I admit it. I am a beach snob. I look down my nose at any beach that isn’t located on the coastlines of the Hawaiian Islands. All others pale in comparison.

It had not occur to me that the western edge of Tuscany was the Tyrrhenian Sea. I guess I was too distracted by the Italian Cypresses lining the winding roads or the timeless stone houses standing solitary in the fields to notice any possible changes in topography.

Nicola had suggested that we take a break from all the touristy sightseeing and head west to the coastal Tuscan city of Viareggio. I suspect it was because he wanted to show off where he was raised and to point out that just south of town was Spiaggia della Lecciona, better known as Mama Mia (gay) beach. Mmm. Near naked Europeans.

But first cosmic balance had to be restored. There was a price to pay for the serendipity of the tour to San Gimignano days earlier.

Somewhere on the way to the coast, the train was forced to make an emergency stop and passengers were encouraged to disembark. Was this it? Was this one of those infamous Italian train strikes? I was a little giddy from the off-chance that it was. No such luck. The torrential rains from the previous night had caused a tree to fall across the tracks and the train engineers had no idea how long it would take to clear. The first hour of waiting gave us the opportunity to reflect on our Italian experience thus far and pump ourselves up for the next leg of our journey: Provence. By the second hour, the American concepts of effectiveness and efficiency seeped into my head and the milling about became torture.

We were still determined to reach Viareggio and so decided to split a cab with a couple of young Scottish ladies headed to the same destination. They were pleasant enough at first; the accents and mannerisms were an added bonus to the detour. We have always looked forward to meeting new people on our trips. But sometimes there is a limit to my patience. Ask Bob.

We were trapped in a taxi with two wannabe valley-girl primadonnas on vacation. One was screeching to here mum on the phone about putting more dough into her account. They were going to be in a new city and she needed more play money. The other, unsuccessfully sipping vodka from a travel mug, was trying to convince everyone (the two other people) in the cab that someone from back home was bound to catch them being naughty. These foreigners! They even implied that we “spend more time together” when we arrived in the beach town. Sorry lasses but we aren’t those kinds of blokes. We prefer bangers and mash to fish and chips! If you catch my drift.

To cap off the already shortened visit, the beach was mostly barren and the sky was darkening with rain clouds.

FUN FACT. The beaches in Viareggio and elsewhere around the Mediterranean are sometimes cordoned off into sections; many are privately owned by hotels and are reserved for guests and paying visitors. The free sections for the public are usually in the less desirable areas of the beach, like near the piers or by rocky outcroppings.