“C’mon, you can do better than that!” I tease.
“Florida Woman Rides to Italy in Cargo Hold, Crammed into Dog Crate by Airline Employee?” Mike snarks, appearing behind Michael in frame. He is perky and fresh out of the shower, towel around his waist, waxed pecks gleaming, coffee in hand.
“Florida Woman, Blacklisted by Airline, Travels to Italy in Cruise Ship Pantry, Gains Fifty Pounds,” suggests Michael.
“That’s the one,” I laugh. “What are you doing up?”
“I’ve got a flight to LHR at the ass crack of dawn, so we decided not to go to bed,” answers Mike. Ever since he had to memorize the three-letter code for every major airport in the world, he’s refused to say the actual names. We have to guess where he’s going. Suddenly he notices Michael’s taco bag. “Oh my God! You’re disgusting!” He seizes Michael’s taco. “I was in the shower for ten minutes. How did you get to Taco Shark and back?”
“I had it from yesterday, and you’ve never taken a ten-minute shower in your life!” returns Michael. A struggle for the bag ensues.
“You’ve been sneaking behind my back AND you’re eating day-old Taco Shark?”
“It’s just one taco, Mommie Dearest!” Michael says.
“There are two in the bag and you have one in your hand. That’s three.”
“They’re small tacos!” Michael complains.
“That’s not even a taco. It’s dog food in a GMO corn shell!” Mike yells.
“This fucking vegan diet was your idea. I grew up on fish for every meal! I’m not watching any more documentaries with you,” Michael yells back.
“Hello! I’m still here,” I say. Michael grabs the end of Mike’s towel. “Give it back or I’m going to show all of Italy your penis.”
“Go ahead, baby! I’m flying to Rome next week. Maybe you’ll get me a date!”
“Guys, please! I saw quite enough penises yesterday,” I plead. Suddenly I have their attention again.
“Really?”
“Do tell.” They both stare into the camera.
“Florida Woman Makes Golden Shower at Golden Hour Posing Naked with Super Models in a Fountain.” I shrug. They release the taco bag in unison.
“Whaaaaattt!!!!” and, “Holy shit!” and, “Caw!”
“You’re making that up,” says Mike. But Michael can’t stop laughing.
“No, Marina doesn’t make this shit up. It just happens to her. Remember the senior center and the stripper wearing balloons?” Michael and I had met back in college, working for the same party company. Michael was in the country as a student and shooting and editing party videos was putting him through film school.
“The senior center stripper debacle was an honest mistake,” I object. “And the birthday man was fine. It wasn’t a real heart attack.”
“Back to the fountain! I want details,” says Mike, “and I have to leave for MIA in fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to write the whole thing up. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Michael. I want to start a blog. A travel-adventure one.”
“Misadventure,” Michael corrects.
“Okay, yes, misadventure. With . . . well, sex and stuff,” I add.
“Oh good, you ditched the boring sexist book about historic females,” says Michael.
“Nope. Still doing it.”
“Well at least put a transgender person in there. Like Vladimir Luxuria, the first openly transgender member of parliament in Europe,” Mike suggests.
“Good idea, I’m writing this down,” I say.
“No you’re not. We can see you Marina. This isn’t a phone call,” says Michael.
“Michael can set up the blog for you!” Mike suggests.
“Absolutely,” Michael smirks, “I adore doing work for people who can’t pay.”
“Great! Thank you,” I say.
“Do they not have irony in Italy?” asks Michael.
“Marina, I gotta get dressed for work.” Mike waves at me.
“Mike—wait. Sorry about the airport. And thank you . . . I love Italy.”
“Good food, great wine, and gorgeous men—what’s not to love?” He winks and disappears into the bathroom.
“Email me some notes about what you want on the site, and your first post.” Michael, glancing over his shoulder, pulls another taco out of the bag. “Keep it simple.” Unwrapping the taco, he reveals a mushy, crunched shell mess.
“Simple, got it. Thanks!” I say. “I’m going to hang up now, so I don’t have to watch you eat that.”
“Okay, ciao! Don’t do anything Mike wouldn’t do,” Michael says.
“Don’t do anything Michael wouldn’t do!” Mike calls from the bathroom.
“Ciao! Love you guys!” I click off, smiling to myself. Suddenly I’m craving a taco, something I’ve not seen my entire time here. I wonder how Rosalie’s night went, but it’s too early to call. It’s 3:30 there. She’s just fallen back asleep after her nightly ice cream fix. She had tried to hide this habit for a long time, but I would find ice cream cartons in the fridge instead of the freezer, with a fork still inside. Sugar addict! I laugh to myself, missing her just a bit more. My hand fumbles around in the bag of cookies and I realize I’m holding the last one. (Okay, five things in common.)
I wonder if Will is awake. Probably not. Bad idea anyway. I have a small pang of guilt as I remember him standing in front of me, in the rain, the night before I left. I’ve just given away the book he’d brought me. Reclaiming it from Frantonio would mean swallowing my pride and I’m not ready to do that. My stomach rumbles. Right now, I’d rather swallow some lunch. The Alchemist is a popular book. It will be easy to find another copy.
Path of the Gods, Italy: Saturday, 3:36 p.m.
HELPFUL HINTS FOR HIKING IN ITALY:
1. Don’t eat a huge lunch right before, even if you skipped breakfast.
2. Sunscreen. Bring it.
3. Charge your phone battery before you leave.
4. Don’t load your backpack up with snacks from the kitchen, including a bottle of rosé that will be “fabulous to share with friends overlooking the sea.”
5. Sunscreen. Put it on.
6. Don’t drink all your water in the first half hour.
7. Not everyone can fully appreciate the nuanced humor and complicated symbolism of gibberish camp songs sung loudly.
8. Sunscreen. Put it on. Again. You’ve sweated it off.
9. If someone offers you a hat that ties under the chin, take it.
10. Don’t take any shortcuts.
My vote was for the Atrani to Ravello hike. (DURATION: medium, LEVEL: medium.) But Yang didn’t want to miss Il Sentiero degli Dei, “Path of the Gods.” (DURATION: long, LEVEL: brutal.) Regina had Piero #6 drive us to the trailhead. He’s also cute, but #4 is still my favorite. Number six will pick us up at the other end of the hike. There are seven hikers: Yin, Yang, and myself, Carlo, Mario (the new friend I peed on in the fountain), and two Spanish girls. I didn’t know I was signing up for a three-hour hike. But at least I got out of Regina’s without having to see Frantonio.
The trail winds through the slopes of Monte Peruso with stunningly beautiful, heavenly views, worthy of God. But, after two hours, I feel like I’m in hell. Every muscle in my body aches and my blistered, swollen feet have morphed into flippers of dead meat that I’m wearing on the end of my ankles, slapping clumsily one in front of the other with numb determination. The downhill route is from Agerola to Nocelle. We, however, are walking from Nocelle to Agerola. Of course. As we crest a hill, I see the path before us winding into the distance as far as the eye can see. It has no end. Not with short, steep sections, but with one long, punishing slant. Gradually upward and onward forever we walk. Once again I think of my aunt Catherine. At least I can tell her I did this. She probably did it when she was six. I can feel my intestines now revolting against the huge bowl of pasta I had right before we left. Ill-advised, but I was “carbing up” like a marathon runner.
“I’m just going to dash off the trail and take a quick . . . pee. I’ll catch up,” I call. Carlo is pretty far ahead with the other two girls. Mario is with us.
“We’ll wait,” says Yin.
“It’s fine, go,” I say, not wanting them timing my nature poo.
“Andiamo, I don’t need to see her pee again,” Mario grumbles.
“Go on, I’m right behind you,” I say. “I need to rest for a minute anyway.” Mario walks on and Yin and Yang follow. I scramble off the path and climb uphill through scrub until I find a clump of trees. The nature poo takes longer than I expect. Maybe because it feels so good not to be moving. I stand back up and look out. Ahead to my left, I can see the group winding its way along. Directly in front of me, the path, a gentle slope, and then a sharp cliff drop to the ancient Mediterranean. From here it looks peaceful, stirring gently in a lazy afternoon slumber. As I enjoy the rest and the view, I notice something else to my left. A different path. This smaller path cuts more sharply uphill, through denser clumps of trees, but intersecting with the main path further ahead. A shortcut! My heart leaps for joy because my feet cannot. Without a second thought, I move in the direction of the smaller path. If I keep on this trajectory, I should meet up with the main path in the next few minutes. This sort of thing never backfires. What could go wrong?
Path of the Demons, Italy: Saturday, 4:14 p.m.
I’ve renamed the hike. The smaller path was either one of those disappearing paths, designed to lure tourists to untimely deaths, or an oasis hallucination. The logical thing at that point would have been to immediately turn back and retrace my steps until I found the main path. However, I’m not the backtracking sort. This involves admitting a mistake. I pivot, push on, and persevere. It’s not until more bad choices have snowballed my original mistake into a hopeless, terminal mess, that I question my actions. This sort of bullheaded tenacity is great for winning political arguments at Thanksgiving dinners or playing Monopoly, but not so useful when hiking.
Currently, there is no signal on my phone. Most of the battery has been used up shooting videos of myself singing cheesy camp songs and trying in vain to email them home to my old sailing camp friends, Teresa and Frannie Fish Sticks. I realize that with each passing minute, my new friends are either moving farther away, or getting madder as they wait, hotly debating leaving me. Yin is certainly the only one in my corner. And frankly, I don’t like her chances against the others. I will soon be alone in the wilderness. Fortunately, I was the only Girl Scout in the troop whose father said, “You sold sixty-two boxes of cookies? Big deal. A vending machine can do that without moving. Now take these two rocks and learn how to start a goddamn fire.”
AT THIS POINT, IF: you are alone in a wild land . . .
YOU SHOULD: use the sun to navigate, or sit down and calmly wait for help.
DO NOT:
1. Eat all of the snacks in your bag.
2. Run blindly through the woods as if the Blair Witch has an Italian cousin.
3. Take your shoes off and climb to the top of the tallest tree you can find attempting to get a signal with your phone.
4. Mistake a vine for a snake, freak out, and drop your phone as you try to scramble back down the tree, scraping your arms and legs, losing your sunhat on a branch, breaking the last small branch, and cutting your foot as you land on a rock below.
5. Pour wine over your open wound because that’s what they do in the movies to disinfect things.
6. Attempt to reclaim your sunhat by throwing rocks straight up at it, which will miss the hat completely and rain back down on your head.
7. Drink the rest of the wine, because, WTF, the bottle is already open.
8. Decide to close your eyes, just for a few minutes.
Lying back into the crunchy dry grass, I feel certain someone will come find me. Better to just wait in one place. I decide to focus on: Nap of Exhausted Discouragement (DURATION: long, LEVEL: pro).
Path of the Demons, Italy: Saturday, 6:17 p.m.
The sun is beginning to set when I wake up. Why does it feel like I’m wearing a beauty mask that’s hardened? I touch my face and realize the mask is actually my red, sunburned skin. Fucking great. I’m going to die, alone in the Italian wilderness, looking like that imitation Barbie I’d left for a week in a bucket of sea water with my new red swimsuit when I was seven. The entire doll turned a shade of Pepto-Bismol, and my tears failed to move my mother. “Well, you wanted a ‘Pink and Pretty Barbie,’ now you got one. Next time, hang your suit up.”
Remembering that afternoon, I now notice the sky in front of me is turning a similar shade of pale pink. It deepens with every passing minute. So pretty, so peaceful. I stop worrying that I am lost without help of rescue. This place is so beautiful. I can stay here forever. Yes, maybe I will. The soft pink clouds are breaking apart and forming shapes out of fluffy cotton candy. A baby elephant. A gondola. A giant dildo. I haven’t had cotton candy in so long. Suddenly my mouth begins to water. The bushes beside me rustle.
“Hello.” Ryan Gosling emerges, shirtless, with hiking shorts and a backpack. The sweat glistening on his beautiful pecks.
“Do you have any cotton candy?” I ask.
“I just finished it,” he says apologetically. “What happened to your foot?”
“There was an anaconda in the tree,” I say, pointing behind me. When I look back, Ryan is now dressed as Indiana Jones: hat, whip, complete.
“That’s incredible!” he says. “They’re water snakes. But don’t worry,” he unsheathes his machete. “I’ll chop the head off, and make you a purse and boots.”
“Boots?” I ask, confused. “But my foot hurts.”
“Don’t worry. I’m with Doctors Without Borders.” Suddenly he’s at my side, now wearing doctor scrubs and cradling my foot in his hands. “It’s bad. Your bravery is very impressive.”
“I need to check the rest of me?” I ask. “Make sure there are no other injuries.”
“Good thinking,” he replies as I unbutton my shirt, exposing my red lacey bra (not the sweaty jogging bra I wore on the hike). His hands massage each of my breasts. He’s very thorough. “Your breasts are in superb condition. In fact, they’re the best breasts I’ve ever seen. I’ll need you to take off your pants now please.”
“You first,” I say.
“That’s fair,” he replies. He stands in front of me, pulls his shirt off, revealing (again) his gorgeously toned chest and abs. He then bends and pulls his—HONNNNK!!!! I’m yanked mercilessly from my mountaintop version of the bends. What the fuck was that? One thing is certain. It was not an animal noise. It was a human noise. A flood of relief washes through me. I put my shoes on quickly. Again I hear: HONNNNK!!!!
“Here! I’m here!” I yell weakly as I stand up, my knees nearly buckling under me. HONNNNK!!!! It sounds like a boat horn. Am I close to the water? I stumble toward it. My feet move independently of my body as I limp through the scrub, past trees, branches slapping me. “Here, I’m here, please help!” HONNNNK!!!!! The horn is louder. I push forward. “Help!” HONNNNK!!! Like an angry goose on a PA system, it beckons me. At last I burst through the brush and back out onto the path. And, there, standing in the middle of the path with an airhorn in her hand and a scowl on her face, is Yang. I rejoice. “Oh, thank God!” I say, leaning over on my knees to catch my breath, certain that my right shoe is full of blood. “I’m so glad to see you. My foot, I’m wounded . . . .” Yang walks right up to me, scowl still in place. She aims the horn at my head and: HONNNNK!!!!
Chapter 25
How Not to Dream
Casa di Pavone, Italy: Sunday, 6:27 a.m.
I am awake early, watching the sunrise from my window. Last night I fell asleep at nine, fully and completely relaxed. I slept like a baby. I only had one dream, which is unusual for me, as my mind is generally hard to turn off, even when I sleep. This dream was early in the morning, right before I woke up, so I still remember it well. I am lying in a hammock on the beach with Will, readi
ng him a poem I wrote. The words of the poem are unclear, but the intense feeling of frustration and disappointment I feel is vivid. Will is smiling in appreciation but he just doesn’t get it. Now, I’m angry and it’s raining. There is lightning. A summer thunderstorm as I stomp angrily down the beach. I look back, expecting him to be there, coming after me, the way he always does. But he’s not. My heart sinks rapidly and my whole body feels heavy. I sink to my knees in the white sand. I am now naked. Lightning flashes. I put my head in my hands and cry. Flash.
“Beautiful, now just tilt your head up a little, bella.” It’s Frantonio’s voice. I look up. The lightning flashes have become camera flashes. I am still wet and naked, but now in a white marble tub, surrounded by bubbles. Frantonio peers through his camera into my soul. “Tears?” He puts his camera down. He takes my chin in his hand, wiping my cheek. “It takes an artist to see true beauty inside another artist.” I gaze into his brown eyes. His voice is tender. “Others cannot truly know your intelligence, your potential, your soul. They see you as a mysterious, beautiful creature to be devoured, like this octopus here.” I suddenly notice a bright red octopus floating next to me, clinging to the side of the tub, bubbles on its head. I scream. I wake up.
Even now, I shudder as I think of its tentacles curling toward my naked body underwater. The dream was pretty transparent until it devolved into tentacle porn. Why had finding Frantonio with another woman upset me so much? Hadn’t I been doing strip teases with cat toys and fornicating in public parks with other boys just days earlier? I’d never even been on a date with Frantonio. It’s not like he was my boyfriend. That’s not what I wanted. Was it? I think about my dream. That’s what I wanted. To be seen the way he sees me. To feel the way I felt in the library.
I hear a car pull up outside. As the cool purple-pink of the sky grows warmer and the sun stretches its radiant arms through the clouds, gradually brightening the world, I shake off my jealousy and just admit the truth. I still wanted him. I will find him this morning and ask to speak to him alone.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 15