The Beach.

Dear Italians:

I know it’s the weekend and very shortly you will no longer be able to resist the urge to mentally just check-the-fuck-out and bake in the sun for 8 hours straight. You can go ahead and spend 3 hours in single lane traffic to get to the beach. By all means, pay to park on the street because you are in a hurry to get to that narrow strip of sand and the waveless, salty sea that looks  like a lake. You might come back to find a movable sign that says No Parking where your car used to be (this happened to me – the cops do it – nothing you can do about it), but that isn’t the point.

No, I know you are eager to get your 10 Euro umbrella and 5 Euro beach chair and find space near the bar so you can hear the music and a grilled sandwich and a beer is never far away. It’s all good.

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But I want you to take a moment, take a deep, cleansing breath and prepare your sunbaked brains to absorb some crucial information.

No matter how much of a rush you may be in …
No matter what your friend Flavio Flav says …

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Do not carry that fanny pack slung over your shoulder as a man-purse. Even if it is a Prada fanny pack. In fact, just don’t carry a fanny pack at all.

Trust me on this. It will totally fuck up your game at the rolling gelato stand.

OK pumpkins?

Now go play.

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