Meg Cabot - Every Boy’s Got One

Wait. That’s not a number. The guy’s putting a sign up on the glass. What’s it say?

PDA of Cal Langdon

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been reduced to. I’m in Rome, possibly one of the most gastronomically diverse cities in the world, renowned for its cuisine, the long and languid lunch hour…

And I’m having warmed over eggplant pizza at Amici Amore, a ubiquitous Italian fast-food joint.

There’s a VIDEO ARCADE in the back.

I should have put my foot down. I should have explained that when a Roman hangs a sign that says the office will be closed until a certain hour, he absolutely means it.

But no. She kept insisting. She’s convinced if we scarf down a quick meal and get back to the embassy, we will somehow move up further in the line. Even though there is no line, and she is, in fact, holding a number that will doubtlessly not be called until tomorrow, or possibly next week.

Why didn’t I insist? This trip didn’t have to be an entire waste. We could be having a leisurely, romantic lunch in some restaurant’s cozy back garden right now—listening to doves coo rather than the sound of asteroids being blasted by a computer-generated laser gun—enjoying the sunshine instead of the obscene purple neon of this place.

Why did I let her have her way? Especially when her way is so often so very, very wrong?

I don’t even like eggplant.

I have to take a stand. When she gets back from the ladies’ room, I will take a stand. I’ll tell her this whole scheme is destined for failure. I’m going to tell her that this is a ridiculous waste of time, and that we’re heading back to the villa to salvage what’s left of our vacation time. I’m going to tell her—

Here she comes.

Oh. She says we’re leaving.

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Stupid restaurant! Stupid Rome! Stupid Italy!

What is the DEAL with the bathrooms here???? Seriously. I had to go at that stupid Amici Amore, so I head on off to the ladies’, and first off, the whole place is lit by black light— why? Oh, because (Cal just told me) it’s to make it impossible for junkies to find a vein if they take it into their heads to shoot up in there.

But that’s not the worst of it. Oh, no!

THERE WAS NO TOILET. No. None. Where a toilet ought to be was a hole. A HOLE IN THE FLOOR. With two cut-out footprints on either side of it, and two bars to hold onto.

Okay, maybe ITALIAN WOMEN know what this is. But I’ve never seen anything like it, and I have NO IDEA what you’re supposed to do there. Obviously you put your feet on the cutouts. And clearly you’re supposed to hold onto the bars.

And then do what? Squat?

I DO NOT SQUAT.

Oh my God, what is WRONG with this country?

Cal says he knows of another restaurant we can go that isn’t far from here, and that he swears will actually have a toilet in the ladies’ room. I’m so traumatized, I’m actually letting him drive me there. A HOLE. A HOLE. What does Amici Amore even MEAN, anyway? BIG HOLE HERE?

Oh. Cal says it means Love Friends (amici= friends, amore = love).

Love Your Friends. Ha! Fuck Your Friends is more like it. By telling them to go there. TO SEE THE HOLE.

Where is he TAKING me, anyway? I told Cal we better not go too far from the consulate, since I’m SURE they won’t actually be taking a three-hour lunch. I mean, they’re AMERICAN, for crying out loud. That sign was probably just a scam to throw off the people with dumb, petty problems like lost passports or whatever. It won’t daunt ME. I’m in this for the long haul. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to sit there until I get—

Oooooh, what a beautiful building!

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Hotel Eden

Sesto piano, la nostra terrazza ristorante da dove si puo ammirare uno dei piu bei panorami sulla Citta Eterna.

Gli altri ce la invidiano, noi ve la offriamo. Oltre all'incantevole panorama, "La Terrazza dell'Eden" e da segnalare per i prestigiosi riconoscimenti tra cui uno Stella Michelin.

Hotel Eden

The Sixth Floor of Rome:

Our Restaurant which will delight you with the best Mediterranean cuisine accompanied by the unrivalled view over the Seven Hills of Rome.

“La Terrazza dell’Eden" is one of the most prestigious gourmet Restaurant in Rome and is proud to be awarded with one Michelin Star.

___________________________________________

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Degustazione

Carpaccio scottato di branzino e capesante con olio extra vergine al basilico

Mezzi rigatoni grezzi all'aragosta con crema di zucca

Ravioli di barbabietola con polenta e taleggio

Coda di rospo al forno con speck e lenticchie

Medaglioni di vitello in crosta di pecorino senese con zucchine croccanti

Crostata aromatizzata con mele e mandorle, semifreddo alle nocciole e Ferrari Maximum Demi-sec

Caffe

Delizie friabili

Gourmet Menu

Warm sea-bass and scallops carpaccio, extra virgin olive oil flavoured with basil

Rigatoni with lobster and pumpkin cream

Beetroot Ravioli filled with polenta and taleggio cheese

Oven-baked monkfish with smoked ham and lentils

Veal medallions in a Pecorino cheese crust, crispy courgettes and marjoram

Apples and almonds on pastry, hazelnuts semifreddo and Ferrari Maximum Demi-sec sauce

Coffee

Petits fours

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PDA of Cal Langdon

Now this is more like it. Sunshine. A nice prosecco. Panoramic views of the entire city. La Terrazza Dell- Eden at the Hotel Eden never fails in a pinch. Since 1889, it’s been pampering guests, battle-worn from Roman sightseeing and psychically scarred by the traffic. This is where we ought to have come from the start.

Let that be a lesson to us all: Never let an artist choose the restaurant.

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Oh my God, I totally know this place! This is where Britney Spears and Pink stayed when they were filming that Pepsi commercial in the Colosseum, the one they showed at the Superbowl! And the photographers got all these shots of Britney up on this very sun deck, hanging out with that married dancer.

Cool.

It’s just GORGEOUS here, all yellow and green, with this view to DIE for. You can see all the way to the Vatican. You can wave to the Pope. Hi, Pope! Holly’s mom sends her love! I’m sure Dan Brown didn’t mean it!

And prosecco… yum. The food is delicious, too.

But we better hurry up. The office opens again in 45 minutes. Cal wants to go to the Spanish Steps, which are down the street from here. Like we’ve got time for sightseeing.

Still, I don’t want to say no.

He’s being so NICE, all of a sudden. I mean, taking me here, and showing me this place, and buying lunch, and just being… well, like a nice guy, for a change.

And he looks so… well, hot too, sitting there in his jeans and chambray shirt. He finally got his air under control, I see—which is good, if he ever hopes to pass for Mark, who doesn’t have as much of it as he does—hair, I mean. The sun is really bringing out his golden highlights.

And he’s telling such funny stories, about things he and Mark did in school. You can hardly tell he’s the same person who just the other day was insisting that marriage is an outdated institution, and that love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain.

You know, between this and the cat thing last night, I’m almost starting to LIKE him.

Maybe that’s just the prosecco. God, this is so romantic , sitting up here on top of the city, looking down on all the treetops and ancient ruins, drinking sparkly wine and eating these luscious olives. I can’t believe Holly and Mark are missing it—

Holly and Mark! We’ve got to go!!!!

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To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Claire Harris <charris2004@freemail.com >

Re: You

I don’t know if you’re just ignoring me now, or if something’s happened to you. I hope it’s the former, of course. I was flipping through the channels last night and I happened to see that on the Travel Channel they were doing a show on the lesser-traveled regions of Italy, so I watched it, and sure enough, they did a story on Le Marche, and they said there are WOLVES there.

Yes. WOLVES. In the hills.

I hope there are no hills near Holly’s uncle’s villa, and that if so, there are no wolves in them. And that you’re keeping your window closed at night. Because wolves can jump very high. At least according to this documentary.

I suppose you aren’t writing back because you’re angry about my telling Holly’s mother that she is gaining a son, not losing a daughter. I still don’t see how Marie is going to extrapolate from this that Mark and Holly are eloping in Italy.

But I just thought I’d let you know that it looks like Marie is going to have a lot more important things to worry about soon: Daddy and I were just at the Promptcare for a splinter he got in his foot (I TOLD him the dining room floor needs sanding) and ran into Holly’s sister-in-law Brandy, who was there with little Heather because she’d stuck a Red Hot up her nose.

Heather, not Brandy.

Anyway, according to Brandy, the Caputos are fit to be tied because Darrin just announced that he’s getting married. To his boyfriend, Bobby. Apparently, they are having some sort of commitment ceremony on the steps of City Hall to rub the mayor’s nose in it.

And I already phoned her—I HAD to, to let her know Angela di Blasi has the flu and book club is going to have to be at my house this week—and she was STILL in hysterics over the fact that Darrin is inviting the paper to cover the event and Father Roberto will know Darrin is gay.

I hope you’re happy now.

Nancy Jansen wants to know if you’ll autograph a copy of Wondercat: The Early Years for her nephew Jeff. I told her you would. She’s sending it to you in New York with a self-addressed stamped envelope so you can just pop it in the mail back to her when you’re done.

Love,

Mom

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Those Spanish Steps weren’t anything so big. I mean, they were all smooth from being walked on so much, since they’re like three hundred years old. They are definitely a safety hazard. I nearly twisted my ankle a couple of times going down them.

And yeah, okay, so Shelley’s house was right next door. Shelley. Wasn’t he the one whose wife wrote Frankenstein?

I don’t know why Cal got so tight-lipped when I asked him this. How am I supposed to know stuff about literature? I was an art major. I bet he doesn’t know that Michelangelo got so sick of people complimenting him on his David statue’s hands that he cut them off.

So I asked him if he knew this, and he said he didn’t. Also that he didn’t understand why, if so many people liked the hands, Michelangelo would cut them off.

So I explained about how artists want people to view their work as a whole, not parts. If people were too busy concentrating on the hands, they wouldn’t see the rest of the statue. And that’s not what Michelangelo wanted… to make a great pair of hands. He wanted to make a great statue.

I could tell he was impressed by this. I think it made up for when I told him about the Britney thing back at the Hotel Eden. He’d looked kind of scared then.

Whatever! I can’t help it if he’s the Wall Street Journal and I’m Us Weekly . I obviously have to know SOMETHING or I wouldn’t have had to switch over to quarterly income tax returns this year, would I?