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Tenderfoot

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 or anything more than warm. For you it would be like walking on the insides of your forearms. My feet don't do "roughing it."

So, our first "beach" stop is Bari where we pay about 60 euro for parking, entrance, 2 chairs and an umbrella to go to the beach. (Did I mention I burn easily? I am a mess.) The sand is rougher than I expect (like fine gravel), but I wince my way to the water and get in. The temperature is lovely and the water is clear. I go back to the chairs in sit in relative comfort and try not to burn. A successful first day.

The next is in Gallipoli. Here, the sand is a bit courser but where the waves break, there is large, painful gravel. Big rocks. Helmut encourages me to get into the water, but I cannot make it past this shards-of-pain-beyond-endurance point. I feel discouraged, but Helmut has an idea. That evening, we go into town and find what I call my "powershoes:" rubber soles and neoprene tops. The next day, there is a line of seaweed where the gravel was. I am unsure if the gravel is still there, because I have my powershoes and nothing can stop me!!

Our final stop is Polignano a Mare and you would think, "What can go wrong? I have my powershoes!" (By the way, never ask questions in this format. The universe always answers like it is a challenge.) Well, the beach gods have a new torture in mind: Rocks! Yes, no sand, not even gravel, but rocks. No, not pea- nor golf ball size. Not even baseball size. These rocks are about the size of a decent meatloaf. Power shoes be damned!



You see here people lounging on these instruments of torture. Not with inflatable beds, but on the rocks!



Here is someone actually sleeping (sleeping!) on them. I am just not built for this type of thing. [sigh]

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