“The walk down to the beach in Umbria was longer than usual. You had to park at the top of a hill, under some trees, instead of the bottom lot. Then, they made me grab my things and hike down to sea level, about a ten minute walk.
On one side of the beach, a middle-aged Italian man sold hard-boiled eggs, prosecco, water, and french fries. He claimed to only take cash and not speak a lot of English. The locals said in dialect that his hard boiled eggs are very good when paired with the Adriatic seawater.
With not many people around, I decided to get in the water before tanning. I took my shirt off to expose a few random tattoos, and threw it in the pile of my things: an Eve Babitz book, sunscreen, headphones, a towel, and a big bottle of water. I made the short walk to the sea, the sea, the sea sea sea. I had convinced myself that salt water healed my ailments in life.
I began to understand why hard boiled eggs were being sold on the beach: the water was extremely salty. So salty that it burnt my eyes, even when they were closed. I tried to keep my head underwater for as long as I could until my eyes started burning so bad that I had no choice but to get some air. I lasted about 15 seconds, and then rubbed my eyes hard enough to make them blur and glow with fireflies. I laid flat against the surface of the water, using the saltiness to help me float and breathe in the ocean air with fireflies around my retinas. I liked when the calm waves of the early Italian morning made me bob up and down like a piece of seaweed.
Feeling cooled down and refreshed, I walked out of the water and back to my spot in the pebbles. I contemplated getting two hard boiled eggs, but decided to wait until I was more hungry in about an hour or so. I lay out my towel, half under the shade of my pitched umbrella, and half in the west coast sun, and I thought about what the rocks tasted like.
I fell asleep thinking about the acidity of pebbles. I woke up to a sunburn on my lower half, and a repetitive bass line in my ear. Thurston Moore was saying to me, “We’re gonna kill the California girls.” Now, that would be a shame to me.
I rubbed my eyes to get the salty air out of them and look around more effectively. I would say there were at least three times as many people on the beach then. Right next to me, a group of boys had set up a few chairs and umbrellas and were circled attentively around one of their friends. They listened to him very closely. He was speaking in dialect, so I struggled to pick up on exactly what he was saying. I knew a few dialect words, so I took out my headphones and tried to chime in to their conversation.
I continued to struggle to understand. They were huddled in a way that made most of their words disappear into the ocean air, while a few decided to come my way. I got up and walked by with the hope of hearing something interesting. Walking behind the boy in the middle, I began to hear him describe how he thought his car got broken into last night, but wasn’t sure because nothing was taken. Instead, he felt as if the car was running differently that day. He was asking his friends if they thought the same when they all drove to the beach together. Some of them said yes, some of them said no. I continued to walk down the beach, hearing a few different versions of these conversations as I strolled. A couple argued over whose turn it is to fill their car with gas after they leave the beach, as one of them will have had to in order to make it back home. A mother and her daughter talked passionately about when she could begin taking driving classes. The mom seemed apprehensive to let her daughter behind the wheel. Another man, who came to the beach by himself, fed his dog slices of store bought ham while he enjoyed an early afternoon sandwich.
By this point, I was at the other rock formation, the other side of the beach. This is where the man was selling his hard boiled eggs, amongst other random things. Before walking, I put my wallet in my pocket to avoid it getting stolen, and then, I thought, I might as well get some hard boiled eggs. The sign says they are one euro each. I approach the guy and tell him I want three. He put all three into the palm of my left hand, I handed him three dollars, and I made my way back to my spot, waving the eggs in the air before eating them so I could get some salt onto the outside. They were delicious.”
“And Francesco? Did he ever show up to give you the package?”
“No, no actually, he didn’t.”
