Went to the beach this weekend...Saturday was Ferragusto, the arbitrary date decided by the Council of Trent (or some such) to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin. The Italians sort of treat it like we do Memorial Day or the Fourth of July--big party with family, lots of food, fireworks. And everyone escapes to the beach or the mountains because all the restaurants and shops are closed and it's hotter than hell in the cities. There wasn't a Vespa to be heard and empty parking spots on Vespucci Bridge Friday night....
The Italians do the beach differently--no competing clusters of towels and umbrellas spiked in the sand like the flag on Iwo Jima. They construct little pergolas, one after the other, that you rent--along with three beach chairs, two chaises and a box on stilts for valuables and food. All very civilized (and much more comfortable). Except, the beach is a big wall of humanity. The point seems to be happening upon all your neighbors and friends and family in their bikinis on your way down to the water. And, of course, toasting yourself to a leathery consistency. (Privately, Brent and I wonder what the skin cancer rates are....)
A constant stream of people amble up and down the beach. And in the afternoon, the bucket brigade (tweens with full pails) launch guerilla warfare--drenching adults who are not wet. I'm a little suspicious, since they doused me (in the water up to my calves) but not the four adults sunbathing six feet away.
Somali and Ghanian and Pakistani fake handbag/swim coverup/bone bracelet/coconut hawkers pick their way through, back and forth, hour after hour in flowing kaftans and baggy pants.
We munched on leftover frittata and crudite.
You-know-who asked why the little girls don't wear swim tops. (He totally missed the topless adult at the pool.)
Ferie immersion complete.
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