Mays Vakantie

The only, tiny little piccolissimo downside to having a family holiday home in Italy is that you quickly end up going to the same place every holiday and the memories start to weave together. That's why we try to either fly into a different airport and explore another part of Italy by car or, like this time, book a holiday within the holiday. The holiday version of the Droste effect, I might say.

That can even be just in the same street. We look for a nice masseria, pack a suitcase, make a dinner reservation, and have an amazing holiday in our own neighborhood. This summer we did that at a masseria around the corner (which indeed found it quite peculiar when we told them that our own little house was exactly six minutes away), this time we chose Torre Coccaro, the hotel associated with the beach tent where we have lunch at least once every holiday. Indeed, we are quite into traditions.

My beloved brought a bottle of Bellini (my favorite, along with Pavese crackers, I could live on those here) and before I knew it, I was in the bath with my girls while he filled the glass. Afterwards, we strolled around the estate and ended up at the bar. I realized that a different phase had indeed begun. Just yesterday I was chasing after Duplos and Bugaboos, today I was simply sitting at the bar with my husband and girls. They had an iced tea, we had gin and tonic. They were almost flirting with the waiter, but that will probably happen next holiday, I fear.

During dinner, we turned out to be served by Jack, the same waiter who colors our summer lunches. How long we had been coming to him, how big the girls had grown, and how we could all enjoy summer.

I shared a plate with my love (tagliata with rosemary and oven-baked potatoes like they can only make here) and shared a dessert (I never eat desserts but when I read the menu, my spine turns into an eel).

I believe I fall asleep earlier than my daughters in the room next door and we solemnly promise to keep this tradition alive.

The next day we want to go to a tropical swimming paradise. Or something with swimming and heated water because the water at home is so cold that you come out as a petrified version of yourself.

I call and search and scour until I end up at the piscina communale of Ostuni. How long do I want to swim, the gentleman on the other end of the line asks. ‘Well, a few hours, max half a day.’ He seems to choke. That's not how it works. I hear something about subscriptions, swimming lessons, obtaining diplomas, and insurance. The fact that we have obtained all the ‘patente’ in the Netherlands (waterland, right, all children swim from the age of five) makes no impression. This is Italy and no exceptions are made to the rules.

When I, a bit irritated, explain to my girls why we can't swim, my youngest says: ‘They just really love children in Italy. When it comes to the swimming pool, maybe a bit too much.’

Italy just can't be broken for them, even if we have to postpone that swimming until May.