to share it with those who deserve it. Men get to roam the world with London, Kerouac, and Larry McMurtry. Have gun—will travel. Women get to stay home with Austen? Fuck that. Have pen and pussy—will travel.
I want to date like a man. Unapologetically. Confidence must be faked until it is found. Openness must be practiced until it eclipses ego.
The book you’re about to read is NOT the one I traveled to Italy to write. Yes, I planned to write about admirable women to inspire other women. Here’s the problem. Every good story needs drama and conflict. Enter me: B-side to admirable women everywhere. So, this is a travel diary for romantic readers, with notes on inspirational women and the misadventures of a not-so-inspirational one. This time, we’ll start at the beginning.
WARNING: This book may be unsuitable for: children, my mother, judgy Catholic school friends, Italian greyhounds (they already shake too much), and bold young ladies with poor judgment (like me) who think things like naked bungee jumping or moonlight surfing sound fun.
Chapter 2
How Not to Say Goodbye
Harbor House B&B: Wednesday, 3:23 p.m.
My plane to Rome leaves tomorrow at 1:45 p.m., and the following night, I’ll be at an exclusive wine release party. As soon as I posted on social media about my upcoming trip, my friend Nadya, an Italian sommelier I’d met in Miami, invited me. My version of good wine is whatever’s on sale at Costco, and I have no idea what a release party is, but exclusive is definitely in my vocabulary. My plane leaves in less than twenty-four hours, so of course, instead of packing, I’m outside cleaning fish.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 1
