Life. It really is a beach.

On Saturday we woke up with one goal: to beat the Hun to the beach.

Okay, maybe the idea of the Germans getting up early to reserve the best spots is a myth, a politically incorrect stereotype upheld by My People (or is it?). But still, you can't be too careful.

So after a breakfast of buttery pastries and strong coffee at the French bakery down the street, we headed out to the sand. Like most hotels that back out onto the beach, The National sets out comfortably cushioned lounge chairs and provides towels, parasols, and roving waitstaff, so there's really no reason to move all day.

And so, apart from a couple of leisurely swims in the turquoise water (schools of tiny fish darting between our ankles) and a stroll or two along the shore, we didn't.



The Boy caught up on New Yorkers, and I plugged into my iPod (mostly to drown out the yahoos and kids around us) and caught up on some work-related podshows.



At around noon, we ordered gazpacho (fresh and piquant) and chicken empanadas (generous chunks of meat in a good sofrito) and Coronas.

And yeeeap, we realized, it don't get any better than that.