Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe (2 page)

Friday, later in the afternoon

Dear Delia,

It’s a whole two hours since the last letter, and I wish I could at least report that we are flying over the Atlantic Ocean, but the truth is, we still haven’t left the DC airport. Yes, we did board, and yes, it was on time, and, yes, we even rolled down the runway, but then we had to stop because of a major thunderstorm in Chicago, which is where we’re supposed to get our flight to Rome. So we’re sitting here on the runway. Well, we’re not sitting on the runway. We’re in seats, in the plane. On the runway.

You may be wondering WHY we’re flying to Chicago at all. Of course, this is assuming you have some knowledge of geography, which is unlikely, since you hate that subject. So, I’ll explain all this at a level appropriate to your understanding—say, first grade? It’s like this: Our airport is in Washington, DC. (With me so far?) Chicago is WEST of DC, while Rome is EAST of DC. WEST and EAST are OPPOSITE directions. So, NOW, of course, you are thinking, “WHY would they fly in the direction that is AWAY from the place they are going?”

That’s a very good question, Delia! But I’m not going to tell you the answer. It has to do with airlines and hubs and cruise packages and it’s all MUCH too boring to talk about. I know this for a fact, because my mother talked about it for an hour. Finally, I had to resort to the only proven method for distracting her: Georgia Nicholson. I rooted through my pack until I found a copy of
Knocked Out by My Nunga Nungas
, which I opened and began reading. She forgot completely about her hub-and-cruise-package jag, and we went right into the same conversation we always have when she sees me reading (or re-reading) (or re-re-reading) a Georgia book. It went like this:

MY MOTHER: Those books are so inappropriate.

ME: But, Mom, you’ve never read one. Aren’t you judging a book by its cover?

MY MOTHER: Yes, you’re right. Let me borrow one, and I’ll read it.

ME: No!

Then she left me alone—as she always does—and I immersed myself in Georgia’s painfully familiar but nonetheless extremely humorous problems. It wasn’t as fun as reading out loud with you, late at night, in British accents, but it did pass the time, and bloody well. (Why do the Brits use the word “bloody” all the time? Ew.)

Speaking of Britishness, that was fun watching
Bridget Jones’ Diary
the other day. Except when my mother came home and had that fit about us watching an “inappropriate” movie. What I want to know is, IF she thought that movie was SO inappropriate then WHY did she leave it IN the DVD player when she left for work? And, if it’s SO inappropriate why did I hear her laughing hysterically when SHE was watching it the night before? Really, what kind of mother is THAT?

I’m wondering something. Are all parents as totally weird as mine? I mean, take the idea for this trip, for instance. Every other Catholic-Jewish (or Cashewish, as YOU say) kid I know has a confirmation, a bar mitzvah, or a bat mitzvah, because their parents do the, uh, normal thing and pick a religion. But my parents? They invent, for their daughters, the “not mitzvah,” an “educational coming-of-age trip.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m NOT complaining. I’m sure a trip to Europe is a whole lot more fun than CCD or Hebrew school, and I’m REALLY glad we saved up all this money so I could do it. I’m lucky, too, that they didn’t change their minds about the whole thing, which they almost did after Irene’s trip to Greece with my dad, when she called home every day, screaming (very expensively) about how she threw up all over a hydrofoil, and how they almost had to spend the night on the streets of Athens because their reservations got screwed up, and how a car suddenly appeared on the sidewalk and almost ran her over, and yadayada. It’s just that the thought of being away with only my mother is a little scary. I’m used to buffers—television, computer, music, telephone, dad, sisters, the snake.

My mother says there will be lots of teenagers on the cruise ship, but how will I ever get up the courage to introduce myself to strangers without you there to make me do it? As we both know, Delia, YOU are the social one. SO, the thought of being around a whole bunch of new people without my best friend is FRIGHTENING. You HAD to have KNOWN this, so WHY are you torturing me with this last (EXTREMELY BOSSY) order:

#4: MEET A CODE-RED EURO-HOTTIE.

WHY would I EVER agree to this?

Hm. I think the question is, actually: Why DID I ever agree to this?

Better question: How do I DO it?

I know, I know. You told me a million times. (How can I forget? I had to wrestle you to the ground to keep you from writing the instructions on my leg.) You meet a guy that’s Euro—that is, from Europe—and then you rate his level of hottiness on a color-coded scale. Sort of like the ozone and terrorism warning systems, only red means GOOD when it comes to a hottie, and not that you should stop breathing air or move into your basement.

Simple. Except for that “meet a guy” part. How do I do THAT? I think you have to be, well, sort of, uh, YOU to pull this off.

You know how Ms. Heath went on and on (and on) in Human Growth about those “raging teenage hormones” that change the balance of chemicals in our brains and make us feel different? (Which, by the way, is pretty much what is happening in a mentally ill person’s brain.) Well, I think that’s your problem. Not that you’re mental, but that you’re DIFFERENT lately. You are (and don’t take this the wrong way, or anything) OBSESSED with the opposite sex. That’s why it would be easier for YOU to find these Euro-hotties.

It’s NOT that I’m afraid of BOYS, Delia. I’ve played baseball since I was five, you know, and my teammates have ALWAYS been boys. Of course, we don’t TALK. And I’m not entirely sure they have even figured out I’m a girl, but whatever.

I know, I know, you keep telling me it will be EASY. That Euro-hotties will be everywhere in the Mediterranean. EVERYWHERE, you say. But I’m wondering something, Delia. How do YOU know so much about the Mediterranean? Have you ever BEEN to the Mediterranean? Huh? HUH?

I’m arguing with you, and you’re not even here.

SAD. Molto (that’s Italian for “very”) sad.

Friday night, or maybe early

Saturday morning, over the Atlantic Ocean

(I’m thinking Bermuda Triangle)

Dear Delia,

I’ve been inside airplanes for so many hours I have lost my grip on reality. You’re probably thinking that you can’t lose something you never had, and my answer to that is: Go away. Oh yeah, you’re already away. I mean, I’M away. OBVIOUSLY, I’m going stir crazy in this seat. Earlier, I had this incredible urge to do laps of high-knees in the aisles. (I know you think that’s a double funny—the way people look running with their knees going up in the air AND the way “high-knees” sounds—but that’s because you’re very immature). Unfortunately, high-knees are something you definitely have to do with a group of people, so I just walked up and down the aisle instead. After a while, though, the flight attendants appeared with the food and drink carts, which made me feel frighteningly like Ms. Pacman. So I had to sit back down.

We are on the way to Rome now, which I should be glad about since we almost missed the plane. Or I should say we THOUGHT we almost missed it, the WHOLE time we were running in the Chicago airport, which is about as big as the entire city of DC, I’m pretty sure, AND as crowded. We were really, really late getting to Chicago on account of the storm, but Mom kept telling me (over and over, even though I never expressed any concern, whatsoever) that the flight to Rome HAD to be delayed because ALL the flights were delayed, etc., etc. But when we FINALLY got to Chicago and saw the monitors in the airport, we discovered that the Rome flight was SOMEHOW, by some MIRACLE, on time, which I figured had to do with the Pope, since he lives in Rome. (Which I took as a sign that maybe I should consider Catholicism for a religious pastime.) We were at Gate 400, I think, and we needed to get to Gate 3, so we ran and ran and ran and got to the gate JUST IN TIME for the digi-sign over the counter to flash with the message: FLIGHT 70 TO ROME DELAYED. (So I lost interest in Catholicism. Oh well.)

I collapsed on the floor in a heap of human tiredness, and my mother—in an absurdly optimistic way—said, “Well, we’re getting there, aren’t we?” To which I replied, “Mom (gasp, gasp), we’re further from Rome than we were when we started the trip this morning.” She responded to this by saying, “Do you have to be so contrary?” And I responded to that by saying, “Yes, actually,” and I went on to tell her about the chemical imbalances in my brain, and how being a teenager is practically a form of mental illness. She didn’t say anything (I mean, what is there to say?), but just collapsed in a heap of human tiredness next to me.

Now we’re scrunched into VERY uncomfortable seats in the middle of this HUGE plane. I asked my mother why we couldn’t get window seats, and she started talking about airlines and hubs and cruise packages, so I told her to never mind. To make matters worse, my head is killing me. I think it’s doing the same thing as this water bottle I have here. When the plane took off, it started bloating out like it would explode (the water bottle, not the plane) (luckily). It was like that until I opened the top to drink some, and then it went back to its normal size. I wonder if it would help my head if I could open the top of it like that. (Clearly, I am experiencing oxygen depletion or something, so don’t mind me.)

I started watching the movie to distract myself, but then I realized that it’s one of those flicks about a beautiful model-like woman falling in love with a gray, wrinkled guy. I’m trying not to look at it, because I know she’s bound to kiss him at any moment—argh! (Or, as Georgia would say: erlack!) Even though I’m listening to music now on my headphones, I guess Mom thinks I’m still listening to the movie, because every once in a while she looks over at me and giggles—figuring, I guess, that we are sharing some girlish thoughts about the movie. (Yeah . . . uh-HUH.)

OMG! The person in front of me just threw up! This is worse than the movie! Get me OUT of here! Wait a minute! I’m on an AIRPLANE! I can’t go ANYWHERE! OK, I’ll just get OUT OF THIS SEAT and walk up and down the aisle for the next six hours or however long it’ll be before we get to Rome. OMG again! The food and drink carts are back! I’m STUCK! HELP! THEY’RE GOING TO EEEAATTTT MEEEEEE!!

Wishing you were here,