Of the thousand ways a man can become a walking summer cliché, there are two particularly recognizable ones. In the first, one arrives on the terrace of a hotel in Positano with a wrong negroni held by the tips of his fingers, wearing sunglasses with a visible brand and his hair still damp, in strands that extend, fluid but miraculously still, from the hairline to the nape of the neck. In the second, the hair bulges out in apparently careless ringlets and is perhaps covered by a worn straw hat, although the main item of clothing is a long-sleeved T-shirt with horizontal stripes, the drink is a glass of Gris Blanc, and the setting is a stroll through some charming Breton port.
