Tennis...

...and other pleasures of Rimini beaches:
-lifeguards in fishing hats and Speedos
-good beach food (I had a salad with tuna and eggs, a popular choice)
-warm water with grains of sand floating in it

The night we arrived we went out for a midnight dinner and returned to find a group of Canadian men on the doorstep. They were in town for a weekend, as part of a five-week Italy tour. I love speaking Italian, but every time I meet someone who speaks English I feel as if we have common history between us already. (I understand how people can immigrate to the United States, love the United States, and still want to speak their native language once in a while. It's a feeling that doesn't really translate into words very well, but I'm sure anyone who's traveled knows what I mean.) Well, four of us decided to hit the clubs with the Canadians. We danced all night in the rain at "Coconuts," a dodgy disco on the beach. They bought us vodka-Red Bulls (I have yet to buy my own drink at an Italian club, and I can't say I mind so much.) and we taught them all the moves to the 80's club hits and West Coast rap playing in the disco. The drinks were strong and expensive, and when two of us decided to go home around 5 am, we wandered several miles along abandoned, rainy beachfront before we found the street where all the hotels were.

I spent the next day playing beach tennis and lounging, swimming in the ocean and walking along the sea. That night we had another adventure. Being the group's designated spokesperson (at least whenever we have to speak Italian) I asked the aged concierge where we could find some happening clubs. This might have been a mistake. He told us to go to "Prince" and offered to call us a cab. We got in (four of us again, although a different four) and headed out into the night. It was around 2 am. The driver stopped after five minutes and ran off, he said to put minutes on his cell phone. When he finally came back we were a little freaked out. Then he turned off the main roads and took us out of town, merging onto an abandoned highway and flooring the accelerator. We gripped each other's hands. "Ask him where he's taking us!" the other girls said, watching the dark highway fly past and assuming the worst. "Why did we leave Rimini?" I finally got up the guts to ask, and the driver said the nightclub was in a neighboring town. We fork over €35 when we get there. The club is at the top of a mountain, but nestled in a little valley of exotic plants, long stairwells and neon lights. It's also €20 per person for cover. We weren't having that. Depressed and tired, we asked for the bus stop. We got five different directions from as many people. We walked along the curving highway in the dark, cars zipping past us. Eventually, sure we were going to get hit, we took a cab home and went to bed.

But the almost-disco was the only low point in an otherwise exciting weekend. Rimini and Riccione (the neighboring town where the club was) have a reputation in Italy for being like Miami Beach or Las Vegas. Which makes sense, when you realize that smoky bars and dark nightclubs don't really exist in this country.