Sole, Spiaggia, Pomeriggio (Sun, Beach, Afternoon)

“Summer afternoon, summer afternoon, to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language”

-Henry James

At sunrise, there’s dew on the patio chairs and a cool breeze, but by 9 a.m. the temperature starts climbing to 100 degrees and we look for ways to cool off . We buy icepacks, a portable cooler and outdoor umbrellas. We wear our lightest clothing repeatedly. We sleep on top of the sheets. We take frequent brisk showers. We move the fan back and forth, from upstairs to downstairs. We experiment with keeping the doors and windows of our house open or closed during the day—Jeff opting for open, me opting for closed, but neither seems to make any difference.
We do “chores” like watering or laundry early in the day, otherwise it requires too much effort. Unlike most Italians, we’re unfamiliar with living without a clothes dryer but in this weather the clean laundry on the clothes line dries by the time a second load is finished. I breathe in the marine scent of my clothes, and have accustomed to the slightly scratchy feel of an air-dried towel. I look at a freshly hung load of laundry on the line with an odd sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, like looking at a pantry shelf filled with jars of my own home-canned tomatoes.
In the afternoons, when the air is still and the heat gets unbearable, most families are probably napping, but we escape to the spiaggia, knowing that we’ll find a breeze and a calm clear ocean to quench our thirsty bodies. We’ve discovered about 6 beaches on Isola di San Pietro, but our favorite is Spiaggia Girrin, on the south end of the island.
We slip into our bathing suits and flip flops and drive about a half-mile down the narrow, winding road from our casa to the centro at the bottom of the hill. Car windows down, I try to dry the sweaty, sticky film on my skin as we listen to the radio station “Inglesias” play Michael Jackson’s “Bad”. Past sherbet-colored houses in shades of strawberry, lemon and pistachio with their shutters shut. The streets are deserted and the small shops closed for siesta. We drive along the lungomare (seafront promenade), shaded by tall palm trees, past the marina with rows of stately “vela barca” (sail boats) and take the main road out of town to the south.
There are only about 6 main roads on the island, and unfortunately, most of them aren’t connected, and many are unpaved, so Jeff’s bicycling is sadly limited to about a half dozen out-and-backs. These are beautiful roads, with rolling terrain, but my husband needs serious mileage. The climbing is too limited and the exposure (wind, sun, sea spray) is too intense. He certainly won’t be able to launch his cycling tour business here, but he’s putting the finishing touches on his tours for Liguria next year, having road tested that area thoroughly. To satisfy his need for a project, Jeff is now working on our new friend Terry’s sailboat doing “bricolage” (a charming word for working with one’s hands). Jeff is refinishing the teak, repairing the shower, patching the dinghy and other “odd jobs”.
We met Terry while watching one of the World Cup games in town recently. He’s a friendly Irish chap, the spitting image of Paul Newman, blue eyes, gray hair—people even ask him for autographs. He recently sailed his boat from his home in Ireland, to Carloforte. He’s mooring the boat at the marina here for a year, while he travels back to Ireland, Thailand and other places.
He plans to visit Carloforte periodically, but the big news is that he has generously offered to let us stay on his sailboat for the month of August! It will be tight quarters for the 3 of us, but we’re excited about it.
So continuing the drive out of town, we pass the vast salt flats at the southern edge of Carloforte, which look like a wide shallow lakes, once used for salt harvest and now nesting ground for flamingos. The 2-lane road is paved and exposed, the vegetation here (and most everywhere) wild and untamed, a happy coexistence of pine and cactus, olive and palm, with an occasional splash of color from a pink bouganvilla or orange trumpet vine. Dirt side roads lead off the main road to various houses. We pass stone markers naming the various “localitas”. With the exception of the residences in the centro, the island is made up of dozens of “localitas” which are like small Italian suburbs or groups of houses with no house numbers. (Our address is simply “Localita Spiaggae”.)
Several “barraka” houses like ours dot the countryside, some updated with whitewash and abutting stone additions, and others crumbling, abandoned. Jeff is developing a theory (as yet unproven) that the barrakas are all oriented with their low front wall (front door and patio) facing east to take advantage of the cool morning weather, and their tall, mostly windowless back wall facing west, thereby providing shade for the front of the house, and absorbing the scorching afternoon sun.
Several newer Spanish-style “hacienda” houses are also in this area, like our first house on the island—white or pale yellow exterior walls, rust-colored terra cotta roof, green shutters and generous tile terraces.
We pass the ornate “cimitario” where all the important “Carlofortini” families are laid to rest, and the “sportivo”, an outdoor sports field.
We turn left at the sign for Spiaggia Girrin, and bounce along the dirt road to the parking area. We load up with beach essentials-- towels, books, sunglasses, sarongs, beach chairs, umbrella, and boogie board. Depending on how ambitious we feel, we may take the bag containing a soccer ball, paddle game, ptanque balls, snorkeling gear and pail/shovel. The heat makes us tired and lethargic, so we walk slowly up the hill to the bar on the way to the beach. My thighs stick together and there’s a film of sweat on my face. I’m a face sweater, it’s so annoying.
We hear the disco music just as we reach the open-air, wood frame bar. Bamboo slats lay atop the simple wood frame roof, which filters the sun and bathes the tables, chairs and customers in warm dappled light. “Salve” says Limbo (prounounced “Leembo”), the proprietor, who always greets us warmly since we have become “regulars”. He’s an attractive, easy-going man in his thirties, with short dark hair and a quick smile. Since he’s found out we were “Americano” he’s been practicing his English with us, while we continue to stumble along in Italian. When he’s not behind the bar, he sits with the regular customers, smoking, talking. The posted menu beside to the wood counter offers the usual bar food: café, aqua, birra, vino, Camparisoda, succo di frutta and various Panini with mozzarella, pomodora, cotto. We order our “usual”—a huge bottle of cold aqua frizzante (fizzy water) and a succo di frutta. With cool drinks in hand, we walk along the hot dirt path toward the beach. We can hear the ocean before we see it, which refreshes us instantly. Down the stone steps and onto sand so hot we can’t walk on it with bare feet. The beach is a gentle arched cove, with creamy white sand and rocky outcroppings on either edge. Umbrellas dot the beach in bright patterns and solid colors. Some people have sun shades (like tents) and a few just lay on towels, exposed.
In the distance, across the water to the left is the port town of Portoscuso (luckily we can’t see the enormous smoking chimney stacks). To the right is our small “sister” island, Isola di Saint Antioco and its port town of Calsetta, about a half-hour ferry ride away. Beyond Isola di Saint Antioco we can see the brown and green rolling hills of Sardinia. We’re only a few miles away from Sardinia, and from here it looks so enormous that it feels like the “mainland” but obviously it isn’t. We’re so far from any main land it’s ridiculous. I’ve never lived on an island before, and it’s disorienting to think that we are on this tiny speck of a land mass in the middle of the ocean. We’re actually closer to Africa than mainland Italy, which is a strange thought.
We choose a spot on the beach and Jeff jams the umbrella deep into the sand and expertly secures it with a supporting line extended out to a heavy rock. This we’ve learned from the one time when our umbrella was uprooted by wind and sailed freely down the beach, bouncing and crashing into people while we chased after it apologizing profusely, “Mi dispiace! Mi dispiace!’. We open our beach chairs, strip down to our suits and scurry to the water as fast as we can.
The surf is gentle here, barely a ripple on some days, and slightly wavy on others. The water color is clear pale green next to the shore, so clear that Jenna recently saw a foot-long fish swimming a few feet away from her. Further out, the water gradually takes on bits of blue, and green, changing to brilliant turquoise and finally dark blue in the distance. I try to photograph the amazing color of this water with my cheap camera, but I just can’t seem to capture the richness and subtle hue variations. I have never been in water this beautiful.
The temperature of the ocean is perfect and refreshing—it’s grown considerably warmer since we arrived on the island a few weeks ago and also seems to get warmer or cooler depending on which way the wind is blowing. Jenna plunges into the water immediately, but I take my time, enjoying the coolness slowly envelop my tired hot skin. The heat of the day dissolves and I feel a delicious sensation of ease. Looking down through the water, it looks like I’m in a swimming pool, so blue-green. I can see the white sand below my deeply tanned legs. I am a truly a dermatologist’s nightmare now, darker than I’ve ever been in my life. Jenna, too is a rich tawny brown, despite numerous slatherings of sunscreen. Jeff’s olive skin looks positively black. We’re not “tanning”--on the contrary we seek shade whenever possible--it’s just impossible to stay out of the ever-present sun for very long.
The beach appears to be full of Italians, either on holiday or local residents, it’s hard to tell. Most everyone has deep dark skin and brown or black hair, with the exception of a few blondes, Jenna among them. Her hair turns lighter and lighter each day. The occasional sunburn is the scarlet letter that marks the tourist.
All around us we hear Italian language, murmurs, excited yells of children. One day last week we heard someone speaking French. The other day, I actually heard someone speaking English at the market, and it was so completely unexpected and unusual that it sounded like a foreign language. We’re clearly the only Americans here.
A sailboat cruises by, sails fluttering, the crew looking at us, us looking at them. A family of four throws a soccer ball to each other in thigh deep water. The younger boy tries to hit it with his head, and is successful about half the time.. A little girl races full speed into the water, with a boy (presumably her brother) close behind, chasing her and yelling. Two boys fiddle with snorkels and flippers. A couple plays a “ping pong” type game in the water, with pink paddles and a small ball. A boy does a handstand in the water and his mother, close by, claps. A man in a tight blue Speedo walks along the shore, talking on his cell phone. A woman dives smoothly into the water and begins a slow, practiced crawl stroke far into the bay.
Jenna sits with legs out straight, next to the shore break, applying a thin coat of sand to her outstretched thighs. Today she’s playing by herself, but she’s recently found a friend (our landlord’s daughter Sara) and some days the two girls play together, using the universal language of children. After a few playdates, they’ve started talking a little more to each other, Jenna speaking as much Italian as she can, Sara speaking as much English as she can. It’s so good for Jenna to have someone to play with.
Jenna suddenly runs into the water and tries to bodysurf on a pathetic 8” break.
Jeff is laying face up on his sarong, partially shaded under the umbrella, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, asleep after reading about 6 pages of his book. He’s reading “Loving Frank” and doesn’t like it--calls it a chick book with too much ‘processing’--but we’re desperate for books here, so he reads mine after I’m done and vice versa. I’ve placed a huge book order with Amazon, but it will be a full month before it gets here.
A woman walks by with a firm, toned figure and I wonder if she exercises. How does anyone exercise around here? With the exception of daybreak and after 9 pm, the weather is too hot to exercise. Sadly, my morning walks have become a rarity. My yoga practice and daily swims just aren’t enough—and my butt shows it. Which is unfortunate, because it’s hard to ignore my butt with this daily swimsuit business.
Maybe it’s just my imagination, but Italians seem much more comfortable and less self-conscious with their bodies than Americans. Their body language is different—they seem more at ease. I watch a middle-aged, full-figured woman sprawled on a beach chair talking with a man. She raises her arms and puts her hands behind her head, arches her back and lifts her breasts—not in a comely way, but in a natural ‘this-feels-comfortable’ way.
Here, bathing suit tops are clearly “optional” for women and no one seems to pay any attention one way or the other. Bathing suit tops are also rarely seen on young girls under the age of 12 or 13. Not familiar with this custom, Jenna swings back and forth on this one. I don’t see a single “swim skirt” or “boy short” or swimsuit bottom that covers much more than a small patch in front and a very narrow triangle in back. Jeff calls it “rockin’ the butt cheeks” and it’s true—young, old, small, large, everyone is showing a LOT of skin.
A man with very hairy legs, wearing a very tiny bathing suit is sitting on the wet sand, facing the ocean, water lapping up to his ankles, seemingly lost in thought.
A slim woman in hot pink bikini walks past in calf high water, sand encrusting the entire lower half of her butt cheeks, and seems oblivious to any discomfort.
Everywhere I look people are sprawled out with seemingly no regard to sand sticking to them or bathing suits out of place. No one is picking at their suits, or putting their hand delicately over their belly, or holding in their stomach, looking self-conscious. In fact, bellies are rolling and jiggling all over the place, and no one seems to care. It’s all so wonderfully liberating.
The afternoon passes by and we finally pack up to go home. It’s still warm, but we like to spend the evening at home. In fact, as we leave the parking lot, there are several people just arriving, ready for refreshment after a long afternoon siesta.
We get home and take cool showers, Jenna and I opting for the outdoor sun shower, shampooing our hair on our private patio. I squeeze some oranges and make juice for Jenna. Jeff makes us Campari and sodas with lime, and we savor our drinks and enjoy the slight evening breeze. Later we’ll make dinner, and watch the first stars appear, and the drone of cicadas will provide musical accompaniment.

NEXT UP: Affitare una barca (renting a boat)