swallowed the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle in Belize. Adventure, to Mark, is a Star Trekconvention.
And he thinks he’s ready to get married? He’s ready for a therapist’s couch, is what he’s ready for.
Holly’s a great girl—I have no doubts about that. But marriage? No. Not now. The guy needs to have a life first. Then, if he and Holly were meant to be, they can attach the old ball and chain.
Obviously, I’m going to have to be subtle about this. Ms. Harris will undoubtedly be watching for any signs of mutiny. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. She looks kind of cute with her chin thrust out in righteous indignation.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. First fetching. Now cute. I think I need out of this car. And a drink.
She does have the worst problems with her footwear of any woman I have ever met. First the stiletto between the cobblestones last night, and today, the heel twisting in the gravel. I don’t know how she manages to remain upright.
And she has this unnerving habit of staring at my crotch. Yes, she’s short, but certainly not so much that this is where her eye level might naturally rest.
Ah, we’ve reached the exit where Frau Schumacher is going to meet us. She says she drives a silver Mercedes. Her grasp of English seems to have been derived from watching too many subtitled episodes of Murder She Wrote.
This should be an exceedingly entertaining week.
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Oh my God, we’re HERE. Villa Beccacia!
And it’s GORGEOUS.
I will admit, at first I had my doubts. That Frau Schumacher— I think she might actually be as old as some of those castles we zoomed by. And, um, she’s just SLIGHTLY in love with Large Appendage. It’s sickening! Just because he speaks German! We got out of the car to meet her on the shoulder of the exit, and she was all, “Vich vun is Cal?” and when he raised his hand, you could practically see her melt onto the asphalt.
And she’s got to be a hundred if she’s a day! Who knew Large Appendage’s magic works on centenarians?
The next thing I knew, the two of them were totally chattering away in German, leaving the rest of us out of the conversation.
Fortunately she had her great-grandson with her, Peter, who’s fourteen and speaks English… well, pretty well anyway. Don’t ask me why Peter is living with great-granny in Italy and not attending school, either here or his native Germany. Possibly she’s home-schooling him? He does look a bit like he’d get the you know what knocked out of him in an American high school. I mean, he’s a little on the chubby side and very soft-spoken, with an X-Men T-shirt under his jean jacket.
In any case, I didn’t think it would be polite to ask. About why he wasn’t in school, I mean.
Anyway, Peter asked us non-German speakers how the drive was, and if we were hungry, and said he and “Grandmuzzer” had stocked the fridge at the villa, so we should be all right until the “shops” opened again tomorrow, they’re all being closed today on account of it’s Sunday.
Mark asked him about liquor—you can tell sitting shotgun while Holly drove had worn away his last good nerve—and Peter said, looking confused, “Vell, I zink zere are many bottles in the house now.”
Mark looked visibly relieved.
Then Frau Schumacher said for us all to get back in the car and follow her. So we did. And we were driving along, me not being able to help notice that there was a big wall of clouds climbing over the nearby, castle-crested hill, and realizing I probably wasn’t going to be able to squeeze in an evening swim, when all of a sudden Holly went, “Look! The Adriatic!”
And there it was, this beautiful slice of sapphire blue, right there! There was no one on the beach, because being the middle of September, it’s off season, of course… even though it’s still in the 80s, temperature-wise (or the twenties, if you’re going Celsius, like the
And he thinks he’s ready to get married? He’s ready for a therapist’s couch, is what he’s ready for.
Holly’s a great girl—I have no doubts about that. But marriage? No. Not now. The guy needs to have a life first. Then, if he and Holly were meant to be, they can attach the old ball and chain.
Obviously, I’m going to have to be subtle about this. Ms. Harris will undoubtedly be watching for any signs of mutiny. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. She looks kind of cute with her chin thrust out in righteous indignation.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. First fetching. Now cute. I think I need out of this car. And a drink.
She does have the worst problems with her footwear of any woman I have ever met. First the stiletto between the cobblestones last night, and today, the heel twisting in the gravel. I don’t know how she manages to remain upright.
And she has this unnerving habit of staring at my crotch. Yes, she’s short, but certainly not so much that this is where her eye level might naturally rest.
Ah, we’ve reached the exit where Frau Schumacher is going to meet us. She says she drives a silver Mercedes. Her grasp of English seems to have been derived from watching too many subtitled episodes of Murder She Wrote.
This should be an exceedingly entertaining week.
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Oh my God, we’re HERE. Villa Beccacia!
And it’s GORGEOUS.
I will admit, at first I had my doubts. That Frau Schumacher— I think she might actually be as old as some of those castles we zoomed by. And, um, she’s just SLIGHTLY in love with Large Appendage. It’s sickening! Just because he speaks German! We got out of the car to meet her on the shoulder of the exit, and she was all, “Vich vun is Cal?” and when he raised his hand, you could practically see her melt onto the asphalt.
And she’s got to be a hundred if she’s a day! Who knew Large Appendage’s magic works on centenarians?
The next thing I knew, the two of them were totally chattering away in German, leaving the rest of us out of the conversation.
Fortunately she had her great-grandson with her, Peter, who’s fourteen and speaks English… well, pretty well anyway. Don’t ask me why Peter is living with great-granny in Italy and not attending school, either here or his native Germany. Possibly she’s home-schooling him? He does look a bit like he’d get the you know what knocked out of him in an American high school. I mean, he’s a little on the chubby side and very soft-spoken, with an X-Men T-shirt under his jean jacket.
In any case, I didn’t think it would be polite to ask. About why he wasn’t in school, I mean.
Anyway, Peter asked us non-German speakers how the drive was, and if we were hungry, and said he and “Grandmuzzer” had stocked the fridge at the villa, so we should be all right until the “shops” opened again tomorrow, they’re all being closed today on account of it’s Sunday.
Mark asked him about liquor—you can tell sitting shotgun while Holly drove had worn away his last good nerve—and Peter said, looking confused, “Vell, I zink zere are many bottles in the house now.”
Mark looked visibly relieved.
Then Frau Schumacher said for us all to get back in the car and follow her. So we did. And we were driving along, me not being able to help notice that there was a big wall of clouds climbing over the nearby, castle-crested hill, and realizing I probably wasn’t going to be able to squeeze in an evening swim, when all of a sudden Holly went, “Look! The Adriatic!”
And there it was, this beautiful slice of sapphire blue, right there! There was no one on the beach, because being the middle of September, it’s off season, of course… even though it’s still in the 80s, temperature-wise (or the twenties, if you’re going Celsius, like the
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