Coastal Swap: August 2011

After a six hour formula-one race against Macho men on vacation, we collapsed into Viareggio, Northern Tuscany. Our friends had kindly loaned us their apartment for the week, which is on a busy, picture-postcard canal lined with an array of colourful boats. We tiptoed out of the car like a family of crabs, trying not to fall in.

We were in the aromatic mosh pit at the heart of Viareggio. Wafts of garlic from restaurants, fishermen’s fresh catch, their not-so-fresh nets hanging out to dry in the sun, coconut oil, sweat, paint, and sawdust from tradesmen working outside because of the heat.

Bicycles are the popular mode of transport in Viareggio. Our friends had left us two adult bikes, and we spotted two kids bikes for sale on the road.

A tall man with grey hair stood on the street, sanding a wooden table. He was wearing work shorts and a white singlet top. The type with tiny holes all over. His wife sat at a table next to him, chopping vegetables. We inquired about the bikes in sign language. The tall man looked up to someone and screamed out in Italian.

A head poked out from the 3rd floor balcony, as one of the locals got up off his red plastic coca-cola chair and looked down. All he had on was a pair of baggy white underpants. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Peering down at us, he nodded three times. We took it to mean, “I’ll be right down”.

By the time The Undies Man came downstairs, he had put on shorts, but no shirt. He was stocky and heavily-tanned, and bore an elaborate tattoo of Jesus on his upper arm. A quick handshake sufficed as an introduction, as he wasted no time in demonstrating the bikes.

Like a kid, The Undies Man cocked his leg over bike number one, and animatedly hooned up the middle of the road. Peddling wildly, he stood up and performed a number of wheelies.The entertainment value was high, I had to hold back tears of laughter. For the finale, he sped towards us, and came to a screeching halt, beads of sweat bouncing off him, and onto us. The show wasn’t over yet, bike number two endured the same treatment, and we gave him a standing ovation. The children were ecstatic, and the sale was made.

On the bike circuit, there were no limitations on age, attire or passenger load. It was not uncommon to see a grandmother with her grandchildren, and a few live chickens, all on the one bike. I could put my hair in rollers, squeeze on a pair of stilettos, throw a dog in the basket and my husband over the handle bars, and take off down the street. No one would blink an eyelid.

Like pictures in a European glossy magazine, the beaches were lined with brightly colored umbrellas and sun beds as far as the eye could see. Body pride took on a new meaning here, surpassing the results of every confidence workshop I have ever undertaken. Beach goers of every shape and size were on display, leaving very little to the imagination. To blend in, would entail numerous visits to a tattoo parlor, piercing den, sun bed studio, and Brazilian waxer. Ouch!

After getting berated in a foreign language (as per usual) we learnt you can’t just plonk yourself down under an umbrella. The beach is divided into sections that are privately owned and operated. Each section has a cafe, bar, showers, and various levels of entertainment. Having fun in the sun costs, the beach is business.

We spent a day at "b2k", where, as well as the beach, we had access to 5 different swimming pools, a gymnasium, restaurant, beauty parlor, bar, cafe, and WIFI. Pole position for people-watching is highly prized - don't move someone's beach umbrella an inch (as I made Rob), or you risk the wrath of an irate body builder in bikini bottoms! http://www.b2k.it/eng/beach.asp

After spending a day exploring a village in the Cinque Terre, we stopped for a gelato, before boarding the ferry back to Viareggio. At the gelateria, I noticed a lady sitting at a table with someone, and had to do a double take. Then I realised that the someone was a dog, a big hairy dog. They looked like husband and wife. The lady held up a freshly scooped, double gelato cone, and gave her companion first lick! With their eyes hanging out, and fingers pointing, our children asked if the lady had bought the gelato especially for her dog, or were they sharing? Turned out they were sharing.

The Coca-Cola chair

Cinque Tere

The view from the balcony in Viareggio at different times of day

Her wish is your command. She never makes eye contact. She is patient, unswerving, and painfully annoying. She has strong convictions, and babbles on, it’s hard to get a word in. You are smarter than her, but you do whatever she says...

Introducing our GPS, Deborah. Named by the children.

Deborah spoke English, and showed us the ropes when we arrived in France. Now that my husband is practically French, Deborah needed some adjustments. We changed Deborah’s language to French and she became Edith Piaf.

Edith Piaf was gee’d up to take us to Italy, via the French countryside. On our second night, Edith Piaf was en-route to Chateau Du Luc, in a town called Bez et Esperon. There was a lot of ground to cover, it was getting dark and the children were growing restless. “Will there be wifi?” “I feel sick, I’m gonna vomit”. “I wish that thing would shut up!”.

I couldn’t resist mimicking Edith Piaf either. The tension in the car was building.

Before we knew it, Edith Piaf had taken us completely off-road. It was no longer a road. We were driving up a narrow track of potholes over barren, rocky terrain. Thorny hedges slowly scraped the sides of our long-suffering car. Turning around was not an option.

I felt certain this kind of frivolity was no-go in our car rental agreement. I envisaged Rob walking to the road we turned off 5km back, to flag down help.

We stuttered on, hand over mouth in disbelief, snorting and gagging with each bump. Occasionally distracted by a deer or rabbit, we were passengers on the slow uphill climb of a roller coaster.

Then, as soon as you can say, "What the...", we saw decent road again. Every ounce of panic and snorting flew out the window. All I was capable of saying was, “That was bad, hey”. We pulled into the driveway of Chateau Du Luc, singing, “Non... Je ne regrette rien”.

It was 10pm, almost dark, and we were two hours late. A tall, slender lady of about 75 years greeted us at the black, iron gates. She had poetic facial features; slender face, high cheekbones, and expressive blue eyes. Her grey hair had been pulled back with a pin. She wore long, tailored pants and a loose blouse. She smiled warmly. She was Madame Du Luc. This was her chateau.

Madame Du Luc lead us over white, pebbled ground to the house, and up a spiral staircase (the stairs and walls made entirely from sandstone). Rob had to duck as he entered. Once at the top, we eyed every inch of the house, like four laughing clowns. Madame instructed us that everything was Authentic Louis 16th period, around 400 years old. “Please do not to sit on any of the chairs, they are very fragile”, she said. I nodded with respect. Khira piped up, “But that’s what chairs are for... sitting on... you have to sit on chairs!”. Looking around the room there were many old paintings. The children were fixated on one in particular. Khira announced, “The lady in that painting scares me, who is she? ” Madame Du Luc answered, “She is my grandmother”. My face hurt from wincing. I just wanted to go to bed!

Madame Du Luc laid out a sumptuous breakfast in her Louis 16th dining room. I wanted to imagine we were royalty, but our thongs and table manners destroyed my fantasy. We sweetly departed for Italy.

Traveling together is give and take, so when we pulled in for gas next to a supermarket, I assumed my role (caretaker of hunger and thirst). As I walked into the supermarket, while Rob filled the car, he yelled out, “don’t make it a big shop”. I gave him a marital ‘yes dear’ nod, and mouthed the words, “just some fruit and bread”, which I whole-heartedly meant. But once I was on the other side of the turnstiles, something happened. I was just like Ben Stiller in the movie Zoolander, when he heard the song, “Relax”. Only, I heard the Supermarket-Fairy say, “Browse the aisles and contemplate, you are safe here, take your time”.

When I waddled out, unbalanced with shopping bags in both hands, my eyes adjusted to daylight like a stunned animal. I awoke from the spell and realised what I had done. Sheepishly I said, “It’s all stuff we need”. But I knew I was in trouble.

As we were now running late, we couldn’t stop for lunch, that’s when I brought out a platter of washed and peeled baby vegetables, with olives and two dipping sauces. Sweet baguettes, corn chips, ripe peaches and baby wipes to use when we were done. I was chuffed that I remembered to buy baby wipes, but the smoke still emanating from Rob’s nostrils hinted that I would be feasting alone.

Ah, Italia! We arrived in Ventamiglia. The vast Mediterranean. Terraced green hills, clustered with colourful houses.

The B&B we booked on-line was up a steep, winding road. Driving up this one-lane, narrow road, another car drove towards us intending to pass. Usually one car reverses a few metres, until the other can pass. Rob reversed, but the lady in the other car drove towards us, like a bulldozer. After 500 meters of us reversing, and her bulldozing, she passed, without a thank you or a wave.

Since no-one was at the B&B, we let ourselves in. After we had all used the bathroom and made ourselves at home, (beds chosen, bags dumped), a stout lady with a limp, appeared through the door. The owner. We told her how thrilled we were with the accommodation, (smiling, our hands outstretched). To this, she frowned and said “NO”.

She rudely motioned for us to leave, by waving her hand at approximately buttocks’ height, towards the front door. Confused, we walked out, and she said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

That’s when she showed us to our tiny room with 2 double beds and a table. The youth hostel section. Fine, no problem. Looking out to the postcard view, we saw a swimming pool and spa. There were coloured scatter cushions and deck chairs. The kids asked to swim straight away, but the owner scowled and said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

As soon as she was out of sight, we bailed, in search of friendlier proprietors. The stout lady with a limp would have to find ‘Another family’ for our room.

Low on petrol, our car just made it to the top of the mountain, where we were greeted by a hotel manager, who was a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. He showed us to a cosy room, swimming pool, spaghetti, fresh mussels and Italian white wine. David Hasselhoff wore all black, and spoke Italian. On entering any area of the little hotel, David Hasselhoff would show up. I lost count of how many times I said “ciao” to him in a day. The restaurant waiters were Harpo and Zeppo from the Marx Brothers. Their smiles were genuine, and they loved feeding our children.

Three days later we drove down the mountain, past the first B&B, rejoicing, as we demonstrated our maturity to the children, by blowing raspberries at the stout, mean lady. We explained that in Italy, when you communicate, it is important to show your emotions.