Every Boy's Got One

PDA of Cal Langdon

PDA of Cal Langdon

Insisted on buying lunch, as everyone in our party was completely dejected (excepting myself, of course).

It seems that Italian bureaucracy is doing my job for me, insofar as keeping Mark and Holly from wedded bliss (or bust). It appears the young couple cannot be wed unless they get a specific stamp on a form that can only be secured at the American embassy back in Rome. Their choices are to skip the whole thing or pile back into the car and drive back to Rome tomorrow.

At this point, Mark seems to be leaning toward making the trip. Surprisingly, it’s his lady love whose resolve seems to be flagging. I wonder if Holly is quite as enthusiastic about the idea of marrying Mark as I—and her friend Jane—once presumed.

This, at least, explains why Ms. Harris insists upon carrying on our conversations via text. She must have known that her friend’s enthusiasm was not all it should be.

And I must say, if a small detail like a stamp on a form and an eight-hour drive are enough to drive Ms. Caputo into such dudgeon, perhaps Mark really is better off single.

The girls are in the ladies’ room, doing whatever it is women do when they enter such facilities together. Mark is on his cell with the car rental agency in Ancona. Apparently, the replacement vehicle New York Journal promised him earlier this morning is no longer available. Good thing he called before we made the trip.

Lunch was delicious, by the way. We found a small family-run establishment popular with the many accordion-factory workers in town. For twenty euros total we enjoyed an exquisitely prepared lemon pasta, grilled scallops, insalata caprese, and a carafe of bianco frizzante. We received a number of odd looks, to be sure, from the natives. This is clearly a restaurant that doesn’t see many Americans.

And clearly has never heard of a non-smoking section.

Still, a pleasant meal, in all.

Now, I presume, we shall be trekking back to town hall to argue some more with the presiding officials. With any luck, we’ll be joined by Inga Schumacher—taking this tragi-comedy to a whole new level of hilarity—and her great-grandson, who seems to have glued himself to our sides… not that his nearconstant presence seems to bother Ms. Harris. In fact, I’m starting to believe she actually likes having the kid around. Peter’s presence makes it very difficult for me to say all the things I’d like to say to the object of his devotion….

Perhaps this is just as well. I always seem to be thinking—and saying—the oddest things around that woman. Telling her I think she’s cute when she’s angry? What was I doing? I NEVER say that kind of thing, much less write it.

That’s right. She has it in writing, permanent proof of my idiocy.

I ought to be shot.

Especially since it’s more than clear that she thinks I’m—what was it? Oh, yes. An ass. That’s very nice. Being called an ass by a woman who makes her living drawing a cartoon of a cat. Excuse me, did I create something that people have forever since been forcing me to look at, dangling from suction cups on the back windshield of their car? No, I did not.

It’s all this damned fizzy wine. That’s what it is. I just need a beer. Maybe this afternoon, since it doesn’t look as if we’ll be changing cars in Ancona, I’ll talk Mark into going to a bar with me—there’s that Crazy Bar and Sexy Tattoo Shop in Porto Recanati—and we’ll talk this whole marriage thing out over a couple of cold ones….

Though I think I’ll keep my thoughts about Ms. Harris to myself. And the fact that today she’s got on a pair of shoes I haven’t seen before. Open-toe, of course, with these pink straps that criss-cross over the cat tattoo—

I need some air.