can’t imagine anyone really wanting to go along with Hitler and il Douche (or however you spell Mussolini’s nickname; I think I nailed it, personally).
The taxi makes several winding turns, and there’s still a fricking line. It’s long, like thousands of people long, and this isn’t even really tourist season. I’m not Catholic or even one of the faithful, so I don’t really understand the spiritual significance of this place. Historical, I sort of see, and cultural, even, given how much of Western Civ is driven by Biblical art and inspiration. But so far it just looks like a fortress, one of more than I can count in Europe. Though admittedly much bigger than the others I’ve seen.
We pull out in front of an entrance that looks a lot more modern than the wall it’s built into, and I step out. The words Musei Vaticani are written on top of a stylized arch capped with statuary, and I admire the artistry for a moment. We booked the tour group at the last second, knowing we’d missed the bus and would have to meet them here. It was a case of split second timing, and the unfortunate thing about it was that it gave Dr. Perugini a chance to change into a more sensible—and less senselessness-inducing—dress. While I mourn the loss of that particular distraction—holy shit, her legs are asdfghjkl;—it allows me to focus a little better because I’m left with fewer parts of her body to surreptitiously check out.
Elvis’s “Hound Dog” plays in my head, but “Hound” is replaced with “Horn.” Alpha Male is having some problems, y’all. He ain’t nothin’ but a horn dog.
I can’t help but feeling that if Giuseppe had been a little more than just a mercenary information broker, I’d be more motivated to take my eyes off the good doctor. I mean, if he’d been one of those close friends like in the movies—if we’d embraced in the bro hug like the tropes say we should—I’d totally have motivation beyond horn dog ones.
Okay, I still have motivation. But I’m suddenly acutely—and cutely—aware that I’ve somehow managed to get the most beautiful woman in the agency to come with me, alone, on a mission. If Scott could see me now he’d be like, “Dude.” And I’d be like, “Dude.” And nod my head, wide-eyed and surreptitiously, at Perugini.
I kinda miss Scott. I should have called him after he and Sienna broke up, but I didn’t, because of Sienna. But he would totally get this.
When it comes to motivation, this is the thing that’s on my mind. I comfort myself by thinking that if Giuseppe could see me now, he’d be pleased at the thought of me trying to impress the good doctor. Yes, let’s bring this back to him somehow. That should make me feel less guilty.
We get sorted with our tour group, but it takes a while, during which Dr. Perugini stands there coolly with her oversized sunglasses, her arms folded across her chest as though the entire world can just revolve around her. It probably does.
It takes our tour guide a while to wrangle twenty middle-aged and old folks—and us, because Dr. Perugini is probably like, late thirties or so? And I’m in my twenties. It takes a while to get us all moving in the same direction. I pity this guy on days when he has a full bus. He carries an umbrella as the maypole for us to all rally to, and with long, shuffling steps our group enters a modern-looking—well, circa 1960’s/70’s with giant concrete supports—lobby to begin the tour.
This takes a while, too, because once we pass security everyone needs to use the bathroom. By “everyone,” I mean everyone but me and Dr. Perugini. She doesn’t take off the sunglasses, and I wonder if it’s because she’s using them as cover to look at everyone without them knowing it or if it’s because she wants to look cool.
“So,” I say, dipping into my great font of conversational skills. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something else, and I falter. I run through possible responses,
The taxi makes several winding turns, and there’s still a fricking line. It’s long, like thousands of people long, and this isn’t even really tourist season. I’m not Catholic or even one of the faithful, so I don’t really understand the spiritual significance of this place. Historical, I sort of see, and cultural, even, given how much of Western Civ is driven by Biblical art and inspiration. But so far it just looks like a fortress, one of more than I can count in Europe. Though admittedly much bigger than the others I’ve seen.
We pull out in front of an entrance that looks a lot more modern than the wall it’s built into, and I step out. The words Musei Vaticani are written on top of a stylized arch capped with statuary, and I admire the artistry for a moment. We booked the tour group at the last second, knowing we’d missed the bus and would have to meet them here. It was a case of split second timing, and the unfortunate thing about it was that it gave Dr. Perugini a chance to change into a more sensible—and less senselessness-inducing—dress. While I mourn the loss of that particular distraction—holy shit, her legs are asdfghjkl;—it allows me to focus a little better because I’m left with fewer parts of her body to surreptitiously check out.
Elvis’s “Hound Dog” plays in my head, but “Hound” is replaced with “Horn.” Alpha Male is having some problems, y’all. He ain’t nothin’ but a horn dog.
I can’t help but feeling that if Giuseppe had been a little more than just a mercenary information broker, I’d be more motivated to take my eyes off the good doctor. I mean, if he’d been one of those close friends like in the movies—if we’d embraced in the bro hug like the tropes say we should—I’d totally have motivation beyond horn dog ones.
Okay, I still have motivation. But I’m suddenly acutely—and cutely—aware that I’ve somehow managed to get the most beautiful woman in the agency to come with me, alone, on a mission. If Scott could see me now he’d be like, “Dude.” And I’d be like, “Dude.” And nod my head, wide-eyed and surreptitiously, at Perugini.
I kinda miss Scott. I should have called him after he and Sienna broke up, but I didn’t, because of Sienna. But he would totally get this.
When it comes to motivation, this is the thing that’s on my mind. I comfort myself by thinking that if Giuseppe could see me now, he’d be pleased at the thought of me trying to impress the good doctor. Yes, let’s bring this back to him somehow. That should make me feel less guilty.
We get sorted with our tour group, but it takes a while, during which Dr. Perugini stands there coolly with her oversized sunglasses, her arms folded across her chest as though the entire world can just revolve around her. It probably does.
It takes our tour guide a while to wrangle twenty middle-aged and old folks—and us, because Dr. Perugini is probably like, late thirties or so? And I’m in my twenties. It takes a while to get us all moving in the same direction. I pity this guy on days when he has a full bus. He carries an umbrella as the maypole for us to all rally to, and with long, shuffling steps our group enters a modern-looking—well, circa 1960’s/70’s with giant concrete supports—lobby to begin the tour.
This takes a while, too, because once we pass security everyone needs to use the bathroom. By “everyone,” I mean everyone but me and Dr. Perugini. She doesn’t take off the sunglasses, and I wonder if it’s because she’s using them as cover to look at everyone without them knowing it or if it’s because she wants to look cool.
“So,” I say, dipping into my great font of conversational skills. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something else, and I falter. I run through possible responses,
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