Page 10 of Italy Can Bite Me

“The seat belt sign is on!” I protest, but she’s already sashaying down the aisle like it’s a Milan runway. I’m left alone with her scattered belongings and what I’m pretty sure is enough contraband to get us arrested in several countries.

I pull out my binder and flip to my freshly written Win Back Jared plan, wishing I could ignore the fact that my seventy-two-year-old aunt packed more condoms than clothes.

Operation Win Back Jaredis simple:

1. Post amazing Italian adventure photos.

2. Show how spontaneous I’ve become.

3. Make him see I’m the best thing he’s ever lost.

4. Wait for the groveling to begin.

My pen hovers over the page as I consider potential photo opportunities. Maybe something with gelato or a shot of me laughing by the Tower of Pisa—

A burst of laughter comes from business class. Aunt Deb has somehow procured a glass of champagne and is now demonstrating her yoga skills in the aisle.Damn, she’s flexible.

I turn back to my page, trying to focus. Jared’s last words echo in my head:“I can’t spend the rest of my life with a person who can never be spontaneous.”

Once again Aunt Deb’s laugh pulls my attention. This time she’s leading an impromptu salsa class down the walkway, using her scarf as a prop while her aged Adonis pulls her in and dips her.

Surely there’s some genetic material that Aunt Deb and I share—some morsel of carefree DNA that should make me effortlessly free-spirited like her. I mean, I’m on this trip without any advance notice, and that’s pretty damn spontaneous, right?

I start listing potential Instagram captions:Embracing the moment!#whimsical #ItalianAdventures #UnexpectedVacation #Serendipity!

This scheme will work.

Nothing planned here, nope, nothing at all.

***

Jetlag?Moreliketravel-assault fatigue. My eyelids feel weighed down by tiny cement blocks, and my brain has turned into risotto. It’s early, or late, or both—who the hell knows?

But wait—Operation Win Back Jaredneeds its first Instagram masterpiece. I struggle with my phone, attempting to snap that perfectjust arrived in Italyglow. There’s the selfie I want and the selfie I end up with, which has…

Total mugshot vibes.

My hair is staging a rebellion, and my saggy eye bags are the kind of knockoffs that even Canal Street wouldn’t sell.

I stumble off the plane, barely registering the flight attendant’s chipper “Benvenutoto Italy!” Meanwhile, Aunt Deb dances through the Malpensa airport like she’s starring in her own travel show.

“Katie, darling, keep up!” she calls over her shoulder, as I struggle to maneuver both our carry-ons because she “simply must keep her hands free for greeting Italy properly.”

This woman haswaytoo much energy! It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open and my feet moving. The Milan airport is a blur, a hazy mess of people and luggage, and not even a triple shot of Italian espresso can save me now.

The customs line snakes around like a drunk anaconda, but Aunt Deb somehow charms her way to the front. She’s chattering away in Italian, but I don’t know—every word sounds suspiciously made up. I hold my passport upside down against the plexiglass, my brain too foggy to function.

“Per quanto tempo si ferma?”the officer asks.

I stare at him like he’s speaking in emoji.

He sighs. “How long you stay?”

“Fourteen days,” I mumble. Actually fifteen, but day fifteen starts at four a.m., which is both inhumane and cruel, so I refuse to count it.

I’m overloaded with bags, struggling to keep up. Who knew sleep deprivation felt so much like being drunk?

I blink, and suddenly we’re outside. I hear Aunt Deb shouting,“Per favore, potete chiamarmi un taxi!”

---