A middle-aged couple, Josef and Dita, are packing for their vacation. It’s the first time since their honeymoon trip they’ve set out on a journey abroad. To Sorento. To the sea. To sunbathe. To swim in the waves. So far they’ve spent all their time and energy bringing up their children, who have now grown up and become independent. Instead of joy at the upcoming vacation, the packing scene is one of anger and dispute. In addition, it turns out that, surprise surprise, they already are in Sorento. Josef comes dragging a sack of sand into their hotel suite. Apart from the beach, the sack turns out to contain wads of banknotes and a revolver. There’s a sound of gunshot. A cyclist comes pedalling through the scene. There’s the sound of a toilet flushing, a coach appears, a stopwatch in hand. His victory at the Giro d’Italia is a mere five minutes and thirty seconds away. No sooner has Dita ensconced herself on the much-desired beach than a young coquettish blonde arrives, and the cyclist’s cry of triumph merges into Josef’s orgasm. However, as becomes clear at the very end, this seemingly inconsistent mélange of characters and situations has its firm keystone. Perhaps too firm a keystone.