I T A L I A

 

'Every August, Italy changes. Cities like Florence and Rome empty out, shop shutters close, and even the barista who made your morning espresso vanishes.

Where do we go? We disappear — but not to the places tourists expect.

We don’t dream of Venice or the Amalfi Coast. We dream of our places. The ones we’ve been going to since we were kids. Places that smell like grilled fish and sunscreen, where the same families return to the same apartments every single year.

For some, it’s Puglia — the heel of Italy, where the towns are white as sugar cubes and the sea glows like liquid glass. We set up our umbrellas at Torre dell’Orso, Gallipoli, Polignano a Mare, or Vieste, and we stay there until sunset, talking, eating, and doing absolutely nothing.

Others head south to Calabria. Tropea, Capo Vaticano, Scilla, Diamante. Names you might not know, but to us, they taste like sweet red onions, spicy pasta, and watermelon straight from the fridge.

Sardinia? Of course — but not the glossy Costa Smeralda you see on Instagram. We go where the ferries land: San Teodoro, Cala Gonone, Santa Teresa di Gallura, La Maddalena, and quiet coves you reach by foot or rowboat.

And not everyone chases the sea. Many of us flee the heat for the mountains. We head to the Dolomites: Ortisei, Corvara, Canazei, Madonna di Campiglio, San Candido. Up there, you trade the beach for cool air, alpine hikes, polenta, and wool sweaters in August.

Others escape to lakes: Lago di Bolsena, Lago di Bracciano, Lago d’Iseo, or Lago di Scanno in Abruzzo — places where you can swim without salt, eat by the water, and hear only Italian.

Families from Bologna and Florence still love the Tuscan coast — Castiglione della Pescaia, Marina di Grosseto, Follonica, Cecina, Baratti. The umbrellas are reserved, the beach toys are inherited, and everyone knows everyone.

In Liguria, we go to Lerici, Sestri Levante, Finale Ligure, Varigotti — still Italian, still old-school, with focaccia in your bag and sand in your shoes.

And yes, in Emilia-Romagna, some still swear by Rimini, Cesenatico, and Milano Marittima — loud, crowded, chaotic, but full of family memories and piadine eaten with sandy hands.

Italian vacations are not minimalist. We arrive at the beach with half the house: umbrellas, chairs, coolers, espresso makers, and sometimes even nonna. We build little kingdoms on the sand, always next to the same families we’ve been “neighbors” with every summer for decades.

This is what vacation means to us. Not rushing, not seeing “everything,” but returning to the same places, the same food, the same rituals — because they feel like home.

So if you ever find yourself on an Italian beach, surrounded by three generations sharing pasta from a tupperware and arguing about who forgot the cheese?

Congratulations.

You’ve found the real Italy on holiday.'