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keeps telling me to get out of bed and pick up my clothes. See if I do anything nice for her again.
    Dov’e la passerella?

Monday (Finally!)
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    Dear Delia,
    It is our day at sea. I haven’t seen land since we passed Sicily last night. We cruise very fast—it’s like we’re not even touching the water. No waves chop up the surface, and the only white I can see on the dark blue sea is this foamy trail of a V that the boat leaves behind. It makes me think of UVA basketball camp. (Because all their athletic stuff has a big “V” on it. You know, for Virginia?)
    Mom is very busy this morning reading up on Barcelona and planning some “exciting sightseeing activities” (!) for our day tomorrow. After the Pompeian guide’s overdose of inappropriateness, she made the suggestion that we explore the rest of the cities on our own. I told her I thought that was a fine idea, but she insisted on having a conversation about it anyway. It went like this:
    MOM: We have to be back at the boat by a certain time each day, and if we miss it, it sails without us. Should we worry about that?

    ME: Uh, no.

    MOM: It might be dangerous, too, don’t you think? Two women, alone in strange cities?

    ME: How does that work, exactly? Being alone when you’re two women?
    She tried to hand me a book on Barcelona today, but I refused to read it on the grounds that it is—quite obviously—totally bad luck to study anything when you’re on vacation. (See? I’m not THAT much of a geek.) At this moment she is trying to find a subway map, or something, in the ship’s Internet Café. Which reminds me—I must send an e-mail to my little sister, because I promised I would tell her what it’s like in a different country, since she’s never been, well, anywhere. (I’m not entirely sure she’s ever been away from her computer, actually.) The story of my day in Pompeii would be rated PG-13, though, so she’s too young for that. And the story of the party last night would be rated R (for ridiculous), so I’m NOT writing to her—or ANYONE—about that. (Well, except you, obviously). I guess I’ll have to wait until I have a normal experience, which might take a while, the way things are going.
    Actually, there has been a small improvement in my life this morning. I have almost completely rid my face of the flower. I put a layer of sunscreen on it, let it set for a half hour, then massaged it in for a minute or two, then wiped it off with a tissue. Then, feeling a lot like a person in an infomercial, I scrubbed in a circular motion twenty times with glycerin soap. I think I look pretty good today, and if it weren’t for the fact that I have to stay hidden and in disguise, I would be ready to go out in public again.
    I have found a deck with no (cool) people on it—deck six—and I am hunkered down in a lounge chair. I have a visor and dark sunglasses on and a shirt I had not yet worn on the boat (which was not hard, since it’s only the third day of our cruise). Earlier, I tried running on this deck, but some very tanned, blond-haired, oldish women told me it was a “power-walking only” deck. (Which probably has something to do with there being no cool people anywhere near it.)
    Oh, no! Some girls are approaching. They look vaguely familiar. Must be from the party last night.
    Bye! Gotta pretend I’m dead!

Monday night
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    Dear Delia,
    I only have a moment, but thought I’d tell you about the major (and very strange) improvement in my situation aboard the boat. It seems I have somehow achieved celebrity status. Those girls I saw this morning? Well, they were actually LOOKING for me. You see, after the maraschino cherry incident, AJ—according to the girls—was very upset that I’d left. Seems he, uh, FANCIES me. He was asking all the other people in the lounge if they knew my name, and of course, no one did, since I don’t (didn’t) know a single soul on the boat. So, he said he was going to find me, and he asked for help.
    (I