On August 6, 1933, the New York Times ran a tiny item on page 59 headlined, "Mussolini Lays City Cornerstone." The story, in total, read: "Premier Mussolini today placed the cornerstone for the new city of Sabaudia, which will arise in the reclaimed Pontine Marshes. The city will be inaugurated April 21 next year with a capacity of 50,000 inhabitants."
History remembers Mussolini as a pretty bad guy, but he built a nice little beach town. About an hour and a half south of Rome, Sabaudia has miles of Mediterranean coast, a bustling open-air clothing market, and pizza and gelato shops aplenty. The beaches are full of glamorous, leathery sun worshippers, and the locals are friendly in that reflexive way all Italians seem to be. The light, particularly at magic hour, is incredible: a riot of oranges and purples straight out of a Turner painting. And while it's a little weird that the bald head of Il Duce himself peeks out from behind the Virgin Mary in the mosaic above the entrance to the town church, there are extraordinary views everywhere you look. No lesser an authority than Monocle editor Tyler Brûlé has likened it to Palm Springs ("only better").
And yet, when I think back on the week I spent there last summer, it's with a tiny pang of terror: The bullies taunted me in Italian! They threw my hat in the bushes! Why are little girls so mean?
My path to summer in Sabaudia began in the dead of winter. I was living in New York then, and one of my oldest friends was in town with her family. Judy had expatriated to Italy shortly after college, married a warm and funny Italian guy, and raised her girls in the heart of Rome. I'd stayed with them many years ago while I was living in China and traveling through Turkey and Italy on my way to meet my parents in Croatia because, well, sometimes even the most boring person's life can be pretty amazing if he gets dumped by his girlfriend and quits his job. Try it sometime. I highly recommend it.
To be honest, all that globe-trotting wasn't really me. In the seven years since that period of extended solo travel, I've been so sedentary that Ikea could name a line of sofa cushions after me. But seeing Judy and her girls that winter, I was charmed, and when her husband, Alessio, invited me to join them on their family vacation to the beach in July, I was intrigued.
Both of Judy's girls had honed their English watching DVDs of The Simpsons. Not only did they love impersonating characters (Dr. Nick was a particular favorite, his catchphrase "Hi, everybody!" repeated frequently to bouts of giggles), but they seemed to get the show's essence, its balancing act of warmheartedness and cynicism.
Sabrina, the older kid, was 8. She had a sly intelligence and asked me questions, usually about why I didn't have a wife or kids. As a reporter, I respected her doggedness, but as a real-life adult trying to avoid interrogation by someone who probably still cries at the scary parts of The Wizard of Oz, I was sometimes less charmed.
Her sister, Michaela, was 6 and the clown, mugging and pulling out voices and personas inspired by Springfield's finest. I don't mean to brag, but I'm probably the funniest person anyone under 7 could hope to meet (a gift and a curse), so Michaela and I fell into a natural Abbott and Costello dynamic, if 6-year-old Italian kids had any idea who Abbott and Costello were.
A lot of the questions (from Sabrina) and jokes (by Michaela) were about whether or not I'd fall in love with their au pair and marry her. I imagine that in the pantheon of kid fantasies, having a family friend marry your beloved au pair is right up there with adopting a declawed kitten that sheds cotton candy. Now, as far as grown men's fantasies involving au pairs, the less said the better, but I did agree to join them in six months' time at the beach. It was really none of my business if the au pair came, but I'm a pretty accommodating guy when I want to be.
Day 1: There was no au pair. Apparently, three little girls (Michaela and Sabrina invited a friend) don't really need a minder when the funniest person anyone under 7 could hope to meet joins them on vacation. I took this fact in stride and reminded myself I was there to enjoy a Mediterranean holiday. There was some gentle mocking of me in Italian during the car ride over, but I was sleeping with my mouth wide open and snoring, so I guess I was asking for it. The kids were well behaved, and the countryside was beautiful en route to Sabaudia. We got there with plenty of time to swim in the pool, walk around, and enjoy a simple, delicious dinner made by Alessio. The trip was off to a wonderful start. Who needs an au pair, anyway?
Day 2: Michaela developed a new impersonation. She put on my hat and minced about, doing a kind of monkey face with crossed eyes. Her sister and their little friend found it hilarious. I did, too, until I realized she was doing me. Being an accommodating guy and the funniest person anyone under 7 could hope to meet, I laughed along with them. I guess I did look like kind of a moron in that hat. I mean, it was my dad's hat, but still, to a kid it was probably pretty funny.
Day 3: Judy and Alessio went for an early-morning walk on the beach that lasted until after breakfast. I got the girls up, fed them cereal, and sat them in front of cartoons for a few hours before realizing that far from meeting (and marrying) their au pair, I was their au pair this week. This was the day I started to notice strange things happening: My book disappeared. My hat wound up in the bushes. Then there were the dares to do dangerous things like ride the slide into the pool backward. My refusal was met with sharp giggles. As beautiful as Sabaudia was, things were getting ugly.
Day 4: More and more, I was realizing that I'd been cast in the Richard Pryor role in an Italian remake of The Toy. I was literally there to amuse these kids. They'd been scolded for hiding my book and tossing my hat in the bushes, but my hazing continued in small ways. Faced with this asymmetrical aggression, I did what grown men have done for centuries to avoid interacting with kids: passive-aggressively nap for longer and longer stretches. Far from feeling like the funniest person anyone under 7 could hope to meet, I started to wonder if the joke was on me all these years. I always thought I liked kids and they liked me, but at my darkest moments, confronted with the thought of sliding backward down a slide, I thought that these kids actually wanted to see harm done to me. Far from wondering how I'd managed to get nearly to 40 without starting a family of my own, I started to think I'd dodged some serious bullets: Kids hate me—and what if the feeling was sometimes mutual?
Day 5: The girls were told to be nice. Suddenly, it was like a real vacation: We went to the beach and played in the surf. Judy treated us to ice cream, and every moment was full of as much joy as Mussolini and Tyler Brûlé could imagine.
Day 6: As we headed back to Rome, relations had normalized. There were a lot more jokes from The Simpsons and a lot fewer at my expense. At one point, Michaela even donned my hat in earnest—without even bothering to ape my simian facial expressions. It was almost like she started to admire me.
Day 7: We had one last day together in the city, and I can't say how, but I managed to become the funniest person anyone under 7 could hope to meet again. Or at least I felt that way. Far away from Mussolini's favorite beach town, my dynamic with Sabrina and Michaela returned to one of playfulness and shared Simpsons admiration. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have an adorable, mischievous kid or two—especially when they're impersonating Disco Stu? (Besides, if things got too rough, you could always get an au pair.) Over dinner, Judy and Alessio invited me to join them and the girls in Sabaudia again this summer. I told them I'd think about it.
Early the next morning, Alessio drove me to the airport. Judy and the girls were still asleep, but I left my hat for the kids to play with. Besides, I figured it would be one less thing to pack if I decide to come back. 
