Third Time Lucky

Breakfast with members of Genovian Olive Growers' Association

10 a.m. - 11 a.m.

Christmas-tree lighting ceremony, Genovia Palace Courtyard

ll:30a.m. - 1:00 p.m.

Meet with Genovian Historical Society

1 p.m. - 3 p.m.

Lunch with Genovian Tourist Board

3:30 p.m. - 5:30 p.m.

Tour of Genovian National Art Museum

6 p.m. - 7 p.m.

Visit Genovian War Veterans Memorial, place flowers on grave of Unknown Soldier

7:30 p.m. - 8:30 p.m.

Change for dinner

8:30 p.m. - 11:30 p.m.

Dinner with Royal Family of Monaco

And so on.

It all culminates in my appearance on my dad's annual nationally televised Christmas Eve address to the people of Genovia, during which he will introduce me to the populace. I am then supposed to make a speech about how thrilled I am to be Dad's heir, and how I promise to try to do as good a job as he has at leading Genovia into the twenty-first century.

Nervous? Me? About going on TV and promising 50,000 people that I won't let their country down?

Nah. Not me.

I just want to throw up every time I think about it, that's all.

Whatever. I so have nothing to look forward to. NOTHING. Not that I thought my trip to Genovia was going to be like going to Disneyland, but still. You'd think they'd have scheduled in some fun time. I'm not even asking for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Just like some swimming or horseback riding.

But, apparently, there is not time for fun in Genovia.

As if going over my itinerary wasn't bad enough, I also had to spend my dinner at Grandmere's being nice to my cousin Sebastiano. Sebastiano Grimaldi is my dead grandfather's sister's daughter's kid. Which I guess actually makes him a cousin a couple times removed. But not removed enough that, if it weren't for me, he wouldn't be inheriting the throne to Genovia.

Seriously. If my dad had died without ever having had a kid, Sebastiano would be the next Prince of Genovia.

Maybe that's why my dad, every time he looks at Sebastiano, heaves this big shudder.

Or maybe it's just because my dad feels about Sebastiano the way I feel about my cousin Hank: I like him in theory, but in actual practice he kind of bugs me.

Sebastiano doesn't bug Grandmere, though. You can tell that Grandmere just loves him.

Which is really weird, because I always supposed Grandmere was incapable of loving anyone. Well, with the exception of Rommel, her miniature poodle.

But you can tell she totally adores Sebastiano. When she introduced him to me, and he bowed with this big flourish and kissed the air above my hand, Grandmere was practically beaming beneath her pink silk turban. Really.

I have never seen Grandmere beam before. Glare, plenty of times. But never beam.

Which might be why my dad started chewing the ice in his whiskey and soda in a very irritated manner. Grandmere's smile disappeared right away when she heard all that crunching.

'If you want to chew ice, Philippe,' Grandmere said, coldly, 'you can go and have your dinner at McDonald's with the rest of the proletariats.'

My dad stopped chewing his ice.

That's how scary Grandmere is. She can make princes stop chewing ice with one sentence.

It turns out Grandmere brought Sebastiano over from Genovia so that he could design my dress for my nationally televised introduction to my countrymen. Sebastiano is a very up-and-coming fashion designer - at least, according to Grandmere. She says it is important that Genovia supports its artists and craftspeople, or they will all flee to New York or, even worse, Los Angeles.

Which is too bad for Sebastiano, since he looks like the type who might really enjoy living in LA. He is thirtyish with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and is all tall and flamboyant-looking. Like, for instance, tonight, instead of a tie, Sebastiano was wearing a white silk ascot. And he had on a blue velvet jacket with leather trousers - which aren't any better, really, than pony-skin skirts, but at least we eat cows. Nobody eats ponies, except maybe in France.

I am fully prepared to forgive Sebastiano for the leather trousers if he designs me a dress that is nice enough. You know the kind of dress I mean. A dress that, should he happen to see me in it, will make Michael Moscovitz forget all about Judith Gershner and her fruit flies and fill his head with nothing but thoughts of me, Mia Thermopolis.

Only, of course, the chances of Michael ever actually seeing me in this dress are very slim, as my introduction to the Genovian people is only going to be on Genovian television, not CNN or anything.

Still, Sebastiano seemed ready to rise to the challenge. After dinner he even took out a pen and began sketching -right on the white tablecloth! - a design he thought might accentuate what he called my narrow waist and long legs.