“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 Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

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.

Or what if My Mark was Curt Shipley, who took me to the prom in 11th grade, and we made out in his Chevette afterwards, and then that summer, I found out he’d been making out, in that same Chevette, with Mike Morris after the fireworks on the Fourth of July?

Which means I must have turned Curt gay, because he certainly wasn’t gay BEFORE we made out.

Oh, my God. What if Curt Shipley was the man of my dreams, and I TURNED HIM GAY?????

Killing self now.

___________________________________________


e-mails

To: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry


Sorry I missed it when you called earlier. I was dead to the world. We still on for dinner tonight?

Cal

___________________________________________


To: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry


Yes, I happened to hear how “dead to the world” you were as I passed by your room on my way to meet the girls. I wasn’t aware that corpses were sexually active… at least, if I’m to assume the heavily accented female voice calling your name with ever-increasing volume as she climaxed was, indeed, coming from Room 204.

Mark

___________________________________________


To: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry


Oh. That was Graziella. She won’t be joining us tonight.

Cal

___________________________________________


To: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry


I am sorrier to hear that than words can adequately express. See you at eight.

Mark


PDA of Cal Langdon

It was a mistake to invite Grazi in. I should have insisted on going to her place. I’d forgotten how… loud she can be.

___________________________________________


ANTIPASTI

Insalatina mista all’aceto balsamico Carpaccio tiepido di manzo con parmigiano e rucola Medaglioni d’astice con insalata di stagione

PASTA

Fusilli con pomodori e basilico Garganelli con pesto, patate e fagiolini Tagliolini con zafferano, gamberoni e zucchine

SECONDI PLATTI

Medaglioni di vitello in crosta di basilico con purea de melanzane e parmigiano Filetto di manzo alle erbe aromatiche Tagliata di manzo con timballo de patate e cardamomo Filetto di rombo al forno con limone e capperi

INSALATE DI STAGIONE

SELEZIONE DI FORMAGGI ITALIANI

DOLCI

Bavarese al cioccolato bianco con crema cocoa alla liquirizia e latte di madorle Mousse al cioccolato fondente con sedano candito Crema al limone Budino al cocco con frutto della passione

___________________________________________


PDA of Cal Langdon

PDA of Cal Langdon

Insisted on paying for dinner, as spent majority of it pontificating on Sweeping Sands, and felt I had to make amends. Also, it was the least I could do after Mark’s revelation regarding Grazi. Eight hundred euro, but worth it—especially the wine.

Don’t think I made a friend of Ms. Harris, however. Which is a shame, because she looks rather fetching in heels—a point that was driven home rather hard when she stumbled outside the restaurant, and I was forced to pry her heel from where it was wedged between two cobblestones.

The tattoo IS of Wondercat. It’s the same cat’s head that she’s got on her luggage. I’ve never been one for tattoos, but hers is rather fetching.

I can’t believe I wrote the word fetching. This country goes to my head like prosecco.


Travel Diary of Jane Harris