The seafront is all but deserted. Clouds and wind, a gratifying whiff of salt spray and foaming waves, sultry warmth. Lots of lonely old men stare out at the gray waters. One young couple, east by the sewerage plant, are stretched out on a long stone bench, petting with not quite enough abandon to excite police action.
The private beach clubs are getting themselves into repair for the summer season. I pass by the smells of varnish and paint. A standing committee of local men, mostly on the hard side of 60, has gathered to offer its critiques of the work of middle-aged men who were once the little kids they used to boss around.
Many men - many more than I'd have imagined - push baby strollers up and down the seafront. They play with their older children in the little play areas.
Kids of school age head for school on Saturdays. They get off early - but the high schoolers always get off very early, by about 1:30. The little kids stay all day; on Thursday a scuolabus was letting some 8-10 year olds off at close to 7 pm. They say primary education is generally good in Italy, and I suppose keeping the kids away from TV and video games for as long as possible works.
Most people here work on Saturdays, like they did in America when I was little. Half a shift at the least. Without the tourists, Saturday night and Sunday dinner are the only busy times for the restaurants.
When you stay in a quiet place just long enough to get a little bored, that's when to start to notice these details of everyday life, the things that are unnoticed by the local people. They're of mild enough interest to a foreigner, although they do reveal, in many small ways, how they really live. Looking for the next big travel sensation cheats you out of these little victories of observation. (Like the fact that a tiny tiny toddler's LaCoste shirt in the store right here costs €43.50. That's half what it costs for an older child's pique' shirt. -- an adlut size actually costs a bit less. Hello, Saks.)
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
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