Summer is considered the “in” time to visit Europe. One can be on a beach, either nude or covered, pay top dollar for two and three star hovels, and elbow one’s way down a variety of boardwalks and main streets. You are exposed to professional pickpockets, persistent vendors, and long waits for expensive restaurants. Why do we pay premium airfares for this privilege? Maybe it’s just vacation time, I don’t know. But let me tell you about visiting Italy in November – definitely not the “high season.”
We arrived in Milan in the midst of a torrential rainstorm. As a northern California resident, I’m used to a few drops of drizzle. But this was RAIN. Driven by force IV winds, each bucket threatened to drench every bit of exposed fabric.
We rented a small white Opal and aimed south – looking for the proverbial Italian sun. We chose Rimini on the Adriatic, about one third of the way down the eastern side of the Italian boot. This summer resort has miles of sandy beaches, fully populated by hotel after hotel. Three and four story edifices with large comfortable balconies overlook the sea. Sandwiched in between was the usual group of fast-food pizza palaces, gelato vendors, and an odd collection of activity areas such as miniature golf and beach volleyball. Mix in a few palm trees, a park, some benches, and you’ve described every beach town in the world.
But in November everything was boarded up. Magnificent structures of old-world pastels fast asleep, waiting for next summer to live again.
If you have found Rimini on the map you will notice it is only about sixty kilometers from that independent little Republic of San Marino. I’ll let you investigate the how and the why this mountain country in the middle of Italy retains its uniqueness. The story reeks of incest, rape, murder, and the usual political intrigues.
Visitors to San Marino in summer tell stories of hours of waiting on the narrow road leading in. One friend left the autostrade (i.e., toll road) fifty kilometers away and arrived six hours later at the gondola which can take you the last few kilometers. Not in November. We drove to within one hundred meters of the main entrance, not even a tour bus to contend with. We parked and drifted along. The winding streets were devoid of people. We were waited on immediately in each store, and every restaurant had available tables. Even the public restrooms were lacking lines. Hey – it was ten degrees Celsius…
The down-side to this fantastic piece of parking luck was a pink slip of paper tucked under my windshield wipers. Unable to read the language which described my supposed transgression, I snuck off into the gathering evening mist. I can hardly imagine the carabinieri chasing me to Danville for a teeny, tiny parking discrepancy. Can you?
The other side of the Italian boot was a little more tourist friendly. We found only about half of the hotels were closed in the Santa Margarita area, and on Sundays the streets were full but not crowded.
But on this western side we were exposed to a different kind of November treat.
We got up early one morning in Genova with the hopes of driving along the Ligurian Sea toward Monaco. The wind was again a force IV and driving on the toll road was menacing. The trucks were out in force, and each time we passed or were passed, our little Opal shook to the core. Every kilometer or so we disappeared into a tunnel only to come out and have to immediately cross a suspension bridge, hundreds of feet high. Our courage could only stand so much of this, so after a couple of hours we decided to go back to our safe little hovel in Genova and wait out this blast. But the best was still in store.
Rather than retrace our path on the toll road at one hundred and ten kilometers per hour amidst the trucks and the wind, we retreated to the local highway which ran directly along the coast. Here the locals moved at twenty to thirty kilometers – a much less stressful environment.
But the sea itself was having none of this more peaceful condition. In November, under heavy winds, it reminded us landlubbers that it was not to be reckoned with. Waves from our vantage point looked higher than the road and proved to be so. At a number of points they crashed over the road and our car, leaving behind several feet of sea water to drain back into the proper place.
I have a little secret to share here. After the initial fright of being totally engulfed in the water of the Ligurian Sea disappeared and we realized there was no danger, we made a U-turn or three and drove back through those areas. It was fun! The car was completely covered with salt water, and we could taste the salt on our lips. But the thrill of those breakers howling up over our car will cause us to laugh out loud when we remember “those days in the low season.”
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