Tyra outlines that the prize for winning this competition is getting her portrait done "by an Italian artist." Well, all the good ones are dead, and the real estate on the chapel ceilings is kind of at a premium, so this versus jewelry shopping spree might be a little gimpy. I'm sure it will be fine, though. Camille is allowed to bring one friend with her, and she reaches across most of the other girls and asks an unthrilled Yoanna if she might want to join her. Yoanna smiles like her body needs some work and is all, "Okay, cool. Thanks." But before we're off to a tear-stained confessional, Yoanna just wants to return to one leeeeetle point someone might have brought up during the Go*See evaluation, asking, "In regard to when they said work on the body, did they mean, like, toning? Because I'm already a size 2." She sits looking stunned, and then bursts into tears as soon as she gets to the elevator, realizing, "I probably won't be able to be a top model" in that Madison Avenue confessional booth I simply cannot believe she got through Customs. ["Maybe they were lenient with her -- you know, if she had a passport." -- Wing Chun]
Yoanna. Car. Still sad. Sniffles. Tears. Cry all you want, babe. It ain't just water retention. And tears don't have calories. Maybe you should try crying Rollitos. Yoanna tells Mercedes that she wants to go home real, real bad, and Mercedes responds, "If you leave, I'll leave," and hugs her in a tell-me-lies- tell-me-sweet-little-lies- tell-me-lies- (tell-me-tell-me-lies) kind of way, following up, "Are you hurt because you're confused?" Yoanna responds, correctly, that she's exhausted from not sleeping and not eating. ["As soon as she started to cry, my sister and I were like, 'Aw, sweetie, go have a nap and some Nutella and you'll feel better!' We love Yoanna." -- Wing Chun] Mercedes tells us in a confessional that Yoanna's feelings of self-consciousness "will hurt her in the long run in the modeling industry," while Shandi notes that the competition is "taking its toll on her." Yoanna is now sitting in a different part of the van, her hand over her high-fashion face, the one reliable part of her she has left, causing the remainder of the fashion-conscious portion of Italy to gaze upon her and ask, "Chi è la ragazza grumosa?" which, according to at least one internet translator program, means "Who is the lumpy girl?" in someone's version of Italian.
In Italian, "Ikea" is apparently the feminine singular of the word "tchotchke," because into their apartment (flat? Apartmenti?) the girls walk to find a small, somewhat lower-market locale, at least from a decorating from perspective. Right off, they zero in on the Tyra Mail, which reads, "Many, many years ago, Verona was the home of Romeo and Juliet." Ah. A long time ago. In a land called "fiction." Anyway. "Tomorrow, it will be the home of your first photo shoot in Italy. Be ready at 7:30." April -- whose reading of the Tyra Mail was just so technical -- editorializes, "Verona's beautiful, you guys." Okay, April. Okay. I'll give you the key to the country and sovereign rulership over the city-state of all Florence -- the Medici family be damned -- if you stop finding subtle ways to remind us you've been to Italy. You've been to Italy. You're well-read. You're well-traveled. You're an every-culture-bean. Your mother was a clown and your father was a bagel, and they fell very much in love and married. You've been to Italy. We get it.