WOBS: Women for the Official Ban of Speedos

Since it's been so hot we decided to take a trip to the beach.  We took a bus to a little coastal town about sixty kilometers southeast called Sotto Marina.  The beach was like one I'd never seen before.  It was quadroned off into zones that had hundreds upon hundreds of beach umbrellas and huts scattered across the length of the coast as far as the eye could see.  I'm quite certain that this beach coud hold easily at least a thousand people.  For different prices you could rent beach chairs, umbrellas, and/or a hut.  Katie and I stuck to the simple beach chairs near the shore.

While soaking up the sun, we couldn't help but observe the other beach-goers to discover what they say about European beaches is true.  Speedos are worn in high quantity.  Now I'd like to take this moment to share a few words of wisdom from the female perspective.  Men, speedos are not, I repeat, not sexy!  Once being a lifeguard, I have seen my fair share of men sporting speedos--short men, tall men, skinny men, fat men, bald men, hairy men, fit men, and gangly men and not once did I want to take a second look.  You could have the body of a bronzed god and still not be able to pull off a speedo.  With that said, men consider yourself informed, and please think twice before you embarass yourself with wearing what can only be described as a banana hamock.  There, I've said my share.

We also saw a lot of women on the beach who had no problem sunbathing topless.  I told Katie we should embrace the European way and go topless ourselves, but let's be honest, we were far too chicken-shit to actually do it.  Not to mention, a sunburn there would be rather painful.  Ouch!  Instead, I chose to take a swim in the ocean, the Adriatic Sea to be specific.  It was rather calm and the water didn't taste nearly as salty as other ocean water I've had the dismay of tasting.

When Katie started to burn and the clouds started rolling in, we decided to take the bus home.  By the time we arrived back in Padova it was pouring rain and showed no sign of letting up anytime soon.  In just skimpy beach clothes, we still had to bike home so we hopped onto our bikes and kicked off into the sopping rainstorm.  Within seconds we were soaked through and shivering while the passing Italians looked on at us from under their umbrellas like we had just escaped the local sane asylum. It didn't help that we were trying to peddle through the thick sheets of rain while hysterically laughing at ourselves. We could have been humiliated, but laughing our asses off was far more fun.  The Italians in their dry smart cars certainly had no problems pointing and laughing.  In fact, I'm quite certain they went out of their way to splash us with their car tires.  Feeling like a kid again, I further embraced the situation and rode through the biggest puddles I could find.  I mean why not?  You only get so many opportunities to act completely and wholly rediculous. Although I do feel like I get more than the average person.  Oh well, must just be good luck.  Anyway, when we finally made it home twenty minute later, we were thoroughly and utterly water-logged.  I'm pretty sure I was carry ten pounds of water in my beach cover-up alone.  We could have given drowned rats a race for their money, but I loved every minute of it.  It totally made my day.

After drying out, we got ready to go out with the gym teacher from school.  After sharing a round of beer at an Irish pub (Dad, aren't you proud?  Beer!), he took us to a popular reggae bar.  I know, a reggae bar in Italy, very strange.  I was extremely excited to discover they had waup or jungle juice as a certain person from KC likes to call it.  Since neither Katie nor the gym teacher had ever had it, I had to buy a round for them.  It was no surprised that they loved it.  Who doesn't love waup?

Following that, we went to a club called the Fish Market.  With a name like that, I had no idea what to expect.  When the cab dropped us off at the edge of a small forest where just two conspicuous looking men stood under a fire-lit torch, I became a bit nervous.  Had I not heard how popular and common this club was I might have turned the other way.  Instead I tread forward feeling like I was entering some underground rave party.  I wouldn't have been surprised at that moment if the two men had asked me for the secret password.  Luckily, all we needed was ID.  After walking down an ominously dark trail, the shadows finally broke into bright lights and loud music.  The club consisted of a yard behind a villa with bright, glowing colored yard lights, picnic tables strewn about, a football field, a projector running old Italian carttons, a dancing deck, and finally a bar all laid out under the stars.  It was definitely not your typical club.

Soon we met up with some other teachers, and the rum and cokes were going down quite smoothly.  If I thought it was difficult to understand the teacher's Scottish and Irish accents before, it was nothing compared to doing so while buzzed with the Black Eyed Peas blaring in the background.  It didn't take long before Katie was drunk and making out with the gym teacher.  I simply laughed and made sure along with the other teachers to tease her the rest of the night.

I guess it's safe to say there's never a dull moment in Italy.  I'm just glad I won't be the one remembered by the other teachers as "that American student teacher that got drunk and dirty on the dance floor with Rob the gym teacher."  See mom, you raised me right afterall.  As for Amanda, the jury's still out on that one.  I mean she did find her husband in Las Vegas of all places.  Wink!