On a lonely country road near Ostuni, in the province of Puglia – the heel of Italy’s boot – I stopped to photograph a field of poppies in an olive grove. After a few happy snaps, I jumped back in the car and motored on.
Fifteen minutes later, I reached for my daypack and realized in horror that I’d left it (with camera lenses and iPhone) on the rock wall that fronted the poppy field. We sped back.
The bag was gone. Impossible. We hadn’t been gone half an hour and there were no other cars on the road.
While I lay morosely in the ditch, tearing hair and gnashing teeth, my wife Florence calmly analyzed the situation: “Why don’t we call your phone?” We expectantly dialed from her cell. No answer. I moped back to the roadside. Florence then suggested, “Let’s have a picnic. Maybe whoever picked up your pack will come back.”
“Right,” I responded caustically, “to collect the 100,000 lira reward.”
We broke bread, cut cheese and sliced salami. I tried vainly to enjoy a cold Peroni and the otherwise beautiful day. It seemed impossible that, in the short time we had been away, someone could have spotted my pack in a rock crevice on this remote country lane. “There must be another explanation,” I muttered, “maybe a conspiracy.”
An hour later, we were disconsolately packing up when a faded 1960s-era Fiat Panda pulled up tentatively beside us. An elderly man with glasses thick as an olive-oil bottle gazed out from behind the wheel. He eyed us with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A young boy – clearly his grandson – peered shyly from the passenger seat. Together they began a lengthy, incomprehensible Puglian discourse – and only when satisfied that we clearly understood the situation did they proudly retrieve my bag from the back seat.
“Mille, mille grazie,” I said, confused but genuinely grateful. I wanted a picture but the old signor waived us off and the aged Fiat puttered slowly away. “Yup,” Florence remarked, “a conspiracy.”
For years, Florence has been quietly suggesting, “We should spend a month in Italy.” And for ages I nodded – and deferred.
But last spring, when the annual request edged toward ultimatum, I acquiesced in the best interests of marital harmony.
As seasoned travellers, we often tour by the seat of our pants, plans random, frequently pulling into a strange town late afternoon searching for accommodation. This has worked well in some places but, in a country where you no speaka da language, advance booking is wiser – and infinitely less stressful.
So when the plane touched down at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport in early April, our four weeks of lodging – three nights here, four nights there – were all booked. Even our ride into Rome was arranged. A driver awaited us, patiently displaying a “Mr. and Mrs. Feehan” sign. And 20 minutes later we were checking into a quaint bed and breakfast steps away from the Vatican.
We didn’t organize this trip on our own – nor did we use a tour company or travel agent. We employed a much better resource: an acquaintance who loves Italy, has been there many times and knows exactly where to direct a couple of adventurous travellers in the land of the Azzurri.
Our friend Sandy fashioned the entire itinerary: four days exploring Rome, 10 days in the south, a few days biking near San Marino and a final 10 days in the rolling hills of Tuscany. Her planning was so meticulous (right down to recommending Airbnb locations in the heart of each town and detailed day-trip suggestions) that I feel we owe her a substantial commission – or maybe just a nice spaghetti dinner.
So for those looking for some free advice and a foolproof schedule for your trip to Italy, Sandy’s phone number is. …
Rome is a remarkable, fascinating place. This ancient capital of the empire is overflowing with architecture, museums, statuary, Roman ruins and wonderful old neighbourhoods. And despite the sprawling megalopolis that is modern Rome, its iconic sites (the Coliseum, Forum, Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps, Pantheon and St. Peter’s) can all be visited in a day’s stroll.
But Rome is overwhelmed with tourists. On average, 40,000 people a day cue up to shuffle obediently through the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel. April is allegedly shoulder season – and we had booked a “private tour” – but we still had to share Michelangelo’s artistic brilliance with a giant throng of gawking souls, heads uniformly craned toward the majestic ceiling.
Like many big cities, Rome is a little seedy. Pope Francis has allowed the homeless to camp within metres of St. Peter’s Square. Unfortunately, this generous gesture doesn’t add to the curb appeal of the basilica. We felt a little uncomfortable at night, dodging snoring vagrants, cardboard houses, used needles and other discarded paraphernalia.
I’m not a big city guy so after four days with the hawkers and beggars, and tourists snapping pictures with their selfish sticks, I was happy to pick up our rental car and head for sleepy Puglia, in Italy’s delightful south.
Although it has millennia of history, Italy is a relatively new country – only a few years older than Canada. Giuseppe Garibaldi rode in on his horse and unified all the disparate kingdoms in 1861. Even today, northern Italians tend to look down their noses at their southern brethren. And reciprocally, a hint of proud defiance defines the Puglian character.
Our first stop in the south was Matera, a UNESCO World Heritage Site renowned for its cliffside cave dwellings or sassi. These grottos have been continuously occupied since Neolithic times and the humble Materans are enormously proud of the “negative architecture” of these underground abodes.
One warm afternoon while we strolled a grassy cliffside path, a well-dressed middle-aged man stepped out from the shadows, cigarette dangling from his lips. He introduced himself as Fabrizio and invited us to visit his family sasso and the kitchen where traditional food was served.
“Quanto?” I asked suspiciously, concerned about the cost. “For the cave, free,” he said, “and if you wish something to eat, you decide what to pay.” It was nearly 1 p.m. and we were somewhat peckish, so we warily accepted his invitation.
Thus began the most interesting and enjoyable afternoon of our Italian visit. After showing us the intricately hand-carved rooms where the ancients slept and stabled their animals – as well as the cisterns where water and wine were stored – Fabrizio led us up a narrow passage to his open-air kitchen overlooking Matera.
Then he started the service. First, the antipasti: crusty bread with four olive oil dips, each infused with a local herb, then bruschetta made from shredded garlic and ripe dried tomatoes, then an amazing assortment of meats, cheeses and vegetables.
I was nearly full when out came two soups: a hearty beef broth and a lentil stew. Next was a crisp pizza. I quietly undid my belt beneath the table.
Fabrizio chatted constantly while he worked – a knowing smile on his face – educating us on local foods, customs and lifestyle. There was also an unending supply of wine, “vino rosso della casa,” vinted from primitivo grapes, which have been cultivated in this region for thousands of years.
There were so many courses I can’t recall them all – fish and more cheese were in there somewhere – but I know we finished with dolce (sweets) and a jolt of espresso.
Fabrizio’s motto is “less is more” but I’ve rarely eaten more in one sitting. Three hours after stumbling in on this amazing gastronomic and cultural experience, we stumbled out into the late afternoon sun. As we left Fabrizio called out, “Won’t you have some pasta Bolognese?” I think if we had kept eating, he’d still be bringing out dishes.
And what was the quanto you ask? He humbly, delightedly accepted 40 euro – about $60.
A couple of weeks later on the long flight home, over the drone of jet engines, I asked Florence, “Why did we wait so long to visit Italy?” She raised her eyes toward the heavens, shook her head – then smiled and nodded off.
Travel writer Gerry Feehan, QC, is a retired lawyer, avid traveller and photographer, based in Alberta, Canada.
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