Arnie and Vera Get the Boot

There are certain phrases I've learned not to utter within our office maven's hearing. I no longer say things like, "Do you think we could write off a trampoline?" even though we'd use the heck out of a trampoline. I asked her, just recently, if we could source some better newtons than the off-brand fig ones in the writers' room, and even that was enough to earn "the look." So it must have been serendipity, a week ago, when Bernice knocked on my office door (rather glumly, I'd note) and asked if I knew someone who could use a non-refundable, all-inclusive Italian honeymoon package, real cheap.

"You know..." I said. "Since you mention it—don't get mad—we haven't done a travel feature in a while."

She sighed, which usually means a no, but then she surprised me.

"Great idea, boss," she said, and came right back with a check for me to sign. I scratched my chin over it, and decided I knew exactly who we should send, if I could convince them to go.

Arnie was an easy sell. I asked if he'd ever been hiking in the Alps, and that was all the encouragement he needed. I'd tell him the awkward part later. With Vera, though, I knew I had to tell the whole truth, or she wouldn't get on the plane.

"Milan!" our Fashion Editor screamed through my phone speaker. "Of effing course I'll go!"

"Great," I told her, "but, uh, a couple of things. It's not all in Milan. You'll be in Switzerland first, up at Monte San Giorgio. Does that sound alright?"

"Is it pretty?" she asked me.

"I think so. Looks nice on Google."

"I like pretty," she said.

"There's something else, too," I told her, wincing against my earpiece. "Don't freak out. I know it's not exactly professional, and maybe it's a bit of a bleach-and-vinegar situation, but, um, Arnie's going too, for the outdoorsy parts. And there's only one room."

"Arnie Tackleman?" she asked, like we had a dozen Arnies on staff.

"I know," I said. "I'll tell him he has to shower. And I'll make it very clear that he's sleeping on the floor."

"Doesn't he always sleep on the floor?" said Vera.

"Ha," I said. "Good one."

"Whatever. Wait, hold on," she sounded worried, "you're not going, are you?"

"Would you be more comfortable, if I did?"

"Fuck no."

"I could," I offered, "if you want me to."

"I don't."

"Just say the word."

"Stay home," she said, "and tell Arnie, if he snores, I'll stuff his socks in his mouth."

"We both know he doesn't wear socks," I said. "Have a good time!"

At our writers' meeting, along with their tickets, I gave them a cute little notebook Mrs. Tycoon picked out.

"I want to do this like a travel journal," I told them. "I want it to be a travel journal. What you write in this book is what we'll print. It doesn't have to be formal, though it does need to be printable, Vera. Just write down your thoughts when they come to you. Try to capture the experience as it happens."

"Can I start now?" asked Vera, eyeing a stain on Arnie's t-shirt.

"Maybe wait till you get there," I suggested.

Continue reading: Arnie and Vera's Travel Diary