Under a hotter sun; Spaghetti, Tomatoes and bunches of Basil;

Every day we went shopping for food. First thing in the morning, the children loved to go down to the shop and get fresh ciabatta bread, butter and jam for our continental breakfast. It happened that the shop never had enough small coins for change so instead of money the girls received lollies as change, and that instigated their eagerness even more. This was the place where lollies were handed out before breakfast. I liked the shop as well, no not for the lollies, apart from groceries they stocked fresh bread, wine, cheeses and all sorts of cured meat and salamis it was wonderful.
We absolutely loved the Mercato for fruits and vegetables. It was held in a cooperative hall where smallholders and peasants from the hills of Camaiore sold every morning their freshly gathered fruits and vegetables. It was only a couple of houses from our apartment so we watched the men and women busily arriving early in the morning with their small trucks, their three-wheelers or even on a bicycle loaded with a couple of trays of figs or tomatoes. It was marvellous, luscious figs rested on their leaves in small wooden boxes each with a sugary drop of moisture showing their ripeness. The Marzano tomatoes ready to be used for salads and sauces accompanied by huge bunches of fresh Basil that scented the air. The peaches, pears and grapes gently bedded and neatly arranged in light, wooden trays their freshness and sweet smell flattered our eyes and noses. When we walked through the aisles the stallholders vied for our attention we were called, hailed and yelled at to try the reddest tomato, the plumpest peach, the juiciest pear and we never resisted. It was such a pleasure to choose amidst all this fresh produce. We always went home fully loaded with fruits, tomatoes and a bunch of Basil.
The cooking was easy; we lived mainly on pasta smothered in freshly made tomato sauce piquant with garlic and shavings of Parmesan cheese. We loved the cured meats and salamis with fresh bread and olives. We indulged in the accessibility of freshly picked fruits that were available every day. I never cooked meat, I did not even think of it. Sometimes we bought a roasted chicken. They were small birds, done to perfection with garlic, oregano, black pepper and salt. We truly had every day a feast with the freshest and simplest of foods.

On one of our leisurely walks along the Lido, we bought some pizzas, but the girls were not impressed with them, as they were just a flatbread crust with a tiny bit of tomato paste smeared over the top with a touch of anchovies. I tried to convince them that this was the real pizza, but all my persuasion fell on deaf ears and bought pizza was definitely out.

1974

Sea and sand, umbrellas and deckchairs, At the Lido, we located our bagnino and were allocated two deckchairs, an umbrella and a changing cabin, which was included in the rent of the apartment. The caretakers were the” bagnino and the bagnina” and their two small children and the Nonna. At this time of year, many holiday guests had already left. It was still pleasant to swim and sunbath at the beginning of September.
The Arab sellers walked up and down the beaches, heavy, colourful carpets slung over their bent shoulders, black eyes scanning the people, to attempt the last sale. Every day came the man to sell drinks, his singsong calls … bibite… bibitaia… were not to be missed. Not far behind, from time to time signalling their arrival by blowing into a bugle, was the baker with his son. Both short and very rotund, the older man limped heavily. Both lugged a weighty basket filled with sugary treats. The girls cried here comes the …Gugabeck…! That is a simple Swiss German word for the baker with the bugle.
An old man showed us his wares, small look-alike alabaster figurines. We pleased him when we bought the three graces of joy, charm and beauty.
Aglaia for Splendour, Euphrosyne for Mirth and Thalia for good Cheer, they brought joy and goodwill to gods and men. The old men wished us well and said he hoped that joy and goodwill would be bestowed on us too.

Gelati, Bomboloni, Martini and Espresso; The children enjoyed the days at the beach. They played in the sand and invented their own games. They loved the still-warm sea and swam and dived like fish. They strolled along the seashore. They went “Sachen suchen” and felt like Pippi Long Stocking looking for treasures. One day they found a whole bundle of lire notes, half-buried in the sand.
They dug for more in the soft sand thinking they were on the trail of a hidden treasure, but there were no more lire buried and they quickly exchanged the money for an inflatable rubber mattress to play in the water.

Peter and I enjoyed sitting in the small courtyard cafes that were strung along the beach, sipping espressos and watching lazily the holiday guests that were still around. I had to abstain from the Martinis, as they gave me a never experienced elation and I usually left my handbag hanging on the chair when I left. From then on, for economical reasons only, four pairs of eyes were scanning the chair I had occupied and when this was satisfied my arms were scrutinized to make sure my handbag was fairly anchored over my arm or shoulder.
The girls had found their favourite spot too. Café Europa was their preferred place. There they received the best Gelati always with a little extra on top and the
Bombolonis sugary and filled with Vanilla pastry cream.

The Mercato was held once a week and the stallholders were out in force selling everything you might be in need of or not. I loved the stalls with handbags. My hands caressed soft pink and sky blue leather made into snazzy purses one could tuck under one’s arm. Eight eyes watched like eagles my every move, ready to pounce. I left the handbags with a sigh and settled for a pair of loafers. The leather was very supple and they were hand-sewn and fitted superbly. I ignored their glares; I had never lost a pair of shoes and kept them on. They were so comfortable I lived in them until they were in tatters and I was only sorry that I had not bought a few pairs more, they had only cost me about thirty Swiss francs.

Lido di Camaiore We always walked to the beach along leafy streets that became familiar in the short time we spend there. The houses we knew only from the front, green shutters, a tiny front garden with the ubiquitous iron fence and trimmed Oleanders still sporting the odd pink or red flower. This was the older part of Lido di Camaiore with small shops and pensione, their vacancy signs swinging forlornly on small, rusty chains. The warm, doughy smell from a Pastizzeria drifted out onto the walkway, embraced us and made us hungry. The Gelataria with its omnipresent blue and white plastic ribbons dangling in the doorway was a drawcard for the children; they wanted to try the greenish gelato with tiny bits of pistachio nuts, or fragole, the smooth pinkish red one with tiny black flecks with the taste of real strawberries. The choice was not easy, there were so many, sorbets glistening white, lemony, dark, creamy chocolate, caramello and many more, they were never able to try them all. The Gelati provided also the spots of colour in the stark, cold room with its black and white tiled floor and its fifties steel furniture that consisted only of a couple of round, bare tables and a counter.
We strolled along Pine groves that had been partly carved up to make room for more development of new homes. We looked for pine nuts hidden amidst thickly strewn needles on the footpath. The soil here was sandy and nothing else was growing except
the pines but I guessed that those left standing for the moment would be next to fall to the axe or probably rather to the chainsaw. It was like everywhere towns were expanding and trees removed at a very fast pace.
By bus, we went up to the hill town of Camaiore. The piazza was surrounded by solid houses leaning into each other with massive stonewalls that had withstood many generations. Old people were sitting on benches and chairs catching the warming rays of the sun and watching the bus loading and unloading tourists who came up to their village to disturb their peace.
We wandered along ancient, trodden pathways, past century-old farmhouses exposing long-forgotten paints from under crumbling masonry, remains of fragile, palest pink or a trace of smooth, duck egg blue. Chickens scratched busily for the oddly forgotten morsel, an old, shaggy sheepdog slept towards nirvana. Here we were a hundred years removed from the new housing estates, the busy Lido; there were no radios or televisions blaring their needless chatter out of windows or doorways.
Calmness and tranquillity spread its warm cloak over our hearts and minds. It was a beautiful place to stay forever, but we were on transit, for a fleeting moment enjoying what was generously bestowed on us. We were onlookers, dream walkers through Chestnut and Olive groves and vineyards sprayed Turkish blue with copper.
In the evening we went back to the piazza to catch the last bus that brought us back to our temporary home.

Copyright: T.S. 2008