Page 52 of Italy Can Bite Me

I watch through my camera lens in embarrassment and awe as my(mostly)dignified seniors transform into a geriatric flash mob of statue harassers. Margaret Dawson moves with shocking speed for someone who complained about her hip all morning, practically parkouring into position behind David’s marble assets.

“Time for some hands-on art appreciation!” she announces, throwing down her purse and striking a pose where it looks like she’s grabbing David’s ass and motorboating his butt cheeks.

“You’re a supermodel!” Chester cheers her on as he directs the shot. “You’ve got the whole world in your hands.”

“More like the whole moon,” her sister Agnes cackles.

Mrs. Thomas adjusts her bifocals, peering at David’s anatomy. “Do you think Michelangelo…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Polished everything himself?”

SNAP.

The photo catches her holding her glasses up to David’s marble goods as though she’s appraising diamonds at Tiffany’s.

“Our turn!” Deborah announces, yanking Howie forward. Together they form a heart shape with their hands around David’s package like they’re framing the world’s most inappropriate Valentine. “You know what they say. A hard man is good to find!”

“Good thing you found me, sweet tea. Two blue pills and I’m ready twenty-four seven,” Howie says with a wink.

Stan nods wisely from his spot next to Rose. “I remember being young—didn’t need any pills—my little soldier was always eager to serve.”

“Stanley!” Rose cuts him off with a scandalized giggle.

Chester guides Rose, our sweetest group member, into position. “Okay stand right here…”

She cups her hands beneath David’s exposed bits like she’s about to catch holy water. “Is this right, Chester? Should I offer some support? Poor thing’s been standing here so long out in the cold…”

“Perfect! Now look surprised, like you just got an eyeful of what’s under his fig leaf.”

SNAP.

Pretty sure I’m going straight to hell for that shot.

The security officer appears to be having the same crisis I am, caught between professional duty and the infectious joy of seniors treating art like a Magic Mike show. Right when I think he’s shutting us down, he purposely glances the other way.

Chester pulls a feather duster out of his bag and poses as if he’s dusting off David’s package.

SNAP.

He distributes fake mustaches to our crew, who eagerly hold them up for a group pic. Chester whips out an extra ‘stache and holds it up to David, forcing him to be part of the fun.

And then—sweet mother of tortellini—Katie steps up.

“How’s this angle?” She tilts her head so David’s marble bits appear to rest on top of her head like she’s getting teabagged and loving it.

My jaw drops as she crosses her eyes and contorts her face—sticking out her tongue to complete the goofy photo.

SNAP.

Chester wipes tears of laughter from his cheeks. “Gladys would have loved this.”

“To Gladys!” The cry goes up again, and this time even the German tour guide joins in.

David stands stoically through it all, probably wondering what he did to deserve this particular form of immortality. Though I swear that marble face looks more amused than usual.

***

Thelate-afternoonsunbathesFlorence’s cobblestones in warm hues. The piazza bustles around us—tourists snap selfies, street performers strum lively tunes, and impatient locals weave skillfully through the crowd. Katie’s oblivious, positioning my camera for the hundredth time while I try not to stare at the light dancing in her hair and turning it into sunlit silk.

These staged fake-boyfriend photos are killing me slowly. Not even the spectacular view of the Arno River can distract me from the torture of having Katie so close yet so far. Every careful pose she arranges screams “siblings on vacation” rather than “passionate Italian romance.”

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