LIFE’S A BEACH
Italy closes in August. If you don’t believe me, ask Giovanna and Roberto who had a broken water heater … no one was available to fix it, but that didn’t matter since all the shops to buy a new one were closed. Or Petra … when the brakes went out on her car, but the dealership was closed (to add insult to injury, she couldn’t even find a rental, so busy is this period for travelers).
And the beach beckons. As different as Italians are, that is a tie that binds them. From the desert to the sea to all of the peninsula, every man, woman and child relishes the month that Caesar Augustus made 31 days long.
It’s important to understand an Italian’s passion for the beach. The siren song … and even just for a day, they are willing to drive hours in heavy traffic to spend time enjoying the sun, sand and surf. And then for their annual vacation, one or two weeks, they pack their cars to the brim with gear and gizmos. In this country so rich with tradition, they go to the beach where they went with their parents, where their parents went with their parents … often with family. The word nipote means grandchild and nephew/niece … so strong and important is this bond.
I am an only child, and extended family trips weren’t an option … my grandmother was in New York, cousins in a couple of countries. And the one weekend we spent with another family was less than successful. We drove up to Lake Arrowhead with Shelly and her parents. We were all good friends … she and I had bonded over a bowl of Trix years before. A log cabin by the lake. Classic … romantic comedy, coming of age, horror. But Shelly’s mom wouldn’t let her come with me in the little row boat we rented. This was the age of innocence … biking without helmets, taking the bus up and down Wilshire Boulevard, being dropped off at the La Cienega Park pool, “riding our horses” with Shelly the three blocks to Horace Mann … but no, Shelly could not paddle around the lake. So much for the lake of arrowhead.
So I didn’t understand.
But being AT the Italian beach, I began to understand.
Along every esplanade are dozens … hundreds … of colorful buildings, each numbered and named. Tropically … Club California, Hawaiian Hut, Cuban Cabana. Or for the owners … Gloria’s Grotto, Isola d’ Elli. And surrounding them are many diversions and distractions for kids from 2 to 92 … moon-bounce and swings and jungle gym and ping pong and volleyball and plastic tube slides and wooden forts and mini-basketball courts. Plus rows of smaller huts where you can change into your bathing costume … and pee … and shower, not necessarily in that order.
The beach itself is awash in lounge chairs, two sharing a large umbrella, lined up … many pairs in every row as they lead to the water. Closed, waiting for the faithful … open, with worshippers relaxing. Coolers and towels and totes, sunglasses and suntan lotion.




The other side of the street is filled with gelaterie and arcades and trattorie with inviting patios and bottege to buy sunscreen (rather, Hawaiian Tropic 4 oil) or sandals or sundries. Above are hotels, proudly touting the number of stars, with balconies facing the ocean where towels and bathing suits are left out to dry. It must be universal … the fear and loathing of putting on a damp bathing suit.
I was understanding. Drive west on Sunset to the sea …
I felt it. The golden sands of Santa Monica, girlhood spent with Laurie, warm and wide and welcoming, zinc covering my freckled nose as we made sand moccasins. And the perfume of plumeria that envelops and invites and intoxicates on Poipu Beach. Salty air, gentle breeze, humidity that seeps inside so you relax … exhale.


And everyone walks. Walking up and down the shoreline is an important part of the experience. Straps down to avoid tan lines, cell phones, leisurely strolling, chatting, as children with buckets and shovels make castles and moats or collect shells. Being toned and tan … toned or tan … is not a requirement. The legend of topless beaches seems to be merely a myth … at least in Italy, at least in the places we have visited. All manner of bikini and speedo are on parade, with few people donning a one-piece or board shorts … some pleasant, some very pleasant indeed, others where one needs to avert the eye.
There are bike lanes, too … filled day and night. Most cyclists are on cruisers with baskets, rather than street bikes with curved handles. Surreys, unfringed, with kids giggling while mom and dad pedal, pedal, pedal. Parents have baby/toddler seats, front and rear, so children of all ages can be included … there’s even the occasional tandem.
In the evening, the strand is full of walkers. To and from restaurants and trattorie … leisurely strolling. Passeggiata. Women in summer dresses, men in white linen shirts that they wear so well, kids still enthusiastic about the day.
The season is short … so strange for my year ‘round experience on the Pacific. If Easter is late, places begin to open that week, slowly, a hotel here, a restaurant there. The communities start in full swing over American Memorial Day weekend … Italians conveniently have Republic Day on June 2. And then on September 1st, when Italy re-opens for business, the huts shut. In the north, there is a noticeable dip in temperatures … but Puglia welcomes visitors at reduced prices for another week or two. Then the seas get rough, and ladders down to the cold blue waves are pulled up until the next year.





We have learned to go during the pre-season …. exhibition beachtime … there are no crowds, and everyone is energetic and optimistic. Plus, in months without 2 “U”s, hospitality prices are more hospitable … even the Italians have started to take notice, and are varying their vacation dates. But the destination is always their favorite beach, their family beach, the place where suntans and memories are made … it’s where they plug in and recharge.
We might not get to the beach often, and I’ll confide that I need to spend much of my time under an umbrella with SPF-thousand and a straw hat, but I enjoy making sand moccasins every time. I understand, from toe to head.


MARSALA-NUT CAKE
If one has a favorite cake, this is mine. It is flavorful, light and versatile. I have made it with various nuts, either toasted or untoasted … walnuts or hazelnuts or almonds … and varied the flavoring … Marsala or vin santo or red wine. It is always delicious.
1 cup nuts, finely ground
1-1/4 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
Pinch salt
3 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup Marsala
1/3 cup oil
- Preheat oven to 350° F (170° C). Grease a 9 inch round pan.
- In a small bowl, combine nuts, flour, baking powder and salt.
- In a large mixing bowl, whip the eggs … and when they start to get foamy, stream in the sugar. Continue whipping until the mixture is thick and pale yellow.
- Stir in Marsala and oil … then fold in flour-nut mixture.
- Pour into prepared pan.
- Bake for 25–30 minutes, until lightly golden.
- Serve at any temperature.
Enjoy!
