Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe

by Jane Harrington

  San Lorenzo Market

  Uffizi

  Academia

  Eat Italian food

  Duomo

  Ponte Vecchio

  Piazza della Signoria

  “Do you have a pen?” I asked my mother.

  She handed me one, and I said, “So, what things on this list are museums?”

  “The Academia and the Uffizi,” she said enthusiastically.

  I took the pen and made a line through those things.

  “But—” Mom started to say.

  “Mom, we go to the museums in Washington a LOT.”

  “But—”

  “With the touring exhibits, I’ve probably even seen some of the things in these museums, right?”

  “Oh, Brady, you’ve NEVER seen David,” she said.

  “DAVID, again,” I said. “This guy is becoming an OBSESSION with you. I am SO telling Dad.”

  “It’s a very important sculpture, Brady,” she said (apparently not amused by, uh, me). She pulled her mammoth stack of papers from her pack and leafed through them until she found what she was looking for. “You know which one it is, right?”

  I looked over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, David. Very cute, in a naked-Bible-character sort of way.”

  “He’s in the Academia, Brady,” she said.

  “Why don’t we just go in THIS place?” I asked, looking up the steps to the doors of the Duomo. “It’s on your list, and we’re here.”

  She obviously liked that idea, so we went up the stone steps and through these huge doors, and into this mammoth, open room. It was dark, and old, and COLD. As we walked around, slowly, silently, I could feel the breath of the ancients on my neck and see the Renaissance artists hanging from the ceiling by their toes (or whatever they did), painting angels and clouds and stuff. Creepy, but I was INTO it. Until Mom broke the spell by saying, “Let’s get information on the tours here.”

  “Tours?” I said. “Isn’t that what we’re DOING?” And then I hooked my arm into my mother’s and headed for the side door.

  “But—” she started saying again, but I kept pulling her out the door.

  She suggested we stop and look at the map she’d gotten off MapQuest, but I assured her we didn’t NEED a map, and we walked down some little street, which ended at a river. We stopped there and looked down at the gondolas—MOLTO Italiano.

  “The Arno River!” she exclaimed.

  “See? This method works perfectly. I lead you around—at a speed that doesn’t break the sound barrier—and you tell me what we’re looking at.”

  “And the Ponte Vecchio!” she cried even louder, pointing to a bridge that looked like a neighborhood block that had blown out in the river during a hurricane.

  “It’s even on your list!” I said (enthusiastically!).

  “I was planning to walk through it, actually,” she said.

  “Uh, no,” I said.

  “But—” she said.

  “Look, Mom,” I said, deciding it was TIME. “I think it’s AWESOME we’re on this trip. You and Dad are REALLY COOL for doing this for me, so don’t get me wrong here. It’s just that, a couple of times in the last few days—okay, LOTS of times in the last few days—I’ve thought that you’re getting just a LITTLE too intense about this SIGHTSEEING thing. I mean, there might be some OTHER things I’d like to do, you know?”

  She stared at me a sec with an okay-I’m-thinking-about-that sort of look on her face, and then the look changed to an okay-I’m-about-to-cry sort of look, and she said, “I’m so SORRY, Brady. I wasn’t THINKING. I RUINED your trip!”

  “Oh, no, Mom,” I said (with an aren’t-we-overreacting-a-bit sort of look).

  “Yes I DID,” she said, practically WEEPING. “We didn’t do the things YOU wanted to do, and this is your special once-in-a-lifetime trip. I got SO into it, I guess because I’d never been to Europe before, or something, and I wanted everything to be PERFECT for you and something to remember, and—”

  “MOM!” I said, taking her by the shoulders. “It’s not that at ALL—I LOVE this trip. EVERYTHING about it.”

  “You do?” she asked, smiling through tears now.

  (CLEARLY there was a PMS situation going on there.)

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then what is it?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

  “I just want to go back to the San Lorenzo Market.”

  “Really?” she said, looking relieved.

  I nodded and hooked my arm in hers again, and—practically skipping, like we were the stars of a REALLY sappy mother-daughter movie—we headed down the street and in pursuit of the San Lorenzo Market.

  Soon we found ourselves in a long courtyard where all these performance artists were standing around being statues, like they do at the waterfront at home. There was this golden King Tut person and a white angel. Lots of people seemed to think they WERE statues, judging by their surprise when the statue-people moved after money was dropped in the boxes in front of them.

  “Oh, Brady!” mio madre exclaimed. “Do you know where we ARE?”

  I looked around—arches, stone buildings, a square of some sort ahead. “Florence?”

  “The Uffizi!” Mom said. “I really think you’d like it, Brady—are you sure you don’t want to go in?”

  I looked at the long line of people baking in the sun in front of the gallery door and shook my head.

  (I was enjoying my new job as tour-god. Oh, yes, I was.)

  “Prego?” she asked, sweetly.

  “Non, madre,” I said, pulling her along toward the square.

  “But—” she said, looking back at the line.

  “We haven’t bought Dad a gift yet,” I pointed out.

  “But—” she said, still looking back at the line.

  “Or your other daughters,” I added.

  “But—”

  “Mom,” I said, still moving along with her in tow. “You’re DOING it again. Do you have to be such a—”

  That was when I noticed this ENORMOUS marble statue RIGHT next to us. I stopped, and looking up—in total awe—I said, “Big butt!”

  Since she hadn’t been looking ahead, she ran into me. Which must have pressed her reset button or something, because she switched into normal-mother-mode. Which is to say: She got mad.

  “Brady!” she scolded. “It is SO inappropriate to call your mother a ‘big butt.’”

  “No, no, Mom,” I said. “I wasn’t calling YOU a big butt. I was calling THAT a big butt.” And I pointed up to the back end of the statue, which was looming there, far above our heads.

  “David,” my mother said breathlessly—obviously so moved by the experience of gazing upon this gigantic rear end that tears started welling up in her eyes.

  (Yes, DEFINITELY PMS happening today.)

  “But I thought you said he was in a museum,” I said.

  “This is a reproduction,” she told me. “The real one was here in this piazza until 1910 when it was moved to the Academia. The original was sculpted in 1504.”

  Impressed with my mother’s knowledge of the period (or, at the very least, the regurgitation of what she learned in a David chat room), I asked, “Do you know why Michelangelo didn’t give him any armor or anything? I mean, he’s going to fight a giant, isn’t he?”

  “He has a slingshot,” she said, pointing up at him. “And a rock.”

  “Oh, yeah, that would do it,” I said.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” She was in LOVE.

  I almost said, “Mom, I find this REALLY INAPPROPRIATE for you to be SO enthralled with this humongoid marble dude and gazing up so longingly at all his giganto nakedness.” But instead—catching myself, and getting suddenly FREAKED by the thought that maybe the mother-daughter movie we were actually in was one of those switched-body things—I began scanning the crowd to see if there was someone who looked uniquely American (that is, with a fanny pack) to ask directions to the San Lorenzo Market, since I not only didn’t know WHO I was, I also didn’t know W
HERE I was.

  That was when I noticed Lahn and his family in the crowd around David. “Lahn!” I called out. “Do you know the way to the San Lorenzo Market?”

  Saying nothing to me—per usual—he pointed to the other end of the square, where I recognized something: the Duomo. We had made a circle, it seemed. I thanked Lahn and pulled my mother away from her Playgirl magazine—er, sightseeing—and went to the market.

  I bought a mousepad (with David’s torso on it) for Clare, a leather belt for Dad, and a sports watch for Irene. For myself, I found the PERFECT leather jacket. For once, I am looking forward to winter, because I can’t WAIT to wear it. You can borrow it, but it probably won’t fit since I bought the big one.

  Shut up.

  Mom spent the whole time looking at leather purses. Finally, she found one she really liked, and then put it back and said, “I shouldn’t spend the money.”

  We did stop in Pisa on the way back, and we ran to the Leaning Tower, and someone took a picture of us standing in front of it. Then we ran back to the train station. I was thinking about how bizarre it is that people do that. I mean, there’s nothing really to see in Pisa, except the tower, and people go just because it fell over by accident. I wonder if people would come from all over the world to see my house if it started teetering out into the street.

  I’ve told you everything about the day, and, yes, as you have probably figured out, I failed in the Euro-hottie department. Unless you count one made of marble—David is definitely a hot-looking giant slayer. (Even IF my mother finds him attractive.)

  Don’t go nuts on me YET, though. It is still possible that I could strike code-red tonight at the party. After all, there are probably hundreds of guys on this boat, and I’ve only really met three of them. One doesn’t talk (to me, at least), and the others are from weird, non-European places. So I think I’m due. Right?

  I’m off to dismember a rabbit!

  Friday, sometime during the day

  (and that’s about as close as I can get, because reality is rapidly shifting as we fly back through time zones)

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  This plane is a whole lot more comfortable than that one we took over here last week. It’s an Italian airline, and there’s actually legroom, and the seats are bigger. Which makes no sense, since Americans are, by and large (no pun intended), bigger than Italians, so why do American airplanes have such skinny, teeny, tiny seats?

  We even have a window seat this time. Mom and I decided that we would take turns sitting in it. I had the first four hours, which are up now, and I just switched with her. My mother is, at the moment, happily occupied with her headphones on, watching The Emperor’s New Groove (and laughing out loud, occasionally, but I’m trying to ignore that), and the guy sitting to my right has been asleep this entire trip so far, with one of those airline sleep masks over his eyes. It’s the perfect environment for writing my last letter to you.

  Since we are on a daytime flight this time, I was able to see all kinds of cool things when we flew out of Rome this morning. The Mediterranean Sea looked like a painting from the plane—white ships on a dark blue canvas. We flew over the Alps, too, which are obviously some super-tall mountains, because there’s mucho snow there, even in the middle of summer. The last piece of land I saw before we headed into the open Atlantic was the UK. (I waved to Georgia in England, forgiving her for the humiliation she caused—all’s well that ends well, right? And anyway, WHAT would I read without her?)

  My mother pointed out Ireland, which was a green dot in the sea. I thought about my ancestors again, and how they never saw this view of their homeland. It is so amazingly beautiful—a green I can’t describe, Delia—and I felt this strong pull inside me, as if I were being called. I couldn’t take my eyes off it as we passed over. We were so high up, and moving so fast by then, that a little plane far below us, moving in our same direction, looked as if it were flying backward. It was all VERY surreal.

  When I could see only ocean from the window, I looked through my stuff from the San Lorenzo Market. I’d told Mom that I wanted to carry that bag on board because my luggage was too full, but it was really for a different reason. Mom and I looked, again, at the smooth belt and my jacket and talked about how great the leather is in Italy. Then I pulled the mousepad out.

  “Are you sure that’s an appropriate gift for Clare?” she asked. “I mean, it’s so focused on, you know, David’s, uh, middle section.”

  “It’s art, Mom,” I said, dropping it back into the bag.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right,” she seemed to decide at that moment. “It’s all pretty confusing, traveling in Europe, isn’t it? They are so much freer about sexuality than we are in America.”

  Okay, WEIRD ZONE, I thought. My mother is trying to have a conversation with me about “sexuality.” I pulled something else out of my bag to distract her. It was also the reason I was carrying the bag of gifts on the plane.

  “Oh, Brady!” she said. “The purse!”

  And she hugged me and told me I was so sweet, and she got all teary again, and I thanked her again for being such a great mom, and we hugged again, and etc., etc., and it was a happy (though really queer) ending to the trip, and I felt good because I had pleased her. I’m really glad this whole thing was such an enriching growth experience for her. (Even though I was the one who was supposed to grow and be enriched, I think, but WHATEVER.) Anyway, I am happy the purse pleased my mother.

  These hours later, though—as we get incredibly close to the continent on which you are probably already headed to the airport to meet me—the question is this: Did I please my BEST FRIEND? Did I accomplish the LAST of your (insane) instructions, which I can STILL read on my hand. (I could do a COMMERCIAL for Sharpie pens.)

  The answer, my friend, is in the story of . . .

  THE HOTTIE HUNT

  Which—believe it or not—was the actual theme of the farewell party last night. (I’m totally wondering if you somehow managed to IM Gilligan with this idea.) He gave us cameras, told us we had an hour to take a picture of our favorite “hotties” on the boat, and then he said he would print them out and hang them in the teen lounge before the end of the party. (Yay!!)

  So, armed with a cam, the six of us—you know, the Odd Squad—set off on a hunting expedition. After about, say, three seconds, Noori took a picture of AJ, and AJ took a picture of Noori, and then they left. The rest of us were glad about this, actually, since they were being muy obnoxious—PDA-wise—on account of it being their last night together. Noori had actually been crying.

  Down to four in our hunting party, we charged on through the jungle—er, cruise ship—and after about, say, ANOTHER three seconds, there was a surprise photo attack from someone ELSE in our group. It was . . . can you guess?

  WRONG. It wasn’t Gorkon—it was LAHN. He took a picture of Tatyana. (I suspected this all along, by the way.) Which made her smile and turn red, and then she grabbed the camera and took a picture of HIM. (I suspected THAT all along, too.) Then THEY disappeared.

  Which was disturbing, as you might imagine, since—do the math—I was left alone with Gorkon. Who, as I watched Tatyana and Lahn fade off into the darkness of deck nine, jumped in front of me and snapped my picture. Then he handed me the camera.

  Most uncomfortable situation, Delia. I felt bad about it, but I just COULD NOT take his picture. It wasn’t because I was taking Gilligan’s instructions too seriously or anything. It was because of FEAR. I was afraid that, given what the other Odd Squadians had done, he had gotten the idea that picture-taking was part of a human mating ritual, and that we would go off and make out once I got his photo. I was practically breaking out in hives at the thought.

  “Gork,” I said. “I like you—you’re DIFFERENT.”

  He advanced toward me then (very much like R2-D2, I couldn’t help but notice).

  I stepped back, saying, “But it’s a FRIEND thing. Like we’ll miss each other after the trip, but we won’t go
around crying about it.”

  “Klingons don’t have tear ducts,” he said.

  “See, there? THAT’S different—that’s what I like about you,” I said.

  He stared at me (or my shirt, rather) for a VERY long minute or so and then said, “Aksh de ca lu tah.” (Or something like that.)

  “Huh?” I responded.

  “You will be remembered with honor,” he said.

  Which was REALLY sweet, you must be thinking.

  Or, since you are not nearly as nice a person as I obviously am, you may be thinking, “WHY IS SHE WASTING HER TIME WITH THIS LOSER WHEN THERE IS A EURO-HOTTIE TO FIND???” My answer to you: “I’m GETTING to that.”

  “Thanks, Gork,” I said. “Maybe we could talk online sometime. Do you have a screen name?”

  “KillKirk4591,” he said.

  “Okaaay,” I said.

  “Captain Kirk is the enemy of all Klingons,” he explained.

  “Okaaay,” I repeated. “And is the ‘4591’ your birthday?”

  “No,” he said. “I believe it means there are 4,590 other KillKirks.”

  Talking about his screen name made him want to get online, I guess, because he said he had some work to do in the Internet Café, and then he left. That’s the last time I saw him. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings too much.

  ANYWAY.

  So, left completely alone, I began a very thorough exploration of the ship. The experience was very much like the treasure hunt, so I’ll spare you the details and get to the point.

  I’d been hunting for almost the whole hour and had come up with ZILCHO hotties—Euro or otherwise. I was getting ready to give up and call it a night, when, over my shoulder, I glimpsed HIM standing in the dining room. MY HOTTIE. And, oh YES, he was even EURO. I went in and talked to him, snapped his pic, and bounced (not literally—STOP laughing) back to the party and gave Gilligan the cam.

  Fresh fruit smoothies were being made at the bar, so I got a strawberry one with a purple elephant perched on the rim of the glass. (I know now to steer clear of the monkeys.) More people were dancing than usual—and hugging each other and exchanging addresses and stuff—so I finally got a chance to play some foosball. There was a tournament going on (natch), and I made it three rounds before losing to the MAJOR gamer dude. (Who is from Austria, but is not anywhere near code-red. Yellow, at best.)