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outdoor café with smiling people sprawled at tables, smoking, drinking beer, eating pizza; Pisa airport is nicer than most town centers I’ve seen in the UK.
    “Come along!” Catia’s shouting, and Kelly and I hurry up our steps obediently, crossing through bollards to the parking lot, and a large, rather bashed-about jeep with its baggage door open. The American girls’ enormous luggage is taking up almost all the space; Kelly and I, by dint of much pushing and shoving, manage to wedge our suitcases in. I reach up and slam down the hatchback just in time, before one of the cases comes sliding out again.
    “Okay!” Catia says, pulling away almost before Kelly and I have managed to jump into the jeep. Kendra is in the front, which I suppose is fair, as she’s the tallest, but it would have been nice to have been asked. I’m in the middle, and I glance sideways at Paige, who’s already plugged in earbuds and is listening to her iPod, humming tunelessly.
    I’m embarrassed to admit how intimidating I find the American girls. They’re so confident, as if they own theworld. They’re as beautifully groomed as if they were models; I assume they’ve traveled over from the United States, while Kelly and I just had a short flight from the UK, but the American girls, despite having had a much longer journey, look fresh as daisies. Paige’s skin is smooth and glowing, her cheekbones accentuated with blush, her lips glossed with clear shine, her lashes thick with mascara. Though she’s probably wearing a lot more makeup than me and Kelly, she looks more natural; the English style is to wear theatrical, showy makeup. Kelly and I have lots of eyeliner and bright nail polish on, and it’s really obvious, while these two girls are much more subtle.
    I glance sideways at Paige’s fingernails, perfect beige ovals tipped with white; they put my scabby scraped ones to shame. I curl my fingers into my palms to avoid the comparison. And she smells lovely—like bubble gum and apples. Her hair, caught back in a silk scarf tied at the nape of her neck, is thick and smooth. She has a huge pink pashmina wrapped around her throat, which she adjusts tighter because of the air-conditioning, stretching out her jean-clad legs, humming away.
    Everything she’s wearing is new and shiny, or looks it. And Kendra’s even smarter; diamonds gleam in the lobes of her ears as she turns to look out the window, and her hair, clubbed into a short ponytail, is perfectly smooth, pulled tight to show the elegant shape of her head.
    I realize what’s taken me aback: the American girls must be the same age as us, but with their poise, their grooming, they seem so much older. They make me feel like a snotty-nosed, scruffy, immature fourteen-year-old, looking up tothe sixth-formers at school in awe because they seem so grown up, so trendy. It’s
not
a sensation I enjoy. I wonder if Kelly feels the same.…
    The jeep makes a right-hand turn, rolling me into Paige’s side; she yelps in shock, an annoying little yipping noise, like a startled Chihuahua. We’ve been on the motorway for quite a while, but now we’re coming off, onto a slip road, through a series of villages with beautiful names: San Vincenzo a Torri, Cerbiano, Macario a Monti. Almost immediately, the road starts to wind back and forth in tight curves, and we have to hold on tight in the back not to bump into each other constantly. And the jeep starts climbing, the road gets steeper, as we travel up into the Chianti hills; Catia is changing down gears, the old jeep clanking as it adjusts to a sharp incline.
    I’m mesmerized by the views. It’s like the color of the Adriatic Sea; you don’t believe that anything could be that amazing aquamarine in real life, not till you see it with your own eyes. The Chianti landscape is just as extraordinary. It’s like a whole series of postcards brought to life. Perfect stone farmhouses built on steep hillsides, with olive groves and vineyards laid