Every Boy's Got One

Travel Diary of Jane Harris

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

It’s actually kind of hard to write this with the suitcase wedged onto the seat between me and Holly, but it’s better than trying to make conversation, because everyone seems to be in a bad mood since we all checked our Blackberries after lunch. Well, except for me. Since Julio says The Dude is fine!

I’ll have to make sure I reimburse Julio for his medical expenses, of course. But just knowing that Dude was in a good-enough mood to bite him must mean he’s not missing me too much.

I don’t know what’s eating everybody else in this car….

Well, I sort of do. It turns out Mark, who was supposed to be the one in charge of bringing CDs to listen to in the car, forgot. So the only thing we have to listen to is Italian radio (Hello. You do not know what disturbing is until you’ve heard Italian rap) or the Queen CD Cal happened to have in his backpack.

Yes. Queen.

I have now heard “Fat-Bottomed Girls” twelve times. Holly joked that it’s going to be her and Mark’s wedding theme song.

Thank God Mark pulled over when we got to the foot of the mountains and let Cal take over. You never saw such narrow, twisty roads in your life. I thought I was going to heave. Thank God I had Dramamine with me.

Plus, every time we made a turn, Holly’s suitcase fell on me. Well, not really fell, since Holly was holding onto it, but it LEANED HEAVILY on me. By the time we pulled over for lunch, I was chafed from the stupid thing rubbing against my shoulder, and in a pretty bad mood myself… especially when I saw the restaurant Cal had pulled up in front of.

I mean, God forbid he should choose a place in an actual TOWN. Oh, no, not Mr. I’ve Backpacked Around the World With Nothing But a Razor and My Queen CD (and some condoms, I hope, if he makes a habit of porking supermodels at every stop with his ABNORMALLY LARGE APPENDAGE—if what Holly says is really true, which I doubt. She’s probably only saying it to make me like him. Well, it’s NOT going to work).

Anyway, Modelizer has to pick this ridiculous looking Ho-Jo type place with these plate-glass windows in the middle of nowhere, perched on a CLIFF, practically.

Only when we walked in—me trying to rub some life back into my shoulder—we saw that there were like a million people there, looking out the plate glass windows at this beautiful waterfall rushing right past the dining room.

And the waiter was totally nice even though we didn’t have a reservation, and sat us at a really lovely table right by the waterfall window. And instead of giving us menus, he just told us (in Italian, of course) what they were serving, which Holly and Cal said Si to, even though I didn’t understand a word.

And then the next thing I knew, a carafe of bianco frizzante appeared as if from nowhere!

And then the waiter brought a giant bowl of deliciously cheesy pasta, which he spooned out onto each of our plates, and which seemed to melt as soon as it reached my tongue.

And then he brought a HUGE fish, swimming in butter, for the table to share, and a giant bowl of crisp, fresh, vinegary salad, and all this bread, and the whole thing only cost—get this: twenty-eight euros.

That is five Roman Diet Cokes right there.

The real question is, of course:

Why aren’t more women in Italy fat? That’s what I want to know. Because the women in that restaurant looked totally normal weight.

Mark said it’s because they aren’t loading up on empty calories the way Americans do. You know, soda and fries and stuff like that.

And maybe so.

But a few more meals like that one, and I guarantee I won’t be fitting into my one-piece. Which would suck, because Holly says the villa’s got a kick-ass pool.

So then after lunch we walked around the parking lot a little to get our circulation back and take in the view, which was stunning. And I was standing there enjoying the sun on my face and listening to the rushing water when Cal—I mean, Large Appendage—came up to me, and was all, “About what you said last night…”

I assumed he meant what I’d said about Holly and Mark being so perfect for each other, and that he was going to apologize for saying otherwise—especially since they were over by the car bickering about how it was Holly’s turn to drive and Mark was saying how he was more comfortable with stick than she was and it was a totally cute argument that was making me long for my own soul mate with whom to bicker.

Only instead, he went, “Graziella Fratiani happens to own one of the most popular art galleries in Rome, and is both an enterprising businesswoman and a good friend. She is hardly a—what did you call her? Oh, yes. A skank.”

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT???? I was totally shocked. I just stood there looking up at him (why does he have to be so tall, anyway? And why are tall men always so… hot?) totally unable to think of anything pithy or witty to say. As usual.

And in a way he DID have a right to be mad. I mean, I don’t know Graziwhosits Fratiwhatever. Maybe she’s not a skank at all. Maybe she’s this totally kindhearted and generous woman who gives huge amounts of money to cancer research and volunteers at the local orphanage….

Yeah, right. No one in her thirties has thighs that thin without the help of the medical community.

And no one who’s had that much work done is hanging out with orphans.

Plus, no one who stops by guys’ hotel rooms for an afternoon quickie isn’t a skank.

And even though Holly had asked me to try to get along with Large Appendage, just for the trip, and is making him out to be this big tragic hero, on account of his ex leaving him for someone richer (I bet she regrets it now, if she saw that episode of Charlie Rose my mom was talking about), I looked up at him and before I could stop myself, was all, “Wow, really, one of the most popular art galleries in Rome?”

Cal: “Yes.”

Me: “And she didn’t, like, inherit it from her dad or get it in a divorce settlement from an ex-husband?”

Cal: (looking kind of chagrined) “Well. Yes. I mean, her grandfather started the business, but—”

Me: “I see. Well, it might interest you to know that there are women who’ve actually started their own businesses from scratch without any help from their fathers, and who’ve managed to land seven-figure development deals with the Cartoon Network due to their own hard work and perseverance.”

Which is all true. I mean, I don’t actually GET the seven figures unless the Cartoon Network picks up Wondercat as an animated series.

But he doesn’t have to know that.

Besides, even without those seven figures, I’m doing fine. Just as well as Grazi who sits. Probably.

And even if I’m not, the money is MINE. I earned it from MY hard work, not my grandpa’s. And so what if I live in a studio apartment? He doesn’t have to know that. What do I need a lot of space for anyway?

It’s just me and The Dude, after all.

He didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed, though. He was just all, “Regardless. You don’t have the right to call her a skank.”

So then I looked him dead in the eye—well, as close as I could, anyway, from my twelve-inch height disadvantage—and said, “Well, you don’t have the right to say Mark and Holly shouldn’t get married.”

“Actually,” he said. “I do.”

AND THEN HE STALKED AWAY!!! Before I could get another word in! Before I could stalk away!

Which actually is probably a good thing because when I tried to stalk away in the other direction, my Steve Madden heel slipped in the gravel and I nearly fell down and I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed hold of the fender of a Smart Car parked nearby.

He didn’t see, though.

Anyway, this pretty much settles it:

Cal Langdon = Spawn of Satan.

But at least now I know where we stand. And I will be able to begin taking evasive action. Obviously, from this moment on, I can never

a) Leave Cal and Mark alone in a room together

b) Leave Cal and Holly alone in a room together

c) Leave Cal alone anywhere

I will have to watch him like a hawk. It would be SO like him to drop unsubtle little hints about phenylethylamine and the dissolution of his marriage here and there in order to shake Mark’s conviction to go through with his.

And Holly, as I know only too well, is already wondering if she’s doing the right thing. I CANNOT let that man destroy the one actual solid romantic relationship left in the universe… well, except for my mom and dad’s, but ew, don’t want to think about that right now.

The only thing is, he obviously thinks he knows what’s best… not just for Mark, but for everybody. I mean, that bossy way he chose where we were going to have lunch, and then, once we were there, what we were going to have.

And yeah, it was delicious.

But still.

I have to find a way to let him know he is NOT in charge here—WITHOUT letting Holly suspect anything’s wrong. Because Holly’s worried enough about everything. If she finds out the best man doesn’t even think this wedding is a good idea, it’s all over.

I’ve got to prove to this guy that I am not at ALL impressed with the size of his member. His having a huge you know what does absolutely NOTHING to intimidate ME.

And you know, I don’t think his thing can really be all that big because it’s not like he walks all bowlegged or whatever. Curt Shipley’s was HUGE and you could see the sun shine between his inner thighs when he was coming toward you….

Oooooh, I have an idea. If his email is the same as everyone else’s who works at the Journal ….

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