Ciao, amore XXXX
Grazi
PDA of Cal Langdon
PDA of Cal Langdon
Art sent the UK cover design for Sands today. It’s got a very romantic feel to it that I’m not sure is entirely appropriate, considering the book’s subject matter. Well, I suppose if it tricks unsuspecting readers into buying it, expecting it to be a work of fiction about a mummy’s curse instead of a nonfiction treatise on Saudi Arabia’s tiring oil fields, all the better.
I can’t believe Aaron Spender is still among the living. I’d have assumed Barbara Bellerieve bit his head off and ate it on their wedding night. I still marvel at my own lucky escape from her clutches. If it hadn’t been for that Daisy Cutter…
And Mary. I guess that grand I sent her last month didn’t last very long. What the hell does she do with it all? It’s not like she ever has anything to show for it. She can’t smoke it ALL away, can she? I wish Mom and Dad had taken some control over her earlier in her adolescence. She probably wouldn’t still be living out of some guy’s van at the age of twenty-five.
But I guess they weren’t necessarily the best role models, as parents go, considering Dad’s obsession with the track and Mom’s conviction that she’s the next Grandma Moses. It’s surprising, actually, that Mary isn’t a bigger flake than she is….
Much like some people I could mention. It was amusing, coming from the airport, to hear Holly’s friend squeal at the sight of every monument—and every passing billboard. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone get so excited about a sign for mouthwash. I thought she was going to have a coronary when we drove by the Colosseum. I’m not entirely sure which impressed her more… the fact that it’s stood for over two thousand years, or the fact that Britney Spears was recently there, filming a television commercial (at least, that’s what Holly’s friend announced to all of us).
There is something refreshing about American enthusiasm for antiquity. I guess I forget, having been away so long, that there is still a place on this earth where there are no structures older than half a millennium. It must be impressive to see something that existed fifteen hundred years before the Mayflower….
Of course, if we hadn’t slaughtered all the Indians and destroyed their native lands, it would be different.
Good Lord. It just occurred to me. What if that wasn’t what she was impressed by? What if it was the Britney Spears thing?
But no. No, that couldn’t be. Not even an artist could be that shallow.
I’ll have to remember to change money later, if I can find a place with a decent exchange rate. I blew my last euro on that cab ride—
That was the concierge. Grazi is here. That didn’t take her long. I called her less than half an hour ago. Still, I thought she’d be coming over later tonight, not NOW.
I guess it would be ungentlemanly of me not to see her, though….
___________________________________________
To: Julio Chasez <[email protected]>
Fr: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Re: The Dude
Hi, Julio! Me, again! Just checking in, since I haven’t heard from you. How’s The Dude doing? Does he like that salmon pate I got him? I figured he’d appreciate a few treats, with me being gone. I hope you found the Pounce. I left it on the counter, with the oven mitts. Really, you should only need the Pounce if he tries to attack. Which he really shouldn’t, I mean, he KNOWS you. You two are buds. Right?
Well, let me know how he’s doing as soon as you get a chance. No biggie. You can just email, if you want. Or call. From my phone in the apartment. That way it won’t cost you anything. Don’t worry about the time difference, you can call at any time. I don’t mind being woken up, if it’s for The Dude.
J
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
Oh my God, this place is FABULOUS! When I woke up from my nap, it was two, and I called Holly to see if she was hungry, and she was, but Mark was still asleep, and Modelizer/Armrest Nazi didn’t pick up his phone (much to my relief) when Holly tried him… you know, to be polite, and not exclude him.
So Holly and I met in the hall and the two of us just strolled right out onto tiny Via di Buffalo, which I suppose is named after the mozzarella, which is made from buffalo milk, at least in Italy, and we started walking, and in half an hour, not five blocks from our hotel, we’d seen the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navone, and a bunch of other sights I can’t even remember, as they all involved monolisks with bumpy writing on them.
But that’s not all! We saw portrait artists, right on the street—good ones, not like the cheesy ones in New York—and people eating gelati, and groups of senior citizens following around tour guides holding a flag, and I threw money in the Fontana di Trevi—I don’t know how much, because it was Italian— which apparently guarantees you’ll be back there someday. Which I hope is true, because it’s a kick-ass fountain, almost as cool as Ozzy’s pool on The Osbournes .
And we were solicited by a humpbacked dwarf with no shirt on and a tattoo that said Antonio on his shoulder, and I gave him some money, and then I bought a bottle of Diet Coke that cost five euros, which is more than a six-pack back home, and I realized I gave the humpbacked dwarf enough money to buy FIVE Italian Diet Cokes.
I really need to get a grip on this money thing. Although I’m sure Antonio (if that’s his name) needs the money more than I need Diet Coke.
And then Holly wanted her picture taken with a hot guy dressed as a gladiator in front of the Pantheon, so I started to take one, but then this very blowsy older woman dressed in a toga came over and demanded ANOTHER five euros, just for letting me take the picture with her hot gladiator boyfriend! The guy just stood there looking all sheepish while this went on, but Holly was all, “I want it, it’ll be funny,” so I forked over five more euros and took the picture.
Holly said later that right before I took the picture, the gladiator handed her his plastic sword, and when she asked him, “What should I do with this?” he went, in a long-suffering voice, “Keel me. Please.”
Which in and of itself was totally worth five euros.
And everywhere we went, lots of Italian vendors came up to us, another one every five seconds, it seemed, going “Bag, California?” I guess because we look like we’re from California, even though of course we’re not, though we are sort of tan thanks to Holly and Mark’s share in East Hampton.
Only how they knew we were American I can’t tell, though we were talking a lot, I suppose. And I am apparently the only girl in all of Rome who wears Steve Madden slides.
But then Mark called on Holly’s cell and said he was hungry and Cal wasn’t answering the phone in his room, so we agreed to meet Mark for a snack.
