A traveler in one of our hotels remarked that we were very brave renting a car in Italy -- and now in hindsight, I see it was not only brave, but could have been stupid. Lost on Italian roads is what is to be expected, since directional signs are haphazard at best. This was a natural first comparison with France where everything is so orderly and clear that the contrast with Italy's anarchistic ways was striking. We found ourselves driving up the wrong side of a divided highway, turning several times 'round a round-about not knowing which way out was correct and trying to distinguish the hotel directional signage from the sights. I prayed like hell that our week's adventure in our "Fix-It-Again-Tony" would be uneventful at best.

The Leaning Tower was our first stop. We spotted it from a distance and head straight for it. At 8 a.m., parking just near the tower was no sweat. Seeing the tower for the first time (for Erica, as it wasn't my first) is like the first time you go to Ireland and realize how green it really is. It really does lean, just like they say! And it's stunningly beautiful set elegantly near the Duomo for which it was built as a campanile (bell tower) in the 13th-century. 

One of life's little enigmas, strangely, no matter how many photos we took from every direction possible, the tower leans in the opposite direction from the camera's eye. A guard at the door was "leaning" on the door frame and I overheard an American exclaim, "Is he really leaning or is he standing straight while the tower leans?!" 

Tourists stand on the grassy plain with their arms up and their hands flat while a friend photographs the tower behind them to create the illusion they are holding it up. This was the introduction to our ten days in Tuscany, Umbria and Rome. By 10 a.m. the first morning we had already accomplished much. 

Getting out of Pisa was easier than getting in and within 15 minutes we were in Viareggio, our seaside resort destination. Finding the Hotel Liberty I had booked on the Internet, however, took another 45 minutes once we learned to maneuver around the port and the one-way streets. Viareggio was exactly as I expected...an enormous stretch of sand along the Mediterranean, wall to wall with umbrellas and lounge chairs, cabanas, snack bars, restaurants and hotels. 

"Hotel parking" meant a spot in the alley behind all the other cars and leaving the key. The hotel and room might be described as out-of-date 70's with cheaper-than-Ikea furnishings and kitsch drawings of women from many eras adorning the lobby and corridor walls. For more than 100€ a night, you don't get much in high season.

At a waterside restaurant, we ate our first Linguine alla Vongole and Insalata di Gamberi and topped it off with a Caffè Macchiato (espresso with milk, what we call a "Café Noisette" in France) then headed to the beach for our first day of tanning.

The beach was wide -- too wide for my tastes, but the lounge chairs with their head shades were accommodating for any type of tan you want to achieve. The water was the perfect temperature, the waves were low and easy, the depth was to waist high for a long way out, the sky was a bright blue and while it was hot, not too uncomfortable. I'd call it a pretty close to perfect beach afternoon where I slept most of it away, reading for a while and fantasizing on a raft on the water while the waves gently carried me back to shore.

Erica went out and partied with new found Italian friends that evening while I slept off a stomach bug -- not my idea of what a first day on vacation should be. Thanks to my nurturing daughter, I was dosed with remedies from the corner pharmacy and we both hoped for a speedy recovery, which came by next morning.

A man's sexy low voice sang in the background while we drank cappuccino and ate buttery croissants at the hotel breakfast dining room. Then we ventured northward along the coastal road through the seaside resort towns of Camaiore and Pietrasanta to Forte dei Marmi which I had been told was a classy spot among a more plebeian stretch of resorts. Here the guidebooks say not to miss the window-shopping. They are right. The pretty little town is wall-to-wall boutiques with the most beautiful of Italian designed goods. With much on Summer sale, it was tough to resist.

Several shops advertise hand made shoes. Ah...Italian shoes. To me they rival the pâtisseries of France -- each one a little sweeter than the next. The clothing -- the kind you can only wear once since each one is unforgettable. The housewares -- too clever and contemporary for their own good. The linens -- luxurious and fine. Here is where the wealthier Italians come for their Summer holiday with their families, use bikes as their main mode of transportation and don't for a second, forget they are there to see be seen in their finest Italian fashions.

In observation of the Italian culture, particularly compared to the French, of which I am fascinated, their anarchistic lifestyle, contrary to the French sense of order, is at every turn. Cars, motorbikes and bicycles seem to ride in every which way regardless of street direction and without care for the others. Mothers allow their children to ride standing on the front of their motorbikes as if no danger could possibly beget them. One woman had two children propped on the back of her bike while another rode on the front -- on the highway nonetheless. Cars pull out on to the highway and people cross the streets without looking, assuming whoever is there will stop or go around them. It's shocking from our cultural perspective that they can be so "laisser-faire" to the danger. Yet, it all seems to work, in rhythm.

Another observation that couldn't help but catch my attention are the different body types the Italians have compared to the French, who are mostly gaunt and waifish. There is no question that Italian men are among the most handsome in the world. Young and old alike are like proud peacocks -- well built, well groomed, with strong bone structure, dark thick wavy hair and are not afraid to show off their Italian Stallion bodies with tight clothing. 

The women on the other hand are more the victims of the Italian carbohydrate diet and become Reuben-esque from an early age. Worried about my own weight gain while indulging on pasta and "gelati," I began to feel like a runway model in comparison, so continued to eat without reserve, while feeling guilty in typical American style. Italian women don't seem to care -- they still gladly show off their bulging cleavages and Bibendum (the Michelin man) shapes while donning their lowest cut tops, sexiest rhinestone stiletto heels and often too-heavy eye make-up -- all in the name of catching a husband or making their friends jealous...and here I was feeling self-conscious about my few extra pounds. Silly me. - Article Continued Below -