Almost every other day at Union Lido begins the same way for us.
We get up early and have our first coffee at the caravan. Nespresso and hot milk, quick and uncomplicated. Then running kit, cap, glasses, shoes — and off we go.
First along Union Lido’s promenade, then westwards along the beach. At Corso Italia, a sharp left towards Via Fausta, left again there, then right across the fields and past greenhouses to the edge of the lagoon landscape on Via Pordelio. Finally, the ruler-straight Via della Fonte, back to Via Fausta.
We usually run the last few metres a little faster.
Not because the training calls for it. But because Vianello is waiting at the end.
Panificio Vianello, to be precise.
We walk the final stretch. We discuss how many bread rolls we need today. Three, five, seven? It depends on who is staying with us on the campsite and what we have planned for lunch and dinner.
When we arrive, they are already tidying and sweeping the bakehouse next door. We think of ourselves as early risers. Other people are almost finished with their work by then.
Still sweaty, I go into the bakery and bar. Angie takes our place outside at one of the high tables with two chairs.
On days when we do not run, we usually come by bicycle. The rest stays the same.
At the counter, I order Zoccoli or Tartarughe. Bread rolls. The bread is weighed and paid for at a separate till. At the other, you order coffee.
Due cappuccini. A Pane con Uve for me. A brioche for Angie, vuota.
In much of Italy, brioche also means what we would call a croissant. Vuota means empty. No cream, jam or chocolate.
The cappuccini are made on the other side of the counter. No patterns in the milk foam, no philosophy of coffee beans, no choice of five kinds of milk. Just coffee and perfectly steamed milk. At counter-service prices. A cappuccino costs around two euros.
I squeeze past the people drinking their caffè standing up, take the tray and the bag of rolls, and go back outside.
Then we sit there.
In front of us, the car park and Via Fausta. Not a beautiful place in the conventional sense. No special view. Cars come and go. Vans stop briefly. Bicycles stand in racks or lean against something.
We sit, eat breakfast and watch.
There is the slim older woman with black hair and a skirt who comes almost every morning and usually stays a long time. The gardener in the green T-shirt, whom we know from the campsite and have been seeing here for years too. A young lifeguard usually drinks his coffee in front of the window, looking at his phone.
Two men wearing ties get out of a Mercedes, go inside, have a quick caffè at the bar and drive on.
A large Italian family arrives on the way to the public beach. Children, bags, towels, breakfast. Nobody seems in any particular hurry.
The employee from the nearby Hotel Laura comes by bicycle. She collects the rolls for the hotel breakfast, puts them in her bicycle basket and rides away again.
Other runners stop. Cyclists. Campers who do not fancy the queue outside the bakery at Union Lido. Some you see so often that a nod eventually turns into a brief conversation.
Sometimes we meet holiday friends from the campsite.
Then people arrive from the campsite’s overnight waiting area. They have had a short night and first need breakfast and coffee. A car towing a caravan pulls up. The journey home has already begun, but there is still time for provisions and one last caffè.
A van stops. Two plumbers get out, and for a few minutes the car park gets crowded.
Dog walkers tie their dogs up outside the bakery.
Between them are cars whose paint still gleams, and others you have to look at more closely to work out the original colour.
Inside, there are usually three women working. Almost the same three for years.
They do not speak German, apart from a few numbers and words you inevitably learn in an area where German-speaking holidaymakers are a familiar presence in summer. Italian regulars are greeted by name. With us, it occasionally extends to a nod or a smile.
One summer, apparently because of my running cap and large glasses, I acquired a name.
Super Mario.
The following year, I heard one of the women say to another: “Super Mario.”
So that settled it: I had been recognised.
Beside Vianello stands a house with its shutters usually closed. An old woman used to come out in the mornings and sweep the steps. Later, we saw her less often. Instead, a middle-aged man appeared, apparently looking after her and the house.
These days, nobody comes out.
At Vianello itself, less changes.
The women behind the counter work. The gardener comes. The hotel employee collects her rolls. Someone orders a caffè and drinks it standing up. Someone else sits outside for half an hour.
You do not have to be anyone special, or have anything special planned.
The coffee does not cost much. You need no reservation. Nobody asks whether you have to work, are on holiday, are on your way to the beach or have just left a truck full of tools in the car park.
You order.
You drink.
Then the day carries on.
Often, we order a second round of cappuccino.
Not because we particularly need more coffee.
We simply like sitting there.
Eventually, the second cappuccino is finished too. We take the bag of rolls and head back.
Past the sports camp, through the entrance and back into Union Lido.
The first steps are usually the worst.
After half an hour of sitting, our legs have decided that today’s training could really be over.
But we owe Strava those final one and a half kilometres.