The cat had grey fur and a seemingly regal face. It didn’t slink around warily as the other five street cats did when they smelled food nearby. She was calm, poised. She had always kept a respectful distance and our nonaggression pact towards one another had since grown into favoritism. This, and because it was the only cat of the lot that didn’t put scratches on my curious son’s shoulder earlier in the month, was the reason I was tossing leftover bits of sausage and cheese from one of the kids’ plates toward it. The kids had long since escaped to their games on the other side of the yard. I tossed the bits at a leisurely interval, pausing so she could eat peacefully without having to defend against her rivals. My unhurried movements also put my conversation with Roland into a graceful rhythm that matched the calmness of the moment.

Our families had come together for the weekend to mark a few milestones. A birthday, a holiday, and a chance opportunity for a Italian beach weekend. It was Memorial Day weekend in America, which didn’t mean much in Italy, but the World War II 75th Anniversary celebrations had finally reached the soft underbelly of Europe. In 1944, the Allied armies had crept up the Italian peninsula and smashed against the formidable Winter Line – Germany’s defense of Rome. By 4 June 1944, the Allied armies had liberated Rome, but not before suffering tens of thousands of casualties between Salerno and Anzio. Our reunion was the culmination of events that began in England and Indonesia and converged in Italy.Roland and his family had driven down from northern Italy while I made sure I rented a big enough house to accommodate while temporarily working near Rome. Having a similar viewpoint of Italy, Roland and I thought it important to use our proximity to attend the ceremony at the Rome-Sicily American Cemetery in Nettuno, near the Anzio beaches. So that Friday we did.

The next day, Saturday, Roland and I were looking across a table with the remnants of a lunch well lived. Mountains of salads, mezzes, and cheeses had been reduced to nothing as hungry spoons dug into the piles of carrots cooked in olive oil topped in garlic yoghurt, gorgonzola stuffed mushrooms, and a creamy risotto. A selection of Italian cold cuts, grilled meats and sausages had met a similar fate, minus what was now being tossed to an almost-loyal feline. Half empty cups of water (naturale and frizzante), espresso and limoncello mingled with empty bottles of Umbrian wine and multi-colored sippy cups. It was exhausting to look at, but even more enjoyable to have experienced. It was midday and the in an hour we would take a walk to get gelato a few blocks away.

Rome is not known as a beach town, but as all Mediterrenean people crave the seaside, the towns of Focene, Fregene, Ostia, and others scratch that itch for an otherwise landlocked city. We had managed to find a location that put us midway between a string of charming Italian lidos (beach clubs and restaurants) and the gelateria and cafés away from the beach traffic. It was the perfect situation for four kids hungry for activity. The beaches in Italy are a remarkable place, organized for the enjoyment of any customer. Compared to an American beach visit, the logistics were remarkably simple. Nowhere were the giant bags of beach gear or oversized coolers filled with food and beverages. The Italians themselves dressed as if they just stepped off their yachts. The men wore their linen shirts and designer sunglasses while the women didn’t hesitate to embrace well-crafted outfits with an equal care given to hair, make-up and accessories. It was every stereotype of Italian style and the overfantisized expectations of Mediterrenean ease fulfilled.

Our particular choice of lido that weekend served salmon burgers and chilled white wine from the bar, served to us while sitting on pillowed rustic furniture placed in the sand. Our kids alternated between digging in the sand, hanging from some basic playground equipment, or splashing in the water under supervision. Later in the afternoon we heard the sounds of an amplified acoustic guitar. It was special because it was ordinary, untroubled by celebration or expectation. Kids played as kids ought to play. Occasional gusts of salt-tinged sea air blew threw our loosely buttoned shirts, our cheeks became gently kissed by the sun, and a glass of unremarkable wine aided in passing the time. Together with our wives, we talked about everything and nothing until the kids succumbed to adrenaline-fueled toddler exhaustion.

Sunday was the final day together. Without any intention of being tourists in Rome, we needed to step foot and walk the streets of the ancient city together. The threatening clouds unleashed their contents shortly after our arrival and before long a few soggy wrong turns forced us to abandon our leisurely stroll.  Shelter arrived in the form of an unexceptional ristorante winding down from a modest lunch crowd. The amiable host ushered us to the basement tables so we could spread out our rain-soaked jackets and children without disturbing the more civilized clientele upstairs. With dripping hair, wet socks, and fidgety toddlers we ordered rainy day comfort food. Foregoing more elaborate fare, Italian classics descended from the kitchen hand over fist. Baked lasagna accompanied vegetable soup, while spaghetti and penne doused in simple sauces confronted our children. By the end of this modest feast we had dry clothes, full bellies, and renewed enthusiasm for exploration – aided by a clear sky and the courage of a few carafes of house wine. With nowhere in particular to go, we continued walking through Rome. Time after that was measured in espressos, and four shots later we left the Eternal City for a night of well deserved sleep.

With only a hair of plan we turned a normal weekend into one that will live on in family lore for years. It wasn’t the Italian coast, the Roman streets, or the significant anniversaries that will remain with us. Rather, it was the time spent by the beach, in the yard, and hidden from a storm with our families around the table that transformed a daily occurence into a lasting memory. Life well lived at the table is part of our legacy.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.