A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  “Hello! I’m Marina,” I bow politely (#4) and smile with my lips closed (#3, no teeth). She looks startled.

  “Oh! Piacere. I am Alfredo’s wife. My name is Gen. Welcome to our—” She stops, staring at my feet.

  “Are those my scuba diving booties?”

  “Uh . . . Akio gave me these to wear inside,” (#1, no shoes) I say. Gen gives her son a look.

  “She’s from Florida, Mama. I thought she would like them!” he says.

  “Don’t wear those,” Gen says to me. “Go barefoot, as you like.”

  “Oh, whew! Thanks. My feet are sweating so much I’m sliding around in these booties like a greased pig,” I laugh. Gen doesn’t laugh. She looks kind of disgusted.

  “Put them in the laundry machine—through there.” She points. I walk through, pausing to tap the doorframe twice (#2), and smile back at Gen with lips closed (#3). “No earthquakes today!” I exit, proud that I remembered.

  When I return, Alfredo has arrived. He’s a bit shorter than I am, so I’m careful to keep my knees bent as I approach so that my head stays lower than his (#6). Frankly, this custom seems completely sexist to me, but I’m not about to offend the son of my first and only geriatric friend. I bow and smile with lips closed (#3). “You must be Alfredo. I’m Marina.” He also looks surprised when I bow. Ha! I think to myself. I’m not a clueless American. Alfredo sticks his hand out.

  “Piacere. Alfredo.” I shake his hand. He rolls up his sleeves. “You are my mother’s friend, the American writer? Bienvenuta.” He washes his hands. “You must be special. Mama doesn’t make many friends—that are women.” Alfredo bends to dry his hands on a low hanging towel. Instantly, I hunch over too, keeping my head level lower than his.

  “Well, we’re both artists and both unique,” I say, from my hunchback position.

  “Are you okay?” he asks as he takes out a beer.

  “Yes. I’m great!” I answer, without blinking (#5, so he won’t think I’m lying). “Just hungry,” I smile with my lips closed (#3).

  “Food’s ready!” announces Akio, as he places a giant bowl onto the center of the kitchen table. Alfredo opens a beer and drinks half of it down.

  “Allora, what the hell is it this time?” asks his father as he sits. Luigi pulls out a chair for me, between himself and his father. As I sit, I have to slump in my seat a bit to keep my head lower than Alfredo’s (#6). Luigi sees this and gives me a subtle nod. I smile, realize my teeth are showing, and slam my lips closed (#3). He smiles back, trying not to laugh.

  “We are having kitfo,” says Akio proudly. “An Ethiopian dish from my new cookbook, Around the World in Eighty Recipes. It’s minced, raw beef, marinated in chili powder and butter with herbs. And those are jalepeños so watch out.”

  “Raw beef?” complains Alfredo. He finishes his beer.

  “So Mama can eat with us. She’s on her raw diet,” Akio says.

  “She got on that diet so she didn’t have to eat your food experiments,” laughs Luigi.

  “Non è vero! Grazie, Akio,” Gen says, scooping a mound onto her plate. She stares at it. “We need forks.” She points to a drawer.

  “Actually, Mama, the Ethiopian dishes are eaten with our hands.” The rest of the family looks at him like he’s nuts.

  “He’s right,” I say supportively. “My friend went to Ethiopia.” I smile with my lips closed (#3).

  “May I serve you some?” asks Akio. I don’t even like sushi, much less raw beef, but this is an offer from my host. I cannot refuse (#10).

  “Yes please,” I say. He scoops a large amount onto my plate and, to show how excited I am, I immediately take a too large clump of meat with my hands and try to fit it into my mouth. They all watch as meat sticks to my fingers and falls into my lap, onto the table, and onto my plate. “Mmmm!” The chili powder is hotter than I expected but I continue to chew.

  “Actually, you’re supposed to use this bread.” Akio opens a flat, lidded bowl sitting on the table. “You scoop with it.” As he hands me a piece, I bite into a chunk of jalepeño. My mouth is suddenly on fire. “How is it?” Akio asks as I force myself to swallow. Alfredo watches me. Akio’s desperation to impress his father is palpable.

  “It is so good.” I’m trying desperately not to blink but my eyes are watering. “I’ve never had anything like it.” I blink as I grab my water, downing half the glass.

  “She blinked,” says Luigi. “She’s lying. I’m not eating this.”

  “No, it’s good!” I say trying to keep from blinking again, but I do. Then I remember #7. I drink more water and: BURP! I belch loudly. “See, I love it!” I smile with lips closed (#3). Alfredo is staring. Gen is staring. Luigi and Akio are stifling laughter. I begin to realize something’s afoot, but right now I’m too interested in refilling my water glass. Alfredo finishes his beer.

  “Where did you buy this beef?” Alfredo asks Akio. “I’m not getting mucca pazza so you can get into fucking cooking school.”

  “What’s mucca pazza?” I ask. “Mad cow disease,” answers Gen.

  “That’s not still a problem, is it?” I’m starting to sweat. Maybe it’s the jalapeño.

  “No. Only in places where the mafia bought all the sick cows for one-fifth the price and kept selling the meat to turn a huge profit,” says Luigi. The blood drains from my face.

  “Mafia? But isn’t Sicily the birthplace of the—”

  “No, don’t believe everything in your American movies,” says Luigi.

  “Dumb movies,” I laugh with nervous relief.

  “The mafia’s everywhere in Italy, not just Sicily. Since Ancient Rome.”

  I put my bread down. I’m sweating even more now. Fucking Perfetto. I’m going to have mad cow disease.

  “I’ll just have another beer,” says Alfredo. The boys both try to get their father a beer at the same time, but Luigi makes it to the fridge first.

  “There’s fresh fish I can cook up. I got it this morning,” Luigi offers.

  “No! Sta zitto!” Akio stares daggers at his brother. “The beef is fine! Aren’t you going to even try it, Papa?” Akio pleads. Gen gives her husband a look. Slowly Alfredo picks up a piece of bread and scoops up a bit of the meat. We all watch as he puts it into his mouth and chews. It’s clear that Akio wants to please his dad, and his competitive brother is trying to sabotage his meal. We all wait for the judge’s verdict. Finally, Alfredo shrugs.

  “Not bad,” their father says, as he scoops up more. Akio is ecstatic, victory. Luigi rolls his eyes in defeat. Gen picks up a piece of bread, scoops a bit of meat, but pauses to smell it first. The chili powder makes her sneeze.

  “Bugitaimu!” I shout with conviction (#9). She stares at me in shock. “That’s all the Japanese I know,” I say, apologetically.

  “So, you’re not married, I guess?” asks Alfredo as he drinks his beer and leans back in his chair. The question takes me by surprise. I look at him and realize I’m sitting taller. I slump down in my chair even further (#6).

  “No,” I say.

  “Neither are these two mama’s boys. No houses. No jobs. No wives.” Gen scolds her husband quietly in Italian but he ignores her. “Why don’t you let them show you around Sicily? Maybe you’ll take one home as a souvenir,” he winks at his boys. Awkward! I decide not to answer. Wait, was that an offer from my host (#10)?

  “Thank you for the offer, I accept,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Make sure you try them each out before you decide. You can’t give them back,” laughs Alfredo, and he swigs his beer. Gen angrily knocks Alfredo’s elbow and the beer bottle falls into his lap, then hits the floor. He swears angrily in Italian, leaning down with his napkin. I move quickly to the floor, trying to keep my head lower.

  “I got it!” I say. I want to hide under the table anyway.

  “No, it’s fine.” Alfredo goes onto one knee to mop up the mess. This forces me to practically lie on the floor next to him.

  “I don’t mind!” I say, hoping he’ll stand up. />
  “Are you feeling okay?” He reaches over to feel my forehead and I freak out and roll out of his reach, like a wrestler on the mat (#8, never touch another woman’s husband). Alfredo stands, bewildered. The brothers are laughing.

  “Come up off the floor, dear!” Gen leans forward, reaching her hand out, but the chili pepper gets her again. She sneezes.

  “Bugitaimu!” I shout (#9) as I pop up. The brothers are now laughing hysterically. Looking at them, I finally understand what they’ve done. Sandbagged me with a list of phony customs. I look at Gen, and even she is trying not to laugh. “What does that mean, in Japanese?”

  “Booger time,” she smiles, with lots of teeth.

  Chapter 28

  How Not to Choose

  WHEN TWO BROTHERS COMPETE FOR YOUR AFFECTIONS:

  1. Avoid touching either brother.

  2. Avoid being alone with either brother.

  3. Always laugh at both brothers’ jokes equally.

  4. Decline one brother’s offer to fly his remote control drone to get cool video for your phone, which will require hours of close contact alone time.

  5. Decline the other brother’s offer to teach you to bake cannoli and impress your mother, which will require hours of close contact alone time.

  6. Do not let one brother give you a foot massage, realize your mistake, and end up with one brother massaging each foot. (Didn’t you read #1?)

  7. Always refrain when asked to judge arm wrestling matches, or erotic origami contests (no matter how interesting that sounds).

  8. Do NOT, under any circumstances, get into a hot tub with both brothers and a drink with a little umbrella. (Didn’t you read #1?)

  Around Palermo: Friday Morning

  I should: insist we take the car on our whirlwind tour of the city.

  Instead I: let them talk me into a tour on scooter, which requires me to choose which brother to ride behind, lean against, and grip tightly. Luigi explains proudly that his bike is faster, highly modified, which actually makes me choose Akio’s safer, slower-looking Vespa. This puts Luigi into a sulk and forces me into a pattern of switching bikes at every sight we stop to see throughout the day. Each time I mount up, that brother seems to drive even faster, as if to lose the other brother and impress me with his skills of darting and weaving through traffic. Soon I’m ready to hurl. When we pause briefly to see the Fontana Pretoria, in Piazza Pretoria, I am only too happy to sit on the stable, unmoving stone steps, admiring the tiers of elaborately carved nude statues stacked atop each other like an ancient, bachelor party cake. The cool mist feels good on my face. “This is called the Fountain of Shame,” explains Akio. “Because there are over forty naked statues.”

  “It is the most famous fountain in Palermo,” adds Luigi.

  “Of course it is.” I chuckle at the irony, thinking of Frantonio’s fountain of shame. A series of images involuntarily flash through my head: Mario’s too close erection as I stand in shin deep, cold water; Frantonio’s warm hand on my naked breast, as I find myself pressed against the wall; Franonio’s angry, passionate, hurt brown eyes as he stares into mine in the library. My stomach twists, and this time it’s not from my wild scooter rides. I pull out my phone. Nothing. Why hasn’t he answered me yet? I answered his last message yesterday. I start to text again but stop. The next message needs to be from him. I’ve got two handsome Sicilian brothers vying for my attention. I’ll have enough distraction.

  Cathedral of Palermo, aka Cattedrale Metropolitana della Santa Vergine Maria Assunta, Palermo: Friday, 12:15 p.m.

  I should: admire the Norman-Arab-Byzantine-Swabian-Romanesque-Baroque-Gothic architecture in the world’s most multicultural church, without trying to participate.

  Instead I: light a candle in honor of my mother in the chapel of St. Rosalia, Palermo’s patron saint. My mother is not a Catholic, but her name is Rosalie, and I think it’s especially fitting that St. Rosalia rejected a worldly life to live in the caves of Mt. Pellegrino. My mother seldom leaves the inn, much less Florida. Akio sees me light the candle and shows up ten minutes later with a nine-inch St. Rosalia figurine he’s purchased for me. She’s wearing a crown of roses and a tortured, mournful expression. “Wow, thank you. It’s . . . precious,” I fumble, resorting to that painfully polite southern expression invented for ugly babies, bad haircuts, and very old cats.

  “For your mother,” Akio explains proudly. “Yes, fantastic. She loves figurines.”

  “Also this,” says Luigi holding out his gift.

  “And . . . a glass shoebox of plastic bones and silk roses!” I say. “You can never have enough of those.”

  “To keep your mother healthy,” Luigi explains. “When St. Rosalia’s remains were found in the cave, they were taken around Palermo in a parade and three days later the plague ended.”

  “Perfetto!” I smile. “She can stop taking those fistfuls of vitamins now.” As we leave the cathedral I check my phone. Nothing.

  At the Museo Internazionale delle Marionette, Palermo: Friday, 2:30 p.m.

  I should: take a selfie with the smiling Pakistani man operating the Spanish Conquistador puppet.

  Instead I: make the mistake of asking Akio to take my photo. Luigi, of course, pops into the photo with me, the Pakistani puppeteer, and the Spanish Conquistador. So then I have to take another photo with Akio, the Pakistani puppeteer, and the Spanish Conquistador. Luigi then wants a photo with me and the wizard marionette. Akio wants a photo with me and the French chef puppet. On it goes, for the rest of the day. A competition to see who can be in more photos with me. I finally resort to asking random passersby to take photos of the three of us each time. Posting these on social media immediately earns me comments from Mike and Michael asking who my two delicious boyfriends are.

  At the Valley of the Temples, Agrigento: Friday, 4:45 p.m.

  I should have: been content with the myriad floral and woody fragrances of the botanical garden of Kolymbetra, located between the Temple of Castor and Pollux and the Temple of Vulcan.

  Instead I: pick a small white flower from an almond tree to put behind my ear; this causes Akio to make me a scented crown of blooming rosemary; which causes Luigi to fashion me a garland of bright yellow mustard flowers to wear around my neck; which causes me to look like Ophelia; which causes a very angry lady with bright magenta hair who works for the Italian National Trust in charge of the garden to kick us all out because we’re not respecting the Kolymbetra ways. Didn’t we read the sign? (No, we were too busy looking up pictures of edible mushrooms on our phones.) As we leave the gardens, I check my phone. Nothing.

  Giardino Pacini, Catania: Saturday, 11:20 a.m.

  Today’s adventure started with Catania, an old port city. We’re taking a bathroom stop after touring a beautiful little garden. When I come outside, I find Luigi with his eyes on the sky. Akio is gone. “My brother checks to see if our favorite pasticceria is open,” explains Luigi.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask.

  “I heard the planes, before. Maybe they will return.”

  “What planes?”

  “Greyhounds, or P-3 Orion or clippers maybe. They do drills sometimes. But more likely PC-3 patrol squadron. We are near Sigonella, the naval air station.” He points off in the distance.

  “Italian Air Force?”

  “Well, it is our base, and we have Breguet Atlantics, but most of the best planes are yours. It is a US hub. The C-5 Galaxy airlifts are impossibilimente enorme, e stupefacente. Lockheed Martin makes these.” His eyes light up as he tells me about the massive US transporter planes. “Però, in the beginning they found cracks in the wings of many and they had to make modifications. The new Super Galaxy is even better and will fly until 2040.”

  “Too bad you know nothing about planes!” I joke.

  “I know everything about planes,” he says, confused.

  “I was kidding. I thought you just liked flying model planes.”

  “No! I’m saving money even now for my flying classe
s. I want to join the air force but my mother, she . . . come si dice? Freak out.” Suddenly he jumps up on the bench and shades his eyes with his hands. He’s heard it before I have, but soon there is a distinctive engine purr that gets louder and louder. “Look!” he says, excited. I stand and see the plane coming toward us. To me, it just looks like a military cargo plane. But to Luigi, it looks like Christmas morning. “Super Hercules.”

  “Sounds like it could kick some ass.”

  “No, is for transport, four-engine turboprop, but original Hercules C-130 has the record, they make this one the longest, over sixty years.”

  “What’s it got hanging off it?”

  “Maybe jeep . . .” In fact, he’s right. As the plane grows closer, I can make out not one, but two military jeeps suspended from cables. Luigi nearly poops his pants. He jumps up and down, grabbing me with excitement as the plane passes over us.

  “Beautiful and functional. Fantastico!” he yells—wind ruffled hair, twinkling eyes, smile from ear to ear. His excitement is contagious, and in this moment I realize just how sexy he is. The muscles under his tight T-shirt, his strong arm around me. He’s a total catch.

  “You are fantastico, Luigi,” I laugh. He looks at me, under his arm, and suddenly bends his head, kissing me sweetly on the lips. My eyes widen in surprise. He blushes, embarrassed.

  “Mi dispiace,” he says. “I thought you . . .”

  “No, it’s okay.” I put my hand on his cheek to reassure him, but this gives him the green light. He pulls me back into his arms, wrapping those gorgeous muscles around me, kissing me with even more gusto. I cannot help but kiss him back, leaning into him...

  “È aperto!” calls Akio from across the small square. I don’t know if he’s seen us, but Luigi blushes, jumps off the bench, and holds his hand out to help me down. I give him a look and jump down on my own. The last thing I want to do is come between two brothers.