Stacey began her career as an educator and was already familiar with the fact that kids will not give you an inch. “Awkward.”
“I’ll say. You know how I get that nervous talking thing?” Stacey flinched and nodded, having witnessed this firsthand on a number of occasions. “I ended up babbling about all kinds of stuff—like, telling the kids how I flunked out of college and how I lost my job and had my car repossessed and how forty girls in my high school got knocked up my senior year because there was no Planned Parenthood in Huntington County in the 1980s. My plan was to tie all these stories into a redemptive arc about not giving up, also contraception, but then the bell rang and they all left believing my life was a country music song.”
She clamped her hand over her eyes in a show of secondhand shame. “How many sets of parents would you estimate called the school later that night? Five?”
“That’s my best guess,” I admitted. “But that’s not the bad part.”
“Sweet Jesus.” She slow-blinked again.
“I had another class come in. And this time, they weren’t a bunch of quiet freshmen. These kids were all seniors and some of them seemed into having me there—they’d even read my books, so I really wanted to be able to connect with them. Drop some knowledge bombs, yo.”
Stacey sipped her diet black cherry soda and slow-blinked some more. “Really, LL Cool Jen? Do continue.”
(Sidebar: I admit BackSpin is becoming unduly influential.)
“I wanted them to take something away from the experience. Like, teaching the youth of America something useful could be my legacy. Years from now, one of them could win the Pulitzer and during his acceptance speech, he’d say that a chick lit writer who visited his English class back in 2014 inspired him. Let’s be honest—that’s the closest I’m coming to any Pulitzer who isn’t Lilly.”
I took a bite of my tomato and bacon–enhanced grilled cheese, again pleased at the opportunity to savor something that nine out of ten veterinarians hadn’t recommended.
I continued. “Having learned from my last class, I decided to prompt participation by calling on them. Had ’em all go around the room and tell me something about themselves.”
“Which killed two minutes.” Stacey blotted a stray bit of Thousand Island with a paper napkin.
“That’s two minutes I didn’t blather, so, victory. As we were talking, I noticed this group of six kids sitting in the back, giggling and grab-assing. They struck me as ringleaders and I decided I’d need to keep my eye on them.”
“They were the John Hughes movie villains? ‘What about prom, Blane? What. About. Prom?’” Stacey banged the table for emphasis, causing our drinks to ripple.
“Exactly. When it came their turn to talk, I noticed most were sucking out of sport water bottles. Didn’t read too much into it, assuming they’d just come from doing some rich-kid sport, like lacrosse.”
“Perhaps they were playing polo or racing their Ferraris.”
“Right? But then one of the girls held up her lidded paper cup when it was her turn to speak. I could hear the ice rattle and she exclaimed, ‘I like coffee!’ and then cracked herself up. That seemed odd. As I talked, they kept interrupting and trying to go off on nonsensical tangents. That’s when I realized, these kids are fucked-up.”
“As in troubled? As in poor James Spader who could buy anything he wanted, save for Molly Ringwald’s love?”
“As in full of booze. They were day-drinking! Think about it. They were seniors at a private school, minutes away from graduation, all enrolled in college—they didn’t care about rules because they’re at the age where they believe they’re invincible.”
She grinned at the familiarity of this story. “Sometimes I miss the high school kids I used to teach and . . . sometimes I don’t.”
I shifted in my seat, reflecting on how very awkward the whole scene was. “Clearly they were new at drinking in class, seeing how they were terrible at it. But it was obvious and disruptive and I was pissed at their level of disrespect. I thought, ‘I ate dog food to come here and interact with you little shits.’ Uncool. Sure, I screwed up the first hour, but I was ready to kill it in the second. I was getting my redemptive arc, damn it, and I was not about to let the gin-soaked Plastics throw me off my game.”
(Sidebar: My streak of referencing Mean Girls in every book I’ve ever written is also intact.)
“Devil’s advocate here—how can you be sure they were drinking? That’s a hefty accusation.”
“Stacey, I was in college for eleven years. Trust me, I know what drinking in class looks like. The ice was a dead giveaway.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Point taken. You say anything?”
“Hell, yes, I said something! I go, ‘Are you guys cocktailing back there?’ And just like that, these six smug little bastards went pale, suddenly realizing the potential consequences of their actions. Busted.”
“Did the teachers intervene?”
“No, at that point I’d already lost all credibility with the grown-ups in the room, but I knew. That was enough. I suspect I put enough fear in them that they won’t do it again, though. So I added scare kids straight to my bucket list.”
“Does it count when you retroactively add something you’ve already accomplished to your list?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a true American hero.”
“Damn skippy. Someone should carve my face on a mountain in a national park. Hey, did you know that Mount Rushmore isn’t a natural formation?”
“I feel like I should be concerned that you didn’t.” She took another small bite of her potato pancake, dabbing a bit of stray applesauce from her lip. “So, what’s your takeaway from all of this? What was the big announcement you wanted to make when you invited me to lunch?”
“My takeaway is . . . I’m upgrading to Business Class on my flight to Rome! I figured if I’m going to be stuck on a plane for an undisclosed amount of time, I should at least be able to recline.”
“Sometimes you’re a genius,” she said, before quickly amending her statement. “Not about geography, though. You know you’ll be flying over water this time, right?”
“Sort of?”
And so that’s why I’m now here, crowding the gate, waiting to steamroll my way to my very first international Business Class seat.
Sorry I’m not sorry.
• • •
When I board the plane, the flight attendant instructs me to cut through the galley to get over to the left side of the plane. I crane back to see if there’s a curtain on the other side, but I can’t actually tell if there’s a First Class section on this flight or not. If it’s here, it’s hidden, which is kind of badass. They don’t need to mix with the hoi polloi that is us. So I make my way back to 5G.
I’d hoped this was to be one of those two-story planes, but no such luck. Stacey said she flew on one once and it was glorious, so perhaps I’ll add that to my list at some point. (Again, retroactively counts.) Yet because this is such a special experience and since I waited so long in my life to do this, I don’t want my thoughts muddied by wishing for something else in the middle of what’s already a dream coming true. I just want to be in the moment.
I’m immediately taken out of the moment when an angry old lady with a battleship gray perm rams her plaid carry-on into my spleen as I lift my own bag into the overhead compartment. And she’s not sorry she’s not sorry. I guess I’m not proceeding quickly enough for her and she huffs with rage at having to wait for me to get out of her way. Listen, Betty White, crowding is acceptable only at the gate. Now that we’re on the plane, you need to check yo-self; otherwise it’s going to be a really long eight hours.
The old woman is traveling with her entire extended family—multiple kids and adult children trail in her wake, followed by a beleaguered older gentleman who I can already tell has taken more than
his fair share of blows to the spleen. He looks to be plotting his escape. He and I exchange glances and he offers me a shrug of his defeated shoulders by way of apology.
The family has assigned seats in the pods all around me, but that doesn’t stop them from halting the boarding process for everyone else at the gate while they allow the children to try out each and every seat in determining which one they want. I watch as the tormented grandfather of the group sits as far away from his wife as humanly possible while still technically being a part of flight 110.
While the family continues to gum up the works for the other passengers, I inspect my home for the next eight hours. My seat reminds me of those old eggshell chairs from the seventies. It’s not a private pod like First Class is rumored to have, but the shape boasts definite noise-blocking properties, and it affords some privacy.
The tension I felt earlier has completely lifted. This was such a good idea! I monkey with the controls of my seat to find it not only reclines almost flat, but also raises the legs. I already predict I’m going to spend the whole flight trying to figure out the best position.
Each seat is stocked with a few supplies, such as a toiletry bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste, lip balm, socks, and an eye mask. There’s also a down blanket and a thick pillow, so it’s a shame that most of the Annoying Family decided to bring their own, which they summarily shove in the overhead bins. As it’s only five p.m., I’m not exactly ready for bed, so I stuff all these items under the seat in front of me while I plug my iPad into my DC adapter. While the Annoying Family continues to jockey for position, I catch another episode of Parks and Recreation, which has literally become my favorite sitcom. (But, Rob Lowe, why are you leaving now that I’ve just found you?)
The middle-aged dad of the group decides to sit next to me and I watch as he fumbles everything he touches. Down go his blanket, his pillow, his toiletries, his laptop, his earbuds, etc. I sure hope Captain Butterfingers doesn’t have a job that requires he keep a grip on anything important.
Captain Butterfingers’s scantily clad Trophy Wife keeps jumping out of her seat to take pictures of her whole brood. She’s sporting a sheer sleeveless blouse and sporty-shorty-short shorts. Despite the plane being plenty bright, she insists on using the flash, thus blinding everyone in a three-row vicinity who happens to glance in her direction.
I should mention the entire rest of the plane is still waiting to board, which is made far more difficult as ninety-six pounds of sleeveless soccer mom insists on Instagramming every single moment that passes. Finally, one of the flight attendants has words with her and she grudgingly returns to her seat, which she then kneels on to continue with her photojournalism.
I know I said that everyone’s allowed to have “one thing,” but I’d wager this family indulges in more than their allotted share of annoying habits.
Captain Butterfingers then dumps his Diet Coke, thus necessitating more stopped traffic while the flight attendant mops him up, as Trophy Wife preserves the images for posterity. I would not like to be whoever’s forced to watch this family’s slide show upon their return home.
After spilling a bag of trail mix, Captain Butterfingers decides he’s going to watch a movie on his laptop. I’m really sad to be traveling alone because I have no one to whom I can whisper, “Just wait, he’s going to jam a regular plug into the DC adapter.” He bashes at his outlet like a baboon trying to start a Jeep with a stick.
I can’t stand to watch him struggle for so long, so I show him the package my new adapter came in, explaining that because this is an older plane, he’ll need a DC plug—which is basically a car cigarette charger. I tell him I’d read that the flight attendants have extras for those who need them, so he just has to ask. (As he’s an American, I assume he understands my use of the English language, but in a pinch, I could have told him the same in Italian.)
He nods and drops his plug back in his bag. I assume he’s going to hit his call button, but no. Instead, and I swear I’m not making this up, he begins to try again, only this time with a flat USB adapter, which is honestly and truly the old square peg–round hole conundrum.
At that point, I put my headphones back on, as you can lead a horse to quantum mechanics, but you can’t make him accept Feynman’s path integral formulation. Eventually, the old lady leans across me to yell at him that he’s doing it wrong while the Trophy Wife captures the moment and his sucker-holding children leave sticky snail-trails everywhere their fingers linger.
We have not yet even left the gate.
The couple to my right is the polar opposite of the Annoying Family. Upon boarding, I note their stylish yet practical travel garb—cute, wrinkle-free pants with numerous pockets, slip-on shoes, and lots of layers, with a pashmina for the lady. With the precision of an Indy pit crew, they ready their area before takeoff. I watch as they refuse the preflight champagne, instead swallowing sleep aids with their bottled water. They wrap themselves in blankets and dull their senses with noise-canceling headphones and eyeshades.
As soon as we’re in the air, they turn off their overhead lights and fully recline, preemptively shutting down jet lag before it even has a chance to set in. These two have to be old pros at this international travel thing, unlike me, who is now so excited I’m practically levitating out of my seat, or the Annoying Family, who’ve clearly never traveled without the warden before.
The eight hours pass largely without incident. Funny how you never remember the flights that go well and you never forget the ones that go awry. As I relax in my seat, I’m so grateful to have been able to get into Business Class and I appreciate having the extra space and the little courtesies. All those miserable flights were worth it because they’re why I’m here. I’ve not only had eight hours of comfort, but I also had a month and a half of blissful anticipation of it, which is just as valuable.
After dinner service, when I eat the best pretzel roll of my life, I settle in to watch movies. I’m not able to sleep, largely because Trophy Wife keeps waking up fellow travelers with her incessant flashing, passing out mini candy bars, and her loud complaints of being cold. (Hint: It’s called “clothing”; look into it.) Just desserts will likely be served tomorrow when she drags five sugar-addled, jet-lagged children around the city.
At one point in the evening, I glance down at Captain Butterfingers’s choice of reading material and I silently laugh myself into an asthma attack when I realize he’s perusing a professional medical journal. Specifically, he’s reading about new techniques in urological surgery. And according to the label on the front, I note that he’s actually a physician.
Let’s milk this, shall we?
Captain Butterfingers is a surgeon.
I quickly write down his full name because I want to make sure I eliminate him from our list of participating heath care providers.
An hour before we land, I wash my face and brush my teeth after being served a light breakfast. Then I fix my makeup and review my itinerary so I know what to do once I’m on the ground. I’m supposed to meet a driver out past baggage claim. Normally, I’d have just taken a cab, but today’s a national holiday and I understand transportation is scarce.
I disembark easily and am waved through Customs without even having my passport stamped. I choose to believe that this is because I look like I belong, although the more likely scenario is that the Junior Varsity squad’s working today due to the Festa della Repubblica and it’s a free-for-all.
I quickly locate the driver and the last thing I see before we exit the airport en route to the parking garage is Dr. Butterfingers and his Annoying Family trying to figure out how to get to their hotel because there are no available cabs.
Sorry I’m not sorry.
17.
JULIA ROBERTS LIED TO ME
My first impression of Rome is . . . that it looks exactly like Houston.
I’m sorry, Rome, but it’s true.
&nb
sp; Between the heat, the industrial areas surrounding the airport, and the sparse yellowing vegetation, I’m having a hard time believing I’m not in Texas right now. Even the signs on the highway look similar, save for being written in Italian.
The only real difference on this stretch of road thus far is the size of the cars—my goodness, these are the cutest things I’ve ever seen. So wee! So bite-sized! Most of them seem to be two-seaters, but we’ve passed a few that accommodate only one person, which are roughly the dimensions of my ex-tricycle, if it had doors. Rome must not have a Costco because no one could fit a bulk-sized pack of paper towels in one of these vehicles.
We arrive in the city proper in about twenty minutes and this is where the similarities with Houston end. I truly have a sense of other now, for the first time. Elaborate fountains abound and the streets are topped with square paving stones. The buildings are all low, not more than three or four stories tall, all stucco, in various shades of gold, coral, and salmon, each with massive painted shutters. These structures appear to have been here for hundreds of years. The roofs are covered with brown or orange tiles and there’s very little green space on any of the main drags. Everything’s close and tight and I have approximately twenty-six consecutive heart attacks as three-wheeled death machines and Vespas dart in and out of traffic. I catch myself thinking this city looks just like a Vegas theme hotel, before I remember this is the real deal.
We wind through streets that are in no way linear, going up and down hills, so I haven’t a sense of north or south. I arrive at my hotel, which is a bit off the beaten path, in the northeast corner of the city. I’d decided to stay at a place close to the train station, just in case I want to take a day trip to Florence. My teacher assured me I’d not be bored in Rome, but I always prefer to have options. Also, there’s a rooftop pool, which was what sold me in the first place. I figured if at any point I become overwhelmed, I could take a swim and regroup. My mantra has always been—find a body of water or find a body; your call.
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 20
