Leaving the amazing Matera yesterday, having peeked, poked, prodded and photographed everything that stood motionless. It was a short drive of slightly over an hour and a half to bring us through the Puglia countryside.
Puglia’s who
le look is different than the patchwork quilt of Bettola, or the hilly vineyards and plots of tomatoes of Soglio and yet, rural farming has similarities everywhere. The land is sectioned off with low rock walls, and dirt now tilled, for winter I suppose. There are a few cattle herds too, but mostly, this neat repeat of rocky fences made me think of land in Ireland (at least the photos and movies that I’ve seen…). Lots of dogs of all sizes everywhere, in cities too; but not so many children, although we all have consensus about the slightly increased number of smalls and pregnant women around.
As Italy’s birth rate is distressingly low for the good of the country, it was a nice sign to see them making families, all with doting relatives clucking and touching faces, stuffing them with food, stroking cheeks, and soothing hair, Nonnos everywhere – enthralled with their good fortune.
We chose to be near Bari, from where Bill left; thence to Milan, and to home in Cleveland. This part is Alberobello, land of Trulli, little cone shaped buildings and Locorotondo, a little white city in the round atop a hill, also with Trulli. Note: Nope – no one really knows why.
Our visit here in Puglia is on the Adriatic side of Italy’s boot, in the middle, and feels quieter, although the driving is not. They still have Gelato though and we got recommended to a good shop, so good that everyone make back of the throat noises of satisfaction while tiny-plastic-spooning their flavor of choice. Is it Italy, or is it the Gelato here that makes it so much better than anything we’ve gotten at home?
We settled into our new place, down the boot, and across the instep of Italy, landing on the toe, in Scilla. We have three nights here in a fishing village, and I am listening to the sound of waves crashing outside our door as I type. We’re excited to see this in the daylight, but tonight there is rain on offer. But, it is walkable weather, moody and evocative.
We are so close to the water that we are actually sharing a building with a scuba center… Now that I don’t scuba anymore, I am in the perfect place. Isn’t that just how life works? And because this is Italy, we share an entrance next to the church of San Giovanni.
There is always a church nearby, and bells which I have always loved, grate just a bit when they are next to your ears. Like having the tornado sirens in front of your house. Good for the neighbors, but…
Just one more thing, before I go. We drink a lot of coffee, comparatively. The woman who showed us in had left a stash of coffee pods. Italian coffee pods, tiny and no doubt expresso. I asked where we could buy more, and she looked at me with what I took to be a patient endurance, and reached over, and counted. Une, due, tre, etc… she has eleven coffee pods, and her expression was one of – who could want more? ‘You’re only here for three nights.’
I’ve already gone through a quarter of those myself, and still don’t know where to purchase more. Even at that, the cups are about 3 ounces of coffee, not our usual 16 oz plus. It’s not their fault, but do we Americani have some excesses, you think?
The ride down here was spectacular. I admit, now, to a certain hesitation. I’ve never been to Sicily before, and have a old bit of fear that has kept me away.
It’s a leftover nationalistic prejudice I think, left from childhood stories. I am worried about being robbed, mugged, or being exposed to something dangerous in Sicily, so I will be excited to move forward to throw off my own biases, the ones that I inherited from others. The ones I no longer need in my head. From Scilla, the land of Homer’s Odyssey – “caught between Scilla and Charybdis…” Between a rock and a hard place, I think.
For tonight, we are in love with Scilla – it’s what Cinque Terra was at one time. The sun set across the water, as waves hit the rocks, making a raucous sound much bigger than they might. This is still a real fishing village, with restaurants.
For you Boulder folks, it reminds me of Estes park as it closes down for the. Season. A slower pace, fewer visitors, and still exquisitely beautiful. Dramatic, amid the sound of crashing waves outside our door. We’re mesmerized.
Shucking off, for now.