Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe by Jane Harrington
Authors: Jane Harrington
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
