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European locals avoid overcrowded tourist spots for these five authentic seaside destinations instead

European locals avoid overcrowded tourist spots for these five authentic seaside destinations instead

The Sun6 days ago
HAVE you ever wanted to holiday as the Italians do? Locals have revealed the coastal town they visit as a holiday gem.
Positano is the colourful town carved into a cliff face on the Amalfi Coast that you see all over Instagram and while the Brits love it, the Italians would rather holiday elsewhere.
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A Facebook post by Heritance Italy revealed the under-the-radar locations that locals prefer over the places Brits love to visit during the summer.
The post said: "You can keep Positano. We're not there. We're in Sperlonga, eating cold pasta salad under an umbrella we've owned since the '90s."
It's no surprise Italian locals choose to stay away from the tourist spots as around five million descended on the Amalfi Coast last year.
Positano is one of the busiest towns in the area as it boasts pretty beaches and houses that sit on the rocky cliff and look out to sea.
But with streets becoming all the more crowded, especially during peak season, locals will ditch it for quieter places - Sperlonga being one of them.
The coastal town sits an equal distance between Rome and Naples.
It has long sandy beaches, the top on Tripadvisor is Lido Beluga which one person described as an "oasis".
The beaches are generally shallow and good for paddling, so it's a popular spot for families with younger children.
Sperlonga's old town is classically Italian with whitewashed buildings and narrow winding streets with decorative courtyards.
The seaside town was a popular spot for celebrities too with the likes of Brigitte Bardot being a frequent visitor in the 1960s.
Italy's Most Beautiful Towns
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When it comes to food in an Italian coastal town, you're really spoiled for choice.
The town is known for dishes like linguine vongole, which is pasta with clams, and tiella which is essentially a cross between a pizza and calzone.
Historically, Sperlonga is known for its large cave called Grotta di Tiberio.
The cave is part of the Villa of Tiberius - the remaining ruins of Emperor Tiberius' summer home.
It's not just Sperlonga that Italians would rather visit. Oother seaside towns they often go to include Vasto, the commune on the Adriatic Coast.
There is also Alba Adriatica, a coastal town with just under 13,000 residents.
And Civitanova Marche is an Italian region in the Province of Macerata which has a mix of sandy and pebble beaches.
Another spot mentioned in the post is Palmarola, an uninhabited island off the west coast of Italy.
Locals or holidaymakers looking to cool off take a boat out to the uninhabited island and swim in the very blue water.
One Sun Writer visited the tiny Italian towns near Rome that are much cheaper – with huge vineyards and free city shuttles.
Plus, the tiny island that is Italy's best kept secret and you can avoid the summer crowds.
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Amy Jackson displays her incredible figure in a skimpy black bikini as she canoodles with shirtless Ed Westwick during family holiday in Capri
Amy Jackson displays her incredible figure in a skimpy black bikini as she canoodles with shirtless Ed Westwick during family holiday in Capri

Daily Mail​

time2 hours ago

  • Daily Mail​

Amy Jackson displays her incredible figure in a skimpy black bikini as she canoodles with shirtless Ed Westwick during family holiday in Capri

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Berlin's dark past and me
Berlin's dark past and me

New Statesman​

time3 hours ago

  • New Statesman​

Berlin's dark past and me

The platform was empty. It was a serene scene: the rain had stopped and the air smelled green, the trees showering droplets each time the wind blew. My mother and I carefully stepped around the puddles as we read the plaques on the very edge of the platform. 18.10.1941 / 1251 Juden / Berlin – Lodz. 29.11.1942 / 1000 Juden / Berlin – Auschwitz. 2.2.1945 / 88 Juden / Berlin – Theresienstadt. The Gleis 17 (Platform 17) memorial at Grunewald station on the western outskirts of Berlin commemorates the 50,000 Jews who were deported from the city to concentration camps by the Nazis. There are 186 steel plaques in total, in chronological order, each detailing the number of deportees and where they went. Vegetation has been left to grow around the platform and over the train tracks, 'a symbol that no train will ever leave the station at this track again', according to the official Berlin tourist website. Were we tourists? I wasn't sure. 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My mother, sister and I started this process in 2017 without really thinking about it. The UK had voted to leave the EU, and Brits with relatives from all over were looking for ways to retain an EU passport. The Global Citizenship Observatory estimates that 90,000 Brits have acquired a second passport from an EU country since 2016, not counting those eligible for Irish citizenship. Article 116(2) of the German Constitution states: 'Persons who surrendered, lost or were denied German citizenship between 30 January 1933 and 8 May 1945 due to persecution on political, racial or religious grounds are entitled to naturalisation.' The same applies to their descendants. Mirjam died in 1990, before I was born, and Opa in 2003 – both British and only British citizens. But we had his voided German passport, his birth certificate, the notice of statelessness he'd received when he came to England in 1936. It took two years, but on 3 June 2019, the three of us attended the embassy in Belgravia and were solemnly dubbed citizens of Germany. We received our passports a few weeks later. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe My mother wanted to celebrate with a trip to Berlin – the city where her parents grew up, and which my sister and I had never visited. Five years later than planned, thanks to Covid travel bans, we made it, honouring Opa by sweeping through immigration on the passports he had posthumously gifted us. I was prepared for the attempts at schoolgirl German, the arguments over bus timetables, itineraries and whether or not it was acceptable to fare-dodge on the U-Bahn. What I wasn't prepared for was being struck down by tears on a suburban street, faced with the reality of how exactly I had come to be there and what my presence meant. Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin. Photo by Jon Arnold Images Ltd My grandfather's family made it out of Nazi Germany. So did my grandmother and her siblings. Her parents did not. Max and Ryfka were typical middle-class Berliners, owners of a profitable cigarette factory. They had three children: Fanny, Mirjam and Harry. The family lived in a five-storey apartment block with a dramatic art nouveau facade – an open-mouthed deity staring down as residents came and went – on Thomasiusstrasse, on the edge of the Tiergarten city park. Around the corner, in the same affluent neighbourhood, lived the boy who would become my grandfather, Ali. They used to play together as children. Two decades, multiple emigrations and an internment in Canada later, Ali married Mirjam. My mother was born two years later. I know all this thanks to her, her sister and their cousins. 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And I know, from the letters we have, how often and how seriously all three urged their parents to sell the cigarette factory and leave Berlin, before it was too late. On the pavement outside the apartment block on Thomasiusstrasse, set into the cobblestones, gleamed the Stolpersteine. Any visitor to Berlin will find the streets scattered with these 'stumbling stones', small brass plates, each one a memorial to a victim of the Nazis who lived at that address: their name, year of birth, where and when they were killed. The commemorative art project, begun in 1992 by artist Gunter Demnig, has spread across Europe: there now are more than 116,000 stones, in 31 countries. The Stolpersteine for Max and Ryfka were laid in August 2014. My mother and her family attended; a clarinettist played klezmer music. There are eight stones for that single apartment block. The day before we visited, my mother had booked us on a tour of the Jewish quarter. 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I slipped – and through my perhaps disproportionate tears realised there was a lot more to my new German passport than I had imagined. Everyone knows about the Holocaust. Six million Jews, more than a quarter of a million Gypsies, millions more Poles, Soviets, homosexuals and people with disabilities, systematically exterminated at death camps. I had always known that my family was in some way linked to it all, that the Holocaust was why we were in Britain in the first place, that I wouldn't be here were it not for my maternal grandparents being 'denied German citizenship… due to persecution on political, racial or religious grounds'. Hundreds of thousands of Jews fled the Nazis. Every Jewish family I know has a story: of how their ancestors escaped, and what happened to the ones who didn't. I knew long before I visited Berlin that there is nothing special about my family's history. But I had always seen it as just that: history. The Jewish Museum's core exhibition charts the history of Jews in Germany from medieval times to the present day. The final section looks at descendants of Holocaust victims and refugees who chose to restore their German citizenship – and why they made that decision. Why had I done it? To get an EU passport after Brexit. To make it easier to work abroad one day. To give my future children the option to live anywhere in Europe. To skip the queues at immigration. All valid reasons. And all, suddenly, entirely inconsequential Staring at the memorial plaques on Platform 17, sitting on the steps of the apartment block on Thomasiusstrasse, losing my footing in the Garden of Exile, I felt myself slot into the narrative, the next chapter of a story that is both unfathomable and at the same time utterly unexceptional. Opa died when I was 12. He was so proud of being British. I never asked him how he would feel about us using the trauma of his past to become German for the sake of convenience. I'd always thought he'd like the idea of us reclaiming his rightful heritage, but in Berlin it seemed less clear. But I do think he would have liked the fact that we were all there in Berlin, on the streets where he and his wife grew up, laughing and crying together, realising our mother-and-daughters getaway had ended up a lot like Eisenberg's A Real Pain after all. The three of us lost in reverie outside the apartment block, picturing my grandmother coming and going. A sign by the door was engraved in looping gothic script. It looked like a memorial plaque. We struggled to decipher first the letters, then the German. Eventually we resorted to Google Translate, and discovered in lieu of the profound message we had expected, a polite request for guests to please wipe their feet. [See also: Rachel Reeves' 'impossible trilemma'] Related

Primark's 90p summer holiday essential will help you pass every hand luggage liquid check without even buying miniatures
Primark's 90p summer holiday essential will help you pass every hand luggage liquid check without even buying miniatures

The Sun

time4 hours ago

  • The Sun

Primark's 90p summer holiday essential will help you pass every hand luggage liquid check without even buying miniatures

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