American Vacanza

we'll almost be almost there • siena

The plane rumbled back and forth as we touched down, sending the refrigerator door flying. The door to the refrigerator that I had no idea existed. Yeah, that fridge. "All right, ladies," came Moe's voice over the speakers, "hold on."

We came to a screeching stop, taxied for what felt like a punishingly long time, then came to a rolling stopp again, this time for good. "All right. The airport's crew will prepare your bags." Moe came back to the cabin. "Fill in these sheets and present them at the customs desk."

"Thanks, Moe," Madison said, "for everything. Here are the keys to that car. It's parked back at JFK, in the parking lot D7."

"D7, D7." Moe tried to commit it to memory. "Ladies, you were great. Can I, uh, can I maybe get a picture with you? I do it with all my famous clients, I swear."

"Why not? Although I am flattered that you think I'm famous," After he showed us his most recent selfie (with Beyoncé, of course) we figured he wasn't lying and posed for a photo.

I could barely hold my pen still as I filled in my customs slip, my chicken-scratch handwriting looking even more unreadable than before. I was so excited. We were almost there.

"Done," Madison announced, waving her slip in the air. The plane's door was open, letting in a warm Mediterranean breeze. "Can I go now?"

"Of course," Moe said, gesturing to the door. "Your bags are right out there."

I finished filling in all the blanks -- I had to check my phone to remember some of the information -- and had to ask Moe one thing...

"Why are you so cheery?" I asked him. "We kind of thought you were a kidnapper or something. Everything seemed to just fall into place with you, and it was a little suspicious."

"Does this note that I found in the cockpit answer your question?" he replied, handing me a note written on the same pink paper as ours.

Dear Jake, it read.

We trust that our daughters are in good hands with you. This is their first time flying to Italy alone, and you'll find everything in the cabinets by the refrigerator. We've signed the customs sheets for them; those will be there as well.

Thank you for your help. Because of this special request, we're sending a bonus of $10,000 your way."

Pete & Krystal

"I mean, obviously it was made for Jake, but I decided I'd follow its instructions. It was just the icing on the cake that you gave me that car."

"Well, thanks. I'll be sure to recommend you to my parents," I told him as I stepped out of the plane to catch up to Madison. She was just walking into the airport, so I rolled my suitcase up to her. The sun beat down on my tank top-clad back, but not in a bad way. In a Oh-My-God-This-Is-Paradise way.

"I can't believe we're here!" I dug around in my backpack for my sunglasses. "Like, I can't even comprehend how beautiful it is!"

"That's probably because we've spent the last week in dumpy motels," she told me. "but you're absolutely right."

Once we were through customs (trust me, we tried to get through as fast as we could) and got out in to the cab line. "I know some basic Italian phrases, courtesy of coming here every summer," she explained. "Don't worry, we're not screwed. The address is 3200 Viale Alba. Sunset Avenue, if you were wondering-- and whoever named the street is a genius. The sunsets really are killer over the ocean."

"That's great," I replied as she hailed a taxi. "I really can't wait to go there."

She told the driver, in an accent that would've made me believe she was a local, "Vorremmo andare a 3200 Viale Alba."

"Ah, si, signora," he answered. "trenta euros."

"I think that means thirty," she whispered to me. "I have no idea, so I'll just give him a fifty and hope that's enough."

She handed him a fifty dollar bill. "Accettate dollari americani?" Since she was giving him American dollars, I was pretty sure she was asking him if he would take them.

"Si, signora," he answered and got to driving.

"It's weird that we're not the ones driving right now," I said, staring out the window at the beaches. "These are nothing like the beaches in Cali."

"Actually," she responded, "they're pretty similar. But don't they feel so different? This is a magical place, Siena. It's the same, but it's so different. We're in a really wealthy neighborhood, but it's not just Americans. About half are Italians' vacation houses. A few of my friends up here are from New Zealand and Germany. We have all the corners of the world, all here in Italy."

I could understand what she meant. We could be in California, but we could never feel so far away from home. But being away wasn't necessarily a bad thing; sometimes it was good to have some space. How awkward would it be if we ran into Ethan at the beach? That wouldn't happen in Italy.

What if Naomi's parents decided to call back and yell at mine? They wouldn't be able to reach them. Maybe our little house on the isle of Capri was a special place because it was so similar to home, yet at the same time was a world away.

"How long is the ride from the airport to the house?"

"Usually about twenty minutes," she reasoned, "but it's the freaking longest twenty minutes you'll ever experience."

Especially after what seemed like the longest week I'd ever experienced.

What seemed like twenty minutes later, I asked Madison again. "It's been two minutes," she replied, only proving her point. At this rate, it would take what seemed like 200 minutes to get there. Why was I doing math on vacation again?

Math was weird. It was everywhere, especially when you didn't want to pay attention to it. You'd say you didn't want to do any math, then find yourself counting the days until your vacation or calculating how long you had left on a test. You'd start noticing that your windows were square and your lights were round. It had a way of slipping into your mind when you least wanted it to, making a hypocrite out of anyone who said they hated it.

I realized that it wasn't just math that I was describing. People did that, too.

You thought you had a rigid opinion of them; you could live without them, you couldn't live without them, etc. But slowly they would begin to creep into your thoughts, eventually proving your opinion wrong and ultimately making a fool out of you.

"We're almost there. See that white gate? That means we're five minutes away." She wiggled impishly in her seat like a kid on Christmas day.

I hadn't been to the place, so I couldn't get too excited, but at the same time I caught a little bit of her contagious enthusiasm. "That's great. Are you counting the seconds?"

The aforementioned math theory hadn't been proven wrong yet.

"I think we're almost here. Look! Viale Alba! Ooh, that's Mrs. Matacci's house. She's super nice and a really good cook. And look! There's Angelo and his dog," Madison said excitedly, nothing interrupting her thoughts from flowing straight out her mouth. "Actually, Angelo has a son your age. Mario. If you could get past the fact that he shares a name with that red-hatted plumber, he could be your tan Italian guy who takes--"

"Shut up," I replied, jokingly elbowing her in the ribs. "Unless he has another brother named Luigi."

"Just saying, just saying. I might be looking for a summer romance, too..." she wiggled her eyebrows excitedly, as if thirty hot guys were coming her way right now.

"As long as I can get to the house, take a shower and relax, I'll be a happy girl," I sighed. "That's all I need."

"Well, get ready to cross one of those things off your list, because here we are."