This post has been entered into the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition.

The sea stirs me.  As a child I heard stories from the mouth of my grandfather.  Of the beauty of the sea.  Of swimming in the open ocean, and deep-sea diving.  He was a Navy man.  Part of a submarine rescue crew.   The sea meant adventure, danger, death.  For him, a man who had seen and survived the attack on Pearl Harbor, it also somehow meant peace.

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My trips to Italy have been beautiful, discovery-filled experiences.  Great stretches of self-reflection punctuated by moments with new friends.  During a stay in the beautiful city of Lucca, a new friend suggested that we drive to Viareggio, a coastal city frequented by VIPs. This cloudy, off-season day, it had the feel of Coney Island in the movie “Big.” Many shops were closed, the beach vacant, and even the dark-skinned vendors that usually harass passers-by with their counterfeit goods seemed unconcerned with us, busy contemplating the vast, empty beauty of this place.

We made our way to the harbor and walked along the great jetty that extends from the city out into the water.  Fishing boats lined the way, their masts standing tall against the grey backdrop and giving rise to a stark picture.

The Madonna stood atop a pedestal in the harbor, high above all, eternally blessing those who venture out, welcoming those who return.

I took a moment to think of my Grandfather.  A man who had returned.

Yes.  The sea stirs me.

Lucca, as well as being a super-cool city, is a stone’s throw from a ton of other cool places. Florence is an hour bus ride away, and Viareggio, on the Mediterranean Sea, is about 15 mins drive. I spent one glorious day and evening in Florence with Giovanna and Franca, and one lovely morning in Viareggio with Gio.

For my last day in Lucca, Giovanna suggested that we make the run to Viareggio, a coastal city that plays host to a range of VIPs. This cloudy day, however, in the middle of the off-season, it had the feel of Coney Island in the movie “Big.” Many shops were closed, the beach vacant, and even the dark-skinned vendors that usually harass passers-by with their umbrellas and counterfeit goods seemed unconcerned with us, busy themselves contemplating the vast, empty beauty of this place.

We headed first to the beach, having to walk some distance to find an entrance between the pay-to-play beach stands that stretch the length of the waterfront. The swimming-pools stood empty and the umbrella stands littered the beach, giving an eerie feeling to this amazing, contrasting landscape.

We spent a fair amount of time walking across the sand, snapping pictures, considering the waves, examining shells.

When we found our way back to the street that runs the length of the beach, we found it equally empty.  Growing up in a tourist town, I understand the concept of slack.  For locals, it’s a time of quiet.  A time to recharge, and to prepare for the coming onslaught of the next season.  The majestic buildings lining the street stood witness to this reality; quiet, waiting, a great exhale seemed to come from the city.

We found a favorite record store of Giovanna’s and picked up a few cds then walked along the great jetty that extends from the city out into the water.  Fishing boats lined the jetty, their masts standing tall against the grey backdrop and giving rise to a stark picture.  The Madonna stood in the harbor, high above all, eternally blessing those who venture out, welcoming those who return.

Outside the protection of the jetty stood another shrine.  One evoking great sadness.  A constant reminder of those who do not return from the sea.

The quietness of the day, the cold sea and distant cranes building naval vessels put me in mind of my grandfather, who survived a perilous morning at Pearl Harbor, and survives quietly, night after night its memory.

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Then it was back to Lucca for another fantastic meal, scarf-shopping and a train ride back to Fornacci.  Back to the present, back to my adventures – a great exhale in my journey through life.