August in Italy is not April in Paris

I don't like crowds. I can't say that I've never liked crowds or I wouldn't have gotten so mad at my dad for refusing to take us to the fireworks when I was a kid.  But at some point between the 1976 Fourth of July parade in Ada, Michigan, overflowing with bikes decorated with red, white and blue crepe paper, ribbons and flags and 2014 Ferragosto in Italy, overflowing with traffic, crowded beaches and red, white and green flags, I've changed. 

Ferragosto is a national holiday in Italy.  It's the fifteenth of August and it used to be the official kickoff of summer vacations.  Now the first of August seems to be the official kickoff and the thirty-first, the end.  It's the month Italians go on vacation.

August in Italy is a far cry from April in Paris unless you're on the seaside or in the mountains.  As for the rest of Italy, it's empty.  And like I said, I don't like crowds, so I stick to the empty part.  For most people it doesn't matter that everything is closed, because they're all at the sea where  everything is open.  It's those of us left behind that notice. You have to prepare yourself that in August, wherever you go to buy your running shoes, eat your pizza, get your haircut or pick up your flowers might be closed.

I spent the month saying to myself, "I wonder if it'll be open," and upon discovery of its closure, "c'est la vie."  I know that's French, but I said it anyway.  You don't know a place is closed until you get there and find the cute little sign taped to the door that says, "Chiuso per Ferie", closed for vacation.  They always include the dates so at least you know how long you'll have to go without their services, which is a little more polite than the Dairy Queen ice cream shop in Indiana.  They used to change the giant sign by the road so you could see it driving by.  But they simply wrote, "Closed for 6 weeks."  You didn't know when they'd closed, so you didn't know when they'd reopen.  You just had to wait it out.   If the plastic letters started falling from their slots and the sign said, "lose for 6" or "Close for eeks" you knew your next vanilla cone dipped in chocolate wasn't too far off. 

Then comes September.  The most popular question in Italy the first week?  "How were your holidays?"  It's assumed that everyone had some kind of vacation in August.  Saying that you didn't go anywhere and continued working is worse than saying that you stayed home alone on Thanksgiving and ate peanut butter and jelly.  Poverina, poor girl. (I was going to say macaroni and cheese but that made things sound a little too good.)

By the second week things start to get back to normal.  Tans have started to fade and coffee-vending-machine-talk (water cooler talk) goes back to politics instead of fabulous beach resorts and how this year they were in row 2 instead of row 17.  I had to ask what that meant, too.  Most beaches are run by restaurants and bars and campgrounds.  There are rows and rows and rows of chairs and umbrellas.  You have to rent your place.  The closer you are to the water, the more you pay. Fortunately, you can book it well in advance.  Imagine reserving your place at the beach!  I talked to a 72-year old woman in February that was complaining that she couldn't go to Paris for the weekend because she'd just paid 700 euro to rent her chair and umbrella for the coming summer. 

There's one thing I'm sure of.  I'm lucky I didn't grow up in Italy.  I would've missed out on the whole month of August instead of just the Fourth of July.