Gloria's Diary by Albert Russo (fun books to read for adults txt) 📕

to the movies together.  She was thrilled to have her friend with her during the sales period, especially at Christmas time, for Carlina was crazy for shoes, bags and costume jewelery.  I knew I could leave Dalia in her safe company and would always give her some pocket money, so she wouldn't feel like a spare wheel.  I even urged her to buy nice things.  Yet, in the beginning, whilst her friend indulged herself, Dalia would come back home, empty-handed.  "I didn't find anything I liked." she would retort, with a pout of disgust, shrugging off the subject, as if it was too trivial to pursue.
She got me really worried, to the point where I even thought of consulting a psychologist.  It was Marisa who finally advised me against the idea, maintaining that it would pass.  "You will see," she said, "with the advent of Spring, things will appear rosier to her.  Don't we, adults, who grew up here, suffer from the Winter blues?"
And she was right, for, as soon as the Parco Reale, which we could admire at an angle from our seventh-floor apartment, became alive with the lush greening of its woods and the palette of its wild flowers, my daughter opened up and was happy to take, with Carlina, long strolls in the Park - this is actually a misnomer, since the Parco Reale, one of the largest in Europe, looks more like a small forest, interspersed with wide glades, containing a stable, an Olympic-size swimming-pool, several cafés, at least one posh restaurant, and the famous Formula-One race track, known here as Autodromo di Monza.  And I haven't mentioned its crown jewel, the splendid Renaissance-style Villa Reale, which was the Summer Palace of the Italian Royal family and which nowadays accommodates trade and art shows, among other events.
It took Dalia about a year to fully adapt to her new environment and to learn to speak Italian almost like a native.  She couldn't roll her r's and thus kept a slight French accent. But this small "defect" of pronunciation gave her an edge over her classmates, since she sounded either like a snobbish little Florentine or like a Parisian, making her sound as if she belonged to some kind of aristocracy.  This bothered her at first, for my darling Dalia couldn't care less for social differences, especially since she mocked those "ladida, fat birds that strut like constipated ostriches".  The funny expressions she used to express her dislikes were hilarious.  But with time, she found that she could take advantage of her accent, stressing it to shoo away the boys who chased after her and Carlina.  
"Oh oh!", they would exclaim, "we aren't good enough for the signorina."  And they would turn away.
It seems that boys in this country get interested in the other sex earlier than elsewhere, and they do it quite conspicuously, sometimes with a flourish, emulating their elders.  And it is not rare to see a bunch of teenagers, as young as twelve, reeling off this kind of nonsense:
"E bellezza ! you"re the most beautiful chick I've ever seen! Haven't I seen you in a movie lately?  I imagine how gorgeous your mother must be.  Come on, give us a kiss, just a little kiss, will you!"
And our two gals would retort: “scram, you pipsqueaks, good for nothings, go buy yourselves a lollipop."
Oh, they knew how to defend themselves all right, even if the youngsters continued to snicker and giggle, while they were already on the prowl, aiming at new “targets".  

During the first Summer vacations we spent at home - yes, now Dalia and I could call Italy home - we had the immense pleasure of welcoming Sandro, Astrid and Daviko amongst us.  What joy I felt to have the whole family reunited again.  
You should have seen how Dalia's face lit up, when they asked her to show them around.  She insisted on serving as their personal guide and was, of course, proud to introduce Carlina to them, calling her "my dearest amica italiana.”  
When just a few months earlier, she would direct scorn at the "narrow-mindedness" of the Monzese, finding fault wherever she could, here she was now praising the city's main sites, showing them l’Arengario, which nestled, under its medieval arcades, contemporary art exhibits and a regular flea market, the elegant cathedral, adorned with green marble slabs and which contained a steel crown that, according to legend, girded Christ's head.  She then led them through the park.  Dalia had never ventured into the swimming pool, because she did not dare show herself in a swimsuit, not that she was prudish, at the Cercle Nautique, in Usumbura, she would dive from the highest springboard, with the dexterity of a dolphin, sinking deeply into the water, after raising noisy and joyful splashes.  What bothered her here was that her skin, used to being perennially tanned under the African sun, took on, what she considered, a sickly white coloring, which made her feel "naked", even when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror with just her underwear on.  She needed Astrid's and Daviko's prodding to go and swim with them and with Carlina.  Which they did promptly, since it was getting quite warm.  
Oh how she admired her big sister, who already looked like a young woman and who sported so much self-assurance, and how proud she felt to have Daviko by her side, with his beautiful natural bronze hue and the smooth and curvaceous body of a Greek athlete.  You should have seen with what stratagems the girls around him tried to get his attention.  Even Carlina was afraid to look him straight in the face, lest she turn red as a beetroot.  But Daviko was so modest by inclination that he never realized how attractive people found him.

We decided to spend the beginning of this first Italian summer all together on the Adriatic.  Leaving Monza, we soon reached the main highway; it was already so clogged with traffic, that I began to panic. The lines of Fiat 500's and 600's were unbelievable - they looked so much like a multitude of dodgems, and it was quite strange to see, squeezed here and there, between these midget cars, the gleaming and high-powered Ferrari's, Maserati's or Lamborghini's, as well as the luxurious Lancia and Mercedes sedans: what surrealism, indeed!  
Sandro, who was our principal driver - I would relay him during the other half of the trip - was also sighing in disbelief, but he soon bucked up and got in control of things, as he always did, however difficult the situation might be - after all, hadn't he lived most of his life through the vagaries of the African bush, with its terrifying cloudbursts during the rainy season, and the unheralded encounter with dangerous wild beasts?  None of us, of course, had ever experienced such long queues in the past, which explained the silence that reigned in the car.  
After about an hour's drive, we stopped at anAlemagna rest area, to fill up the tank with gasoline and to savor some of those delicious panini with mortadella cheese and smoked ham, which are the typical local snacks.  The children had ice cream after that, while Sandro and I each got a frothy cappuccino sprinkled with cinnamon.
Back on the autostrada, we were now a little less tense and paid more attention to our surroundings.  Daviko couldn't stop raving about the few stupendous cars of the three big Italian makes I mentioned earlier that we encountered, yet his favorite one was the more modest but sleek Alfa Romeo GT Sprint, especially in its flaming red garb.    
How very relieved I was when, after having gone through this motoring rite initiation, with not so much as a bump - even if at times we stood at a mere ten centimeters from our neighbors, both in front and at the back of us - we arrived safely in Riccione (pronounced "Ritchowneh"), our final destination.

It was only the third week of July and the long sandy beaches were already pretty crowded.  Roberto and Marisa who had recommended the small pensione where we had reserved three rooms for the family, had warned us not to go there during the Ferragosto vacation (mid-August), where half of the Italian population spilled out onto its shores.  Thank goodness we heeded their advice, for I can't begin to imagine how we would have managed, surrounded by two or even three times the number of people there earlier in the season.
Sandro and the children greatly enjoyed the sea, especially when there were big waves.  We didn't mind really that the water was not the clear blue hue that we expected, actually it had a light brownish color, like the sand itself.  
Because of my delicate freckled skin, I remained most of the time under the sunshade and joined them in the sea only when the heat became unbearable.
Whereas I didn't particularly appreciate the shouting of children and the transistor radios blaring all around us, neither did I like them playing hide and seek near me - a kid even threw, unintentionally, some sand over my bust - my darlings seemed to be in their element amid such racket.  They played ball, hailed the passing vendors who were chanting: "Come and get my delicious chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and pistachio gelati, my glazed apples, my fresh slices of coconut, my peach and grape nectars.  All of prime quality!  You will sing praises of my delicacies."       
We would walk back in our shorts to the pensione to eat our lunch, and then we would go to our respective rooms for a nap, leaving the windows wide open, to let in the warm coddling breeze.  And come 3:30 / 4:00 p.m., my foursome would return to the beach.  I would join them a little later, for that was the time I preferred, when the temperature was cooler and the place less crowded.  After bathing, like a small army, we would all trot toward the dike where someone was grilling meat kebab and scampi.  
The smell was so enticing that I had to warn my babies: “Save some space for dinner, OK??!"  I must admit that I too could have wolfed down a dozen of those skewers, if I were to heed the rumbling calls of my belly.
Dinner was not included in our hotel package, so we could choose any of the numerous terraced trattorie that either lined the boardwalk or were immersed in patches of greenery.  They were often enlivened by a pianist or a small band.
Evenings at Riccione's restaurants were indeed a feast for us.  We would taste something different every time.  If it was not spaghetti alla vongole (tiny mussels), it would be tagliatelle alla bolognese, cheese- or potatoes-filled gnocchi, ravioli with ground meat or spinach, not to mention the incredible variety of pizzas, whose dough was so fine and crunchy - not like the thick ones people cook outside of Italy and which have the consistency of rubber - that its mere perfume, wafting from the brick kiln as you entered a trattoria, would titillate your taste buds. There were also excellent fish, caught the same morning, grilled or marinated, and all types of fowl, such as turkey or chicken breasts, or those divine and so tender little quails, served with polenta (a purée of corn), which at first I had found distasteful but soon learned to savor.  As for the desserts, the choice was as vast as it was gaudy: Semiramis (layers of pound cake, pudding and biscuits, all soaked in rum or in Grappa), baked apples and pears, fresh water melon, prunes in syrup, Neapolitan ice cream, and, again, the best and most suave gelati in the world, presented in a palette of hues matching the