Page 11 of Italy Can Bite Me

My eyes feel full of sand.Just a quick rest,I think, leaning against my suitcase.Just five seconds…

I jolt awake in a real-life game of Mario Kart. Our taxi driver is swerving like a lunatic, as he seems to think “speed limits” are mere suggestions and “lanes” are optional. He’s zigzagging through cars, whipping around Vespas, and narrowly dodging floral roadside memorials(RIP Alberto).

“…and that’s when I realized,” Aunt Deb says from the front seat, “you don’t need clothes for sunrise meditation! The monks were scandalized, but Kai—the divine Hawaiian Adonis that he is—declared me his muse for his bookThe Kama Kai Sutra.”

Oh God. Oh no. Is that her—

Confirmed: Her hand is definitely creeping up our driver’s thigh.

I’m about to close my eyes and pray for death when I witness—

A miracle. Milan is gorgeous!

Wow! Just, wow.

Row after row of rustic buildings the color of sun-toasted bread line the streets, their terracotta roofs marching toward a sky so perfectly blue it looks computer generated. Tiny bridges arch over canals that sparkle like someone dumped a metric ton of glitter into the water.

Quick, get a picture for Jar—

The taxi swerves like we’re dodging invisible missiles, then screeches to a halt. My phone goes airborne, performing a graceful triple axel before face-planting onto the floor mat.

“We’re here!” Aunt Deb announces, giving our driver’s upper thigh area(okay crotch)what I hope is a final squeeze.

As we enter the lobby, my jet-lagged brain processes the hotel’s over-the-top grandeur. The entryway is what happens when a Renaissance palace hooks up with old money and their love child gets raised by Instagram influencers. Marble floors so polished I can see my disheveled reflection staring back.Yeesh!The stunning frescoed ceilings have had centuries of housing rich people’s drama beneath them. And those cherubs painted on the walls? They’re totally judging my appearance, but all I can think isbedbedbedbedbed.

We open the door to our room, and two queen-sized pieces of heaven appear. My body, mind, and soul gravitate toward the crisp tucked corners and drool-free pillows.

“Don’t even think about it, missy. You’re not giving in to jet lag. We power through!”

“We have six whole hours until the welcome mixer,” I whine.

“Exactly!” She upends her suitcase into a clothing bomb on both beds. “Getting this level of pizazzzery takes time, preparation, and at least three different kinds of body shimmer.”

Pieces of clothing fly through the air with impressive velocity. A sequined something catches the light, temporarily blinding me.

“Options!” she announces, holding up three dresses. “This black number screams ‘seductress on the prowl,’ the red suggests ‘peel me off later,’ and this leopard print…” she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, “is a warning label that reads ’good decisions not included.’”

She zeros in on my suitcase full of snugly packed pastels like a heat-seeking missile. “Oh Katherine.” She tuts, diving in and destroying hours of careful folding. “Are you interviewing to be a librarian? Is this a cardigan convention? Where’s the sex appeal?”

“Jared likes the way I dress.”

“Honey, Jared needs a fashion intervention.”

“I’m not here to impress anyone,” I remind her for the billionth time.

“Clearly.” She holds up my modest one-piece swimsuit like it’s radioactive. “Was this suit personally designed by the Amish?”

“It’s practical!”

“So is a chastity belt, but that doesn’t mean you wear one to an Italian beach.”

She tosses the bathing suit aside with a dramatic shudder.

“I need a bath. Gotta get squeaky clean everywhere. These distinguished Italian gents aren’t gonna seduce themselves.”

I reach my hand into the pile and hold up a floral dress with a matching cardigan. “This is what I’m wearing tonight.”

“Then don’t stand next to me. I don’t want people thinking I’m here with someone’s grandmother,” she says as she saunters to the bathroom.

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