What day are we going?

How many more sleeps?

How long will it take us?

To drive all that way?

 

I love our red bunkbeds,

That teeny old house,

Getting washed in the fountain,

The bunnies, “my man”.

 

The vegetable garden,

That squeaky old gate.

We drive to the beach and stay there all day,

Eat Bomboloni, panini, Coco-Bello, ice-cream.

 

We don’t wear much suncream,

We often go red!

“You’ll be brown by tomorrow,”

My mama always says.

 

My sister is younger but bolder than me,

She often goes missing, taking off down the beach.

She flops down with strangers, a real chatterbox,

My parents don’t worry, she’s never too far.

 

We jump in the waves,

Find hundreds of shells,

(There were plenty in those days,

We took hundreds home.)

 

We play games of Boccie, Clack-Clack and ping pong,

We pester for pinball up the beach at the bar.

We drink Coca Cola, Italian lemonade,

Eat orange ice-lollies that leave stains on our tongues.

 

Prosciutto, mortadella, salami, some crisps,

Those Italian sandwiches were always the best.

Watermelon and peaches, nectarines and grapes.

Spaghetti and pizza, tomatoes, ice-cream.

 

My mama’s great figure’s the talk of the beach,

How does she keep it after having three kids?

The answer is simple: she never sits down,

She’s cooking and cleaning and ironing non-stop!

 

She reads us long stories,

Sings songs to us too,

She’s gorgeous and giggly,

With incredible legs!

 

My Papa goes swimming,

He wears tight little trunks,

The ladies all watch him,

He’s built like a God!

 

He builds huge sandcastles,

Racing tracks in wet sand.

Plays ball with my brother,

For hours at a time.

 

We go to Carrara,

Drive up windy roads,

Visit white marble mountains loved by Michaelangelo.

We visit the quarries, collect little white stones,

Buy statuettes of David, the Madonna, Pietà.

 

We went back to that place,

For many a year,

My Nana came with us quite often it seems.

My Mama’s friend Mary, she often came too.

They’d giggle together, talk of days back at school.

  

The vine covered pathway leading to the front door.

No bathroom, no toilet, an outhouse downstairs.

We washed in the sink or the fountain outside,

The water was freezing but nobody cared.

 

The electric was wonky, we lit candles at night,

Read stories, played hopscotch, sang songs in the car.

My brother’s blonde hair bleached bright white in the sun,

My sister tanned dark, while I went golden.

  

Those wonderful memories,

Polaroids in my head,

Sandals and sunshine,

The Lido, the waves.

 

That funny old house,

On the outskirts of town,

In Marina di Carrara,

With a view on the trains.

 

NB: I have two wonderful sisters, but there is almost 14 years difference between my youngest sister and me, so (if my memory is correct) she never experienced summer holidays in that funny old house in Marina di Carrara.