An American in Paris

Lakewood, New Jersey was well past its prime by the time I became cognisant. It had had its heydays of being a Jewish resort and then the center of egg production during the second World War. The resort hotels were still there but barely hanging on, disappearing via an annual immolation (or so it seemed) and the dilapidated chicken coops were torn down when someone came up with a better use for the land. Even though we were about 20 minutes from the shore, the town latched onto the Jersey Shore connection for dear life and so my family did its civic duty and went to the beach. Every Sunday throughout the year we had our ritual but it was enhanced during the summer. We began with 9AM mass (which later got moved to 8:45 to accommodate traffic), which of course meant getting up at 7:30 to prep. This prep did not include breakfast (that was after mass) but showers, putting on our suits and getting to the church. We were always late, mostly because of my mother. She of course always blame...

This year we have taken the exodus from Paris with the rest of humanity. We are traveling to Italy in the stiletto of the country's boot; more or less, the end of the line for Italy. Because it is summer, we are eating, drinking spritzes in the afternoon and seeing cathedrals in old cities. For me, though, the most unusual aspect of this summer outing is going to the beach (for Helmut, this is a natural, even a requirement). For me, it is a an activity filled with dread at times. One takes one for the team sometimes. Having been brought up at the shore in New Jersey, I am used to very fine sand. Sure, there can be an area of slightly bigger gravel where the waves break, but mostly powder. This is a good thing since I have the most tender feet in the world. Not just I-take-care-of-my-feet tender (which I do not), but there-is-something-genetically-wrong-with-me tender. You would think this is something to envy, but believe me, it is not. I cannot walk on anything remotely rough o...