Pizzas, Aperitivos, and a Stretch of Sandy Coastline: The Offbeat Appeal of This Adriatic Resort Town

Back in the summer of 2018, I never expected to find myself in Pesaro. That was until my former roommate insisted I head there. At the time, I was working on a book, and Giulia thought her granddad's old flat—an unassuming post-war property built during the brief reign of Umberto II—would be the ideal writing retreat. The flat had sat empty since the passing of her beloved nonno, Dottor Spinicci, who ironically didn’t follow his own medical guidance and succumbed to liver failure.

Stepping onto the flat's small balcony, I found myself staring out over a dusty courtyard shared with the local police. On my first morning, I stumbled upon an old handwritten recipe for ragù alla bolognese—but with a peculiar twist: no tomatoes. The thought of reporting this culinary deviation as a crime briefly flickered in my mind, given the flat’s proximity to the police station.

Instead, I let it go and made my way to the beach. As I wandered through the town, I noticed that the renowned Rossini opera festival was in full swing. By the time I meandered from the town's Renaissance heart toward the Adriatic coast, I could already hum several of the popular tunes from The Barber of Seville.

The moment I reached the seafront, I was reminded of the quirks of Italy’s beach culture. Expansive rows of sunbeds, all part of the paid beach services, stretched as far as the eye could see, each patch meticulously overseen by owners. Thankfully, among the private sections, I found a few slices of public beach—known as spiagge libere, where locals lay out chairs, read books, and bask in the sun. From that point on, I developed a rhythm: mornings on the balcony with some writing, followed by a midday trip to Café Journal for a piadina (Italian flatbread), and then making my way to a free spot on the beach.

I’d slather on some sunscreen, swim cautiously between bouts of apprehension about sea creatures (I’ve always had a mild fear of seafood), and settle myself on one of Nonno Spinicci’s old beach towels. The towel, sporting a faded “Ciao!” against an Italian flag theme, had clearly seen better days. I’d offer a quick thanks to the sun for shining so brightly, to luck for putting me in this place, and of course, to Bacchus for the evening aperitivos, which I’d enjoy around 7pm at one of the many coastal bars lining the boardwalk, all the way to Fano—a historic settlement reachable by bike in under an hour.

Aperitivo time typically meant cold beers, a collection of free snacks, and a pause to reflect on the odd fact that Pesaro is twinned with Watford. I’d sit gazing eastward, with Split and Zadar somewhere beyond the horizon, watching the Adriatic turn a rich, dark blue. A little tipsy, I’d end the night with a trip to C’era Una Volta (Once Upon a Time) for pizza. And though it's been years since, I still can’t bring myself to add tomatoes to my bolognese.