I admit I am a beach snob. I staunchly turn my nose up at any beach that isn’t anywhere on the coastlines of the Hawaiian Islands. All others just seem to pale in comparison.
For some reason, it had not occur to me that the western edge of Tuscany was the Tyrrhenian Sea. I guess I was too infatuated with the Italian Cypresses lining the winding roads or the timeless stone houses standing solitary in the fields of wheat to notice any possible changes in topography.
Nicola had suggested that we take a break from all the touristy sightseeing and head west to the coastal Tuscan city of Viareggio. I suspect it was because he wanted to show off the place since it was where he was raised and to bring up that just south of town was Spiaggia della Lecciona, better known as Mama Mia (gay) beach. Mmm. Europeans in speedos.
But first cosmic balance had to be restored. There was a price to pay for the serendipity of the tour to San Gimignano days earlier.
Somewhere on the way to the coast, the train was forced to make an emergency stop and passengers were encouraged to disembark. Was this it? Was this one of those infamous Italian train strikes? I was even a little giddy from the off-chance that it was. No such luck though. The torrential rains from the previous night had caused a tree to fall across the tracks and the train engineers had no idea how long it would take to clear. The first hour of waiting gave us the opportunity to reflect on our Italian experience and pump ourselves up for the next leg of our journey: Provence. By the second hour, the American attitude of effectiveness and efficiency seeped in and the milling about became torture.
We were still determined to reach Viareggio and so decided to split a cab with a couple of young Scottish ladies headed to the same destination. They were pleasant enough at first; the accents and mannerisms were an added bonus to the detour. We have always looked forward to meeting new people on our trips. But sometimes there is a limit (albeit short) to my patience. Just ask Bob.
We were trapped in a taxi with two posh valley-girl prima-donnas on vacation. One was screeching to here mum on the phone about putting more dough into her account. They were going to be in a new city and she needed more play money. The other, slyly sipping vodka from a travel mug, was trying to convince everyone in the cab that someone from back home was bound to catch them being naughty. These foreigners! They even implied that we “spend more time together” when we arrived in the beach town. Sorry lasses but we aren’t those kinds of blokes. We prefer bangers and mash to fish and chips!
To cap off the already shortened visit, the beach was mostly barren and the sky was darkened with rain clouds.
FUN FACTOID. The beaches in Viareggio and around the Mediterranean are sometimes corded off into sections; many are privately owned by hotels and are reserved for guests and paying visitors. The free sections for the public are usually in the less desirable areas of the beach, like near the piers or by rocky outcroppings.
