Day 7 - Gioia del Colle-Bitonto-Foggia-Pescara

If you haven’t noticed that our daily reportage has gradually (or perhaps precipitously) begun to run out of steam, we commend you go back and read some of our earlier, more energetic, enthusiastic reports, including the one from day 1 (despite the jet lag), or the ones that barely contain our excitement over the warmth and beauty of the Amalfi Coast (days 2-4) or the anticipation of discovering Puglia (days 4-6). What we have learned over the years from our trips to Italy, which we try to present as rollicking adventures of discovery, is that mixed in with all the food, the fun and the grappa, is a lot of hard work. But even on those days when we arise dead tired, with an impossibly busy itinerary, in a lousy hotel with no CNN, a lumpy mattress and wafer thin pillows, an empty gas tank and a map that has a rip along the fold right where our destination is, we think to ourselves, how bad can this be? We’re in Italy. People may not understand us, but they will be nice to us. They will feed us, smile at us, pretend to understand us and show us the magic of their country.

Today is, fortunately, not one of those bad days where we have to buck it up. We are, no question, dog tired. But we have just wrapped up a three day voyage of discovery of the province of Puglia, a place completely unknown to us three days earlier. We have become familiar with its sights and smells, its rhythms and sounds, and although we have only explored one tiny corner of this vast region, we have made a good friend in Angelo and have forged a strong affection for him and his native land.

It is not one of those dark days, too, because while we have a long drive ahead of us (by Italian standards, at least; they marvel at us referring to an eight hour drive from Washington, D.C. to North Carolina as a short drive), it is essentially an off day, our only objective to make our way from Gioia del Colle to Pescara, in the province of Abruzzo.

So, we make our way to the breakfast room of the B&B and say our goodbyes to Franco, the genial proprietor of the B&B, who has also served as our host at breakfast every morning, forcing croissants and coffee on us. We are prepared to say goodbye to Angelo as well and he drops by, but not just to say goodbye, but to take us on one last excursion.

Angelo wants us to visit what he considers to be the ultimate olive oil producer in Puglia, a small family run operation that sells its oil under the name Mancino. The frantoio (oil mill) is closed for the season, as the olives are harvested and pressed in the late fall and early winter, but we are shown the machinery for cleaning and crushing the olives as well as the machinery that separates the oil and bottles and labels the final product. It is apparent from the scale of the operation that the production of every bottle is overseen by the owner and that the family’s pride, not just olive oil, is present in every bottle. We agree to explore the import of a range of their products, including sublime orange and lemon infused oils, in which the citrus is crushed along with the olives, giving the resulting mixture a unity not possible when flavoring or essence is simply added to the crushed olives or to the extracted oil.

We finish up at the frantoio and say our final farewells to Angelo, promising to return soon, a promise that we are already thinking of ways to fulfill. Angelo escorts us to the autostrada and we are soon speeding (literally) north, toward the Molise and beyond to Abruzzo.

Before we leave Puglia, we decide to make a stop to buy some last minute specialty foods and perhaps a local bottle of wine or two. We pick Bitonto, a red circle on the map (not obscured by a rip on the crease) and exit the autostrada, following the signs with the black and white bullseye symbol for centro, the historic and social center of the town, which is a good place to start in any Italian city. We walk in endless circles, wondering where the local Bitontenes buy their olive paste or primitivo, until we stumble upon la Candoine (via Mons. Calamita, 11 – 70032 Bitonto, tel./fax 080.3743832), which appears to be a nice wine shop. We enter and strike up a conversation in our best Italian (up until now we have been in the company of folks who speak better English than most of our friends back home), getting recommendations on some Puglian wines. When we express our interest in some local food products, the owner launches into a 30 minute lecture and tasting of various olives, vegetable appetizers, tarali (pretzel like crackers) and manages to sell us enough to necessitate the purchase of a new suitcase. After nearly an hour we begin the checkout process, which takes at least another hour as every item is commented on, packed in boxes, bubble wrapped, insulated with packing peanuts, taped and put in handled bags (only after stickers with the store’s name are affixed to the bags). We return to our car, the handles of the bags tearing off within the first few paces, only a handful of kilometers from our original starting point, but nearly a half day later.

On to Foggia, a large, modern town only a little off the route to Pescara, but we are desperate for lunch. We arrive in town perilously close to the 2:30 hour (Austin, Lindsey, Davis and Teddy, you know what this means), when many restaurants stop serving lunch. Frantic, we spot a restaurant and throw the door open with a few minutes to spare, forgetting that this is Italy, not Switzerland, where the position of the big hand and the little hand don’t matter so much.

We have a nice lunch at a nondescript restaurant called Pinogiorgio (via N. Delli Carri, 17, Foggia, tel. 0881.709890). Today is la festa di San Valentino and it is apparent that Hallmark has got its tentacles into Italy, as February 14 has become more than a celebration for an obscure saint, but now is a reason to spend money. Cheesy Walt Disney decorations of Pongo and Perdita from 101 Dalmatians hang from the ceiling of the restaurant, which is already decoratively challenged (pastel pink and blue table cloths and window coverings, menu boards featuring a cartoonishly obese chef with today’s specials written in chalk on his stomach and mock southern (U.S.) country style signs that announce things to the effect that life is too short to eat bad pasta). The meal is quite good, however, and served by a kind man who suggests good food and wine.

Off we head, finally, to Pescara, a not too attractive beach resort that is the economic capital of Abruzzo. We wend our way along the coast toward Pescara as the sun begins to set, and are able to catch glimpses of the Adriatic as we work our way north through some picturesque Abruzzo towns. This feels like a homecoming of sorts for Bill, who visited the region a year and a half ago, and he is eager to share some of his experiences here with Suzy. But that adventure will begin tomorrow when they head toward the majestic mountains just to the west of Pescara to visit the town of l’Aquila. For tonight we are happy to fight our way through the surprisingly heavy traffic of Pescara, find parking near our seaside hotel and drop our bags in the cold, charmless business hotel that will be our home for the evening. For we have a date to keep on this festa di San Valentino, settling on a shabby, touristic ristorante/pizzeria for that special evening after the place Bill has selected turns out to be closed. But hey, this is Italy, and even a simple pizza and glass of wine is special if you let it be. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Day 6 - Polignano-Alberobello-Grottaglie

Today we are to visit greater Puglia, straying away from Gioia del Colle and we wake not to the bright warmth that had been predicted, but instead to freezing temperatures and grey skies. In fact, while the world has been watching young athletes compete in the Winter Olympics only a couple hours’ flight from here, we had naively expected Puglia, indeed the whole south of Italy, to be as warm as southern California. Instead, it has been downright frigid, even when the clouds have lifted and the sun has turned the sky a bright blue and seas an opalescent green.

We meet Angelo at breakfast, hurry through coffee and pastry and climb aboard his car for a daytrip that will take us from the Adriatic coast to the Ionian coast. For three quarters of an hour we wind through beautiful countryside and small towns as we make our way to Polignano a Mare, a picturesque town on the Adriatic, south of Bari. As we pass through the various towns along the way Angelo notes that each of these towns has its own special identity – Alberobello, the town of the cylindrical stone farm houses called trulli; Turi, known for its cherries; Santeramo in Colle renowned for inventing the sofa; Altamura, known throughout Italy for its bread, which is trucked to restaurants as far away as Rome and Venice; Grottaglie, the town of ceramics; Putignano, known for its bridal fashion and shops; Castellana Grotte, renowned for its caves; and of course Gioia del Colle, not known for one thing, but three: the best mozzarella in Italy, its D.O.C. primitivo wine and its extravirgin olive oil.

The drive takes us through farm country as well. Far from appearing impoverished as Americans tend to perceive the south of Italy, there is a refined tidiness to it all. Low stone fences partition endless plots of land. Carefully stacked by hand, these stone fences stretch as far as the eye can see. Within every plot defined by these fences is an abundance of life, animal, vegetable and mineral. Olive trees, their silver green leaves in repose for the winter and almond trees like wooden skeletons devoid of leaves or nuts nonetheless appear full of life against carpets of green grass, lettuces and vegetables. Despite winter’s best shot, life and abundance spill forth within these little confines and large, comfortable looking farmhouses, most of which incorporate an older trullo give the impression of a cozy country life.

We arrive in Polignano a Mare, an ancient seaside town built on sheer cliffs above the boiling Adriatic. To the north and south other beach towns dot the coastline, but only here in Polignano do the cliffs dramatically rise from the sea and the locals have made a spectacle of the setting, with their town dramatically built right to the edges of the cliffs. We wander along the cliffs at the edge of town, Angelo explaining to us about how the locals will set up their towels on the rocks to take the sun while their children will plunge into the sea dozens of feet below. It is something, one hopes, that they grow out of as they age.

We wander through the streets of Polignano, a tidy, compact little town with shiny stone streets. Although essentially a summer place, there is a good deal of activity in the streets and a number of good looking restaurants, pubs and bars, many of which are closed for the season. We wander through a small archway and down a windy alley and emerge on a balcony overlooking the sea. Below, choppy waves swell in and crash against the cliffs on which the balcony is perched and along the cliffs we can see a number of such other public balconies, strategically positioned private homes, with their living room windows overlooking the sea, and some awesome looking restaurants with tables either set out on seaside terraces or with enormous picture windows looking out to the sea.

We wander from balcony to balcony, taking in slightly different views of the ocean from each successive one and enjoying the twisty alleys that connect each one. At one point we pass through the main square and note an inscription below a religious offering, that is dedicated to San Vito, lawyer, that thanks Jesus for bringing him. Imagine that! People thanking Jesus for setting an attorney upon them, when most references have them playing for the other team. We figure that there may be money to be made in organizing pilgrimages of attorneys from our native Washington, DC to this mecca of jurisprudential gratitude.

As we depart town, we stop in a caffe for some café and, surprisingly, the barista inquires whether we are Americans. He mockingly tells us of how he loves George Bush (the American president does not seem very popular here). He and Angelo, himself a foreigner in this strange land so far from Gioia del Colle, begin to engage in an animated, but respectful, conversation about the state of Italian politics that, to our ears sounds a lot like how two Americans would argue about Democrats and Republicans.

We return to the car and head toward Alberobello, the famous city of the trulli. Along the way, as we pass through Putignano and into the Itrian valley we see increasing numbers of trulli along the road, mostly brown and grey stone structures. But where the occasional trullo could be seen in the countryside outside of Gioia del Colle, this valley is literally chock full of trulli, each neatly marked parcel of property sporting not just a single conical roof, but rather large multi-roomed structures, with four, five or six spires, looking like stone circus big tops. The effect, coupled with the ubiquitous stone fences and the fertile soil, is honestly breathtaking.

We arrive in the outskirts of Alberobello, looking for il Vecchio Granaio (C. da Capitolo 7 B. 151, 74015 Martina Franca, tel. 080.4383122), which Angelo promises us is a nice local trattoria. We pass fields of olive trees and trulli and eventually arrive at the restaurant and cannot tell whether it is open or not. Angelo and Bill enter the empty restaurant while Suzy completes a phone call to find out our son’s SAT results (great work, Austin!) and after knocking on the door of the house next door Angelo is able to get the owner to open up and seat us.

And what a good decision our perseverance turns out to be. The genial owner offers us a limited choice for lunch, explaining how the pasta is made fresh on Sundays when the crowds are larger, but suggests some pasta and a main course of donkey meat. We eagerly agree and once again a two and a half hour lunch begins its slow, steady assault on every aspect of our physical, social and psychological being, rendering us completely open and satisfied in every aspect upon its completion. We start with a platter containing little bowls of olives, tasty dried fava beans resembling corn nuts and spicy little tiralli, which resemble round pretzels. This is followed by a plate cheeses – ricotta, mozzarella and another fresh cow’s milk cheese – and a variety of cured meats including prosciutto and a buttery lardo which is thinly sliced white fat that may sound repulsive but is in fact a treasure. The owner then brings us three lasagne, stuffed with fresh mushrooms from his garden and filled with tomato sauce and garnished with little fried meatballs. Finally we arrive at the donkey, which is thinly sliced and rolled around a mild cheese in an involtina, and served in a hearty tomato sauce with smaller chunks of donkey meat hidden in the sauce. We bray that it is the best donkey we have ever had, trying not to make asses of ourselves as we lick our plates clean. For dessert we are treated to potatoes baked in a wood fired oven and baked whole onions, which are served plain, which we drench in olive oil and salt, a perfect light accompaniment for our meal.

Actually, dessert is forced upon us, a slab of chocolate cake that is multilayered, alternating with moist cake and a chocolate crème, whipped cream and laced with walnuts (a bowl of which are also served, unopened, for us to enjoy after our meal). By this time, it is nearly time for dinner, but we lube our joints with a shot of espresso and a grappa (it is truly good for the heart and digestive system we keep telling ourselves), profusely thank the owner who must think that we are morons for going gaga over what for him is just another meal and head out the door for a visit to Alberobello, the town of trulli. As we leave we note the three middle aged women at the table next to us have eschewed donkey for their main course, opting for a thick steak instead. We make a mental note to try it next time we are in town.

We arrive a few minutes later in Alberobello, a small town bisected by a wide main street from which smaller pedestrian streets rise. On one side a colony of perhaps a hundred white painted trullo rises in the zona turistica (how appealing is it to enter a place with a name like that?). The trulli have been built for city dwelling, not the tough country life, and are much bigger than their farm counterparts and the effect of this dense concentration of them is a little surrealistic, dissipating the charm one feels when seeing a single trullo in the countryside. The fact that nearly every trullo in the zona turistica has been converted into a shop selling tourist junk further reduces the effect. We walk through the zone for a half hour, having lost interest in the trullo themselves within about 10 minutes, but amazed at how lacking in charm most of the shops are and enjoying the opportunity to walk off lunch, despite the freezing temperatures.
Angelo takes us across the street to a small park, where we wind our way up narrow streets also lined by white painted trulli. But his residential zone is much more picturesque than the commercial zone on the other side of road. The handsome lowrise trulli are maintained in very good condition, but with one trullo giving way to another the effect is of Smurfville and reminds us vaguely of Georgetown, with tourists gawking in residents’ living room, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of Papa Smurf. When we finally reach the top of the hill, the view across the town of hundreds of little white houses is truly worth the climb.

Our final stop for the day is Grottaglie, a little town on the Ionian side of Puglia, just outside the town of Taranto. Grottaglie is known for its ceramic production, which it has been engaged in for centuries. We have some difficulty getting to Grottaglie from Alberobello, even though it is not far on the map. Angelo admits that he has never visited the town, interestingly noting that there is some tension beween the people of the province of Bari (where he is from) and those from the province of Taranto, where we are not. Not so much dislike as chauvinism, but strong enough that Angelo has never had the urge to make a casual visit.

We arrive as the sun has set and the temperatures have dropped another few degrees. We want to explore some ceramics shops and examine the quality of the work in Grottaglie and see if there are any typical patterns. In our brief visit we are impressed by the quality of workmanship and product here, buying a few pieces bearing a rooster on a plain background to show off at Bella Italia. The shops, which are all concentrated in a quartiere delle ceramiche are easy to find and bear a return visit in the future.

With our shopping done we head back to Gioia del Colle, satisfied with our first excursion into the Puglian countryside, which has left us eager for a return visit. What we have decided not to visit, at least for tonight, is any type of eating establishment, so after being dropped off at our B&B by Angelo, we take another digestive stroll and head back to our room for a dose of the Olympics and a good night sleep, counting donkeys to help us nod off. Goodnight Pappa Smurf.

Day 5 - Gioia del Colle

We rise a little late this morning, unaware of the whirlwind of activity that is yet to unfold on what will be our busiest day yet. We shuffle from our room at the B&B, a comfortable room with, as the name implies, a bed and attached bathroom, that shares an entry foyer with three other similar rooms. The almost embarrassingly low price of €40 per night includes a continental breakfast, an even bigger bargain when we consider that the room is as large as most of the hotel rooms we have stayed at in Italy. We are greeted by the owner, Franco, as we enter the breakfast room downstairs. Waiting with Franco is Angelo, who is ready to show off his native land.

We quickly eat and head outdoors, where the temperature has failed to rise significantly from the frigid cold of the previous night, despite the welcome addition of bright, clear sunshine. We stroll for a few minutes from the centrally located B&B to the Norman Castle, located in the center of the historic district, where we purchase tickets for entry to the Castle and its museum as well as to the nearby archaeological site, which is our first destination.

We return to Angelo’s car for the brief drive out of town to a nearby hill, Monte Sannace, site of an archaeological park and nature preserve. Uncovered a couple of decades ago, Monte Sannace was the center of a flourishing pre-Roman civilization of the Peucezi people, who came and went from the scene over the course of a thousand years, beginning in the 9th Century B.C. Conquered by the Romans in the 1st Century A.D., all that remains is this excavated town and some fragments of their civilization displayed in the museum back in town.

We wander around the ruins of the old town walls, large stones made of tufa, a manufactured stone cut into large blocks. The walls enclose a large area of the hillside, chosen for its strategic defensive position above the plains below and because of its fertile ground and plentiful water supply. At one time perhaps a thousand Peucezi lived within these walls, some in simple two room houses whose foundations we can still see, others in the upper class enclave of the acropolis, the high portion of town, where the houses sport more and bigger rooms and such amenities as wells, bathrooms and, for your deceased relatives, indoor tombs. The simple, rough stones that remain give the impression of brutish people living in skins and dragging their women around by the hair, an impression that is dispelled later when we discover the beautiful artwork, delicate jewelry and see the impressive clothing worn by these people on display at the archeological museum in town.

Included on the grounds of the park is a trullo, one of the stone farm houses that dot the Puglian countryside. These conical white structures were favored by local farmers as secure, warm places for them to live, sleep and eat with their families, sometimes numbering in double digits. Resembling stone igloos we enter the transplanted trullo and appreciate how it protects us from the outside cold, where we have alternately been treated to freezing winds and light snow.
We return to Gioia del Colle and visit the Norman Castle and museum, the former of which was built in the 12th Century and home to Emperor Frederick II, one of a series of Norman defensive fortresses built across the Puglian peninsula to protect his empire. The castle is one of the best preserved Norman castles in Italy and its massive weight attests to its impregnability. Speaking of impregnability, we are treated to the somewhat gruesome story of Bianca Lancia (Bianca of the spear), a local woman from Gioia del Colle who was the first woman to steal the heart of the king. Unfortunately, he jealously thought her to be unfaithful and locked her away in a dark dungeon in the castle, whereupon she cut off her breasts and had them presented to the king to protest her innocence. According to Angelo’s version of the story, overcome by admiration and swayed by her action he married Bianca, but either she died soon after. (The English brochure says that she committed suicide by cutting off her breasts). In either case, the story brings to mind the idea of "cutting off your nose to spite your face."

It is Sunday, which is market day, and we stroll along the main street of the historic center browsing the antichita (Italian for junk), old postcards, record albums (even an old victrola) being sold by locals undeterred by the cold wind and occasional snow showers, when we spot a contraption we recognize as a chitarra, a wooden plank with metal strings strung across, resembling a guitar, used for rolling out and cutting spaghetti alla chitarra. We express our interest to the seller, a man who either loves Americans or loves to rag on them, who, between serenading us with lines from the Beetles or Frank Sinatra ("Meester, I love America") gives us a special American discount which no doubt consisted of jacking up his bottom line price by a few euros. Against Angelo’s advice we pay for the chitarra and move on, only now wondering how we will manage to get it home with us.

It is now lunchtime and Angelo has invited us to have Sunday lunch at his house with his family, an honor and treat for us. The family lives nearby, just outside the historical center and we ride the elevator to the fifth floor and enter a warm multiroom apartment that houses Angelo, his parents, his older brother Armando and his younger sister Maria Grazia. We meet the family, including Armando’s girlfriend Anna Rita, and their warmth and smiles put us immediately at ease, despite the minor language barrier. After some moments of final preparation of the meal we take our seats for the upcoming production, where the main characters are food and family, and the curtain rises. We are treated to an appetizer of tomato bruschetta and a plate of marinated anchovies. Next, Angelo’s mom presents a baked pasta with meat sauce, which Armando declines to eat, claiming to be a vegetarian. When the next course arrives, thick, succulent slices of polpetone, a giant baked meatball, Armando’s vegetarianism deserts him, and we can see why, as it is delicious. Desert includes local mozzarella (we are told that mozzarella from Gioia del Colle is the best in Italy and we cannot disagree), cream filled pastries and a delicious homemade torte, the handiwork of Maria Grazia. The family’s entire liquor cabinet is offered to us for after dinner (lunch) drinks and we politely oblige. When the curtain falls two hours later, we give it a standing ovation, thankful for having been given front row seats to the best show in town.

As we crowd into the elevator with Angelo, worried that our increased weight might crash the lift, we thank him once again, remarking how much we enjoyed being included in his close knit family and he replies that "the most important thing," expecting to hear him talk about the importance of family to him, "is that you are enjoying yourself and learning about Gioia del Colle and Puglia." Surprised by this surprise ending, it actually makes sense. It is obvious that the most important thing to Angelo (and his family) actually is family. The previous two hours have made that abundantly clear. But this is a man so passionate about Puglia and even more passionate about his home town of Gioia del Colle that our wellbeing and satisfaction consume him. He is evangelical about creating converts to his cause of making Gioia del Colle known to the world. Like the protagonist in Field of Dreams, he fervently believes if they know about it, they will come and he is hoping to enlist us in his effort.

Angelo shrewdly takes us next to a local winery, perhaps realizing that the quickest way to our hearts is through a wineglass. One of the many hats worn by Angelo is export manager for Tenuta di Viglione, run by the magnetic Gianni Zullo. The tenuta produces the D.O.C. wine Primitivo di Gioia del Colle, one of two D.O.C. primitivo wines produced in Italy. Primitivo, like many Puglian wines, has suffered from poor quality in past decades and is only now breaking into the popular consciousness but the primitivo grape, which is the same grape that is called zinfandel in California, is capable of producing extraordinary wines. Gianni guides us through the production process, showing us the four wines he produces, including a D.O.C. primitivo and a riserva. There is no indoor cantina for tourists and it being a cold day, gives us a bottle to try when temperatures warm up.

Gianni and Angelo show us to the property next door, where Gianni is renovating an old farmhouse into an agriturismo, a guesthouse on a working vineyard which he hopes in several years will draw tourists to the Puglian countryside, much like tourists have flocked to California’s Napa Valley. The building is bursting with possibility, and in time this will be a magical spot, with large rooms and terraces looking out onto the lush, green Puglian countryside, dotted with grapevines and olive trees. We can hardly wait for a return visit.

We say our goodbyes to Gianni and begin the drive back to Gioia del Colle through these green fields and we are struck by the overwhelming beauty of it all. This is a beauty different from that of Tuscany or Umbria or Piemonte. In place of steep hills or rocky cliffs, this area of Puglia is mostly flat, punctuated by gently rolling hills. For those used to seeing grape vines crammed into small terraces, the arbors that here and there dot the open countryside give a sense of openness and calm. The sense of bounteous nature is heightened by the sight of birds in flight, a rarity in northern Italy. There is a pleasant country feel to this place, with large farm houses (most of which are built around a trullo that predated the emergence of the larger farmhouse) that evoke not peasant dirt farmers, but rather a comfortable choice in favor of country living in a land of bounty. The ride back to Gioia definitely feels like a journey home.

We part with Angelo for a couple of hours and reconvene later for yet another meal. He is visibly excited to be taking us to il Borbone, a restaurant just outside the city center that, according to Angelo, serves the best pizza in the region. Although we have nothing to compare it to, we have to agree. Angelo struggles to finish a pizza capriciosa, piled high with various meats and vegetables, swearing to order a simple pizza margherita next time; Suzy manages well with her pizza fume, topped with speck and smoked scamorzza cheese and Bill finishes off his pizza with arucola, bresaola and lemon juice. Dessert is a molten chocolate filled chocolate torte, that, when punctured, bleeds gooey chocolate into a pool of crème anglaise. An obligatory grappa finishes the meal and puts an exclamation point on a day that has introduced us to Angelo’s Gioia, a true jewel that adorns Puglia and our Italian experience.

Day 4 - Amalfi to Puglia

We arise once again to bright sunshine streaming through our windows, signaling the beginning of another beautiful day on the Amalfi Coast. We have breakfast sent to the room and carry it out to the upper terrace, the one with the more expansive view of the town of Amalfi but it becomes quickly apparent that a cool ocean breeze has dropped the temperature about ten degrees lower than yesterday. We struggle to enjoy the outdoor experience but within ten minutes we give up and move indoors, having breakfast just inside a large set of sliding glass doors that afford us nearly the same view, but free from the cold winds.

After puttering around and enjoying our room, we pack up and hit the road for our drive from Amalfi to Bari, variously estimated for us as a three, four or six hour drive. We avoid being struck by cars as we cross the coastal highway to our car, which is wedged in a spot smaller than the car itself in front of the steps of a Saracen tower, across from the hotel. On the right is a perilous drop down the stairs and into the entryway of the bar/restaurant. On the left is an Italian police car, occupied by a baby faced traffic cop who, despite his youthful looks exudes the same menacing air projected by all Italian police. We definitely do not want to stray right or left as we back into the buzzing traffic of the coast road.

We head back toward Salerno (or was it Sorrento, or perhaps Sapporo?) where we will pick up the A14/A16 toward Bari in the heart of the southern region of Puglia (or Apulia). The drive is uneventful but for the dozen or so times we nearly sideswipe oncoming cars or motorcycles, a number of which seem to think it a good idea to overtake slower moving vehicles on blind corners. On the other side looms the immovable but eminently scrapeable barrier wall that seems to be itching rough up Earl Schieb’s best paint job. A moment of levity punctuates the white knuckle, oath filled journey as our progress is slowed by a SITA bus, the local passenger bus company, in front of us. As the bus runs interference for us, scattering oncoming traffic and pedestrians like a 16 wheeled Pamplonan bull, we wonder out loud how two oncoming buses can manage to pass when one of them takes nearly 2/3 of the roadway. Then, as if on cue, rounding the next bend is another SITA bus. The answer to our question is simple – they nearly meet in the center of the road and then proceed to loudly scrape their other sides along the cliffs or guardrail. This works well for those inside the buses needing to get somewhere quickly. For those of us who cringe at the sound of chalk or fingernails scraping on chalkboards, it is not nearly so good a solution. In any event, we had noticed the previous evening that most parked cars’ traffic-side side mirrors had been folded in (those that hadn’t been were snapped off or shattered) and now this self defense strategy seemed to make perfect sense.

We finally leave the bus and the narrow, winding roads of the Amalfi Coast behind as we make our way onto the autostrada, headed for the town of Bari on the other coast of Italy. The drive, although a couple of hours long, goes quickly, as we pass through mountain tunnels along the coast and emerge in a flat region marked by nothing higher than gentle rolling hills. This relative flatness contrasts with the jagged contours of the coast but even more noteworthy is the greenness of it all, where before the predominant colors had been the grey of the cliffs and the blues of sky and sea.

We pass by Avellino, home of the Campagnian white wine Fiano di Avellino and settle on Benevento as our choice for lunch. This requires a little work, however, as the town is ten minutes or so off the autostrada. We double back through countryside dotted here and there by a building, but largely unpopulated until we reach Benevento. We had imagined it to be a charming, sophisticated little hamlet, as it, like Avellino, is home to one of the region’s other excellent white wines, the Falanghina. Instead, we find a rather unattractive town, seemingly uninhabited and devoid of any apparent character, its drab architecture dominated by ugly brick boxes built by the government as work projects for its impoverished populace. We circle the town several times before finding an acceptable looking trattoria, park and have a utilitarian lunch of crostini and pasta, washed down with a pitcher of local wine that does improve over the course of the meal.

We return to our car and make our way to the Adriatic coast, arriving just north of Bari, the one of the principle towns of Puglia and an important port and ferry destination. But we pass on by Bari, our destination the close by town of Gioia del Colle, where we are to meet our host for the next several days, Angelo Coluccia.

We call Angelo by cellphone as we arrive in town and he drives across town to escort us to the bed and breakfast that will serve as our home in Puglia. We greet Angelo, a young man who passionately promotes all things pugliese and who we have been importing a line of Puglian food product from for several months. Despite our commercial relationship, we have never met Angelo, who tracked us down through some canny internet research and convinced us to take a chance selling some of his delicacies of Puglia. His high quality samples were very compelling.

We instantly take a liking to this energetic, smiling ambassador of Puglia. Not a sentence goes by where he is not extolling the virtues of Puglian extravirgin olive oil or its wine or its culture or its history. He shows to our room in the B&B and we arrange to meet later for dinner.

We drop off our bags and decide to invest the hour and half break in exploring Gioia del Colle. Our B&B is around the corner and run from by the owner of the trattoria/pizzeria "Ciocco," which we learn later is a character from Dante’s Divine Comedy known for his excessive appetite. The room is a simple bedroom with bath in an apartment building with several other such rooms. It is comfortable and warm (an important fact, as the temperature is a good 40 degrees colder here than when we left Amalfi in the morning) and will serve nicely for the next couple of days.

The street on which Ciocco is located is the main street of Gioia del Colle, an attractive, wide street lined with nice stores. We stroll down the street and then begin making our way along adjacent streets, struck not just by how clean and orderly everything is, but how much bigger and more developed than we had imagined. For while our expectation of Puglia as a somewhat impoverished rural province will be tested over the next days, it is obvious that Gioia del Colle, while not on the American radar screen, is a prosperous jewel of a town.

And as we re-connect with Angelo a couple of hours later for a guided walking tour of the downtown area, which largely retraces our steps, we learn that Gioia del Colle is indeed a jewel; its name is Puglian dialect for the jewel around the throat, symbolizing a lost jewel of an ancient queen that was found in this place. As we wander the streets it is apparent that to Angelo all aspects of Gioia and greater Puglia are priceless jewels and we are eager to discover all that it has to offer.

We finish our walking tour and settle into the trattoria Ciocco, where we meet Franco Colone, the genial owner who is also our host at the B&B. The restaurant is mostly below street level and we are seated in a large vaulted room that at one time served as a wine cellar. Very fitting indeed.
We impose on Angelo to order for us, to ensure we experience the typical Puglian foods and he does not disappoint. We start with a mixed antipasti platter which arrives at the table in waves of small plates, coming and coming until there is no more room on the table, despite the fact that there is an empty seat. Puglian fare, Angelo tells us, is based on several factors, most importantly extravirgin olive oil. Beyond that, however, the bounty of the farm, especially an abundance of vegetables, plays a central role and the antipasti is tilted largely toward succulent vegetables and local oil. Several different preparations of eggplant tickle the taste buds, while lightly grilled zucchini glisten on the plate, reflecting the light with its thin layer of green olive oil. Marinated peppers, salty with fresh capers are a delight and small chunks of polipo, or octopus add a delicate, tender final act. We clean nearly every plate, punctuating bites with a foccacia baked in a woodburning oven and lightly flavored with olive oil and are ready to leave.

Our waitress will have none of our attempt to escape, however. She insists that we try some pasta and within minutes Angelo and Bill are enjoying a plate of orrechietti with rape, a slightly bitter and pungent green that slides down the throat. Suzy orders a sublime cavitelli with ceci (chick peas) pasta that is her favorite of the trip.

We are not allowed to leave now until we try some meats, so a small plate of zampinelli, a local sausage that in local dialect means "little cats’ feet" because of its resemblance to them is presented, along with a thinly shaved meat stuffed with fontina cheese. No cats were harmed in the making of this meal, and at least three humans are extremely happy.

We finally convince our waitress that we will return tomorrow and that she can force more food on us then. But for now we depart, take an evening stroll through the historic center of Gioia and discuss tomorrow’s itinerary with Angelo over caffe and grappa at a local coffee bar. Our introduction to Puglia is complete and we return to our B&B with an ambitious itinerary ahead and settle into a comfortable night’s sleep, with dreams of little cat’s feet dancing in our heads.

Day 3 - Amalfi-Ravello-Scala-Atrani

The chill of the previous evening and the late night rain shower have given way to bright, piercing sunshine that streams through the pointed arch windows of our suite, the "Special Suite" at the Hotel Luna Convento in Amalfi. When planning the trip we had attempted to book a lavish room at off season rates at one of the great hotels along the Amalfi Coast – the Sireneuse in Positano, the Santa Caterina in Amalfi, the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello. Unfortunately the off season rates were not yet in effect. None of the flagships is open for the season. Our research identifies the Luna Convento, an ex convent established in the 1200s by St. Francis of Assisi, as the best of the bunch.

We pull out all the stops and book the "Special Suite," hoping to hit the jackpot, but are mildly disappointed when we check in, not so much with the room, but with the ordinariness of the welcome. Parking, typical for the tiny towns along the Amalfi coast, is non existent and we essentially have to stop our car on the coastal highway, a ribbon of asphalt bounded on one side by a low stone wall beyond which lies certain death in the form of a plunge into the ocean. The other side is flanked by a rocky, craggy mountainside, into which the road has been hewn, jutting and protruding out in order to disfigure the vehicles of tourists who have the audacity to shift their gaze for a single instant from the perils of the road (which come in form of oncoming Italian drivers, impossibly large busses, pesky motorscooters and, I am not making this up, pedestrians deep in discussion with one another) to the allure of the ocean. Perhaps the coast road is the devilish construct of the sirens for whom the Sireneuse was named and whose name graces hotels and restaurants along the coast.

In any event, parking had been been an adventure the day as we checked in, and there was some intramural grumbling as we were forced to return to the car, crossing the highway of death at a completely blind hairpin turn, in order to fetch our bags and roll, drag and curse them back to the hotel lobby. We then were shown to our room with the promise that our bags would arrive later.

The "Special Suite" is indeed special. A smallish sitting room with couch, easy chair and television (did we mention yet that we have seen no English language television, including the ubiquitous CNN) lead to a staircase to the bedroom, a tower loft completely covered in windows on two sides, revealing views of the monastery and, beyond, the town of Amalfi and the ocean. It is a beautiful view that is only surpassed by the view from the two enormous terraces, a smaller one reached through sliding doors from the main floor, overlooking the cloister of the convent, a larger one, completely covered in blue tile that is reached from a door in the bedroom, that faces Amalfi. The larger terrace, with a dining table in the middle is large enough to host a gathering of 30-40 people, and our minds begin to race where we might find such number of new friends. It seems a waste to let such a fine space go unused.

Anyway, we are awakened in the morning by bright sunshine that not so much jolts us awake as it caresses us awake. Warmed and energized by its rays, we get off to a productive start, managing to sit at the table on the blue terrace and spend several hours eating breakfast (the fare provided by the hotel supplemented by an enormous ball of mozzarella di buffalo we had purchased the day before) and staring at the ocean.

We have an 11:00 meeting scheduled in nearby Ravello with Pasquale Sorrentino, owner of Ceramiche d"Arte and one of our favorite suppliers. Acclimating ourselves to the rhythms of Italy, we climb into our car at 11:05 for the 15 minute drive up (and up and up and up) to Ravello, abandoning earlier plans to walk up the special walking paths or take the public bus.
We drive around Ravello, or rather back up and down the mountain, as the road does not actually go in a loop, finally coming to rest in a parking space the maximum distance from the main square, only slightly closer to the square than our original parking spot at the hotel. We get out and walk to the square, relying on finely honed instinct to find it, as, surprisingly, there are no signs marking the way to centro.

We find the main square and make our way a few meters down one of the pedestrian streets to Ceramiche d’Arte where Pasquale is waiting for us. We have met him once before, two years earlier, and since then our only contact has been by phone and fax, mostly with his extremely efficient manager Rosanna. As we approach on foot, there are glances back and forth with cocked heads as each of us sizes up the other to before taking the plunge and pretending to be excited to see the other after so long. We give in first and reintroduce ourselves, hoping that the man whose hand we are shaking is indeed Pasquale Sorrentino.

It is and for the next several hours we slip back into the easy familiarity and bask in the warmth of his hospitality that had mesmerized us two years earlier. The man is the genuine article, a gifted manager of a ceramics studio (he does not paint himself), an astute judge of quality, a shrewd, hard bargaining businessman, a talented student of the market and a genuinely interesting, engaging and warm personality. He shows us some new patterns, talks about and listens to our assessment of the success of other patterns, sells us some patterns and warns us off others. His shop is exceptional. While many ceramic shops are the retail store for a single studio, or feature a selection from a small number of artists, Pasquale’s shop is packed with an incredible variety of patterns, shapes and sizes, not just from his studio and other local Amalfitano artists, but from across Italy, as Pasquale spends many days each month driving to ceramic hot spots such as Deruta, Gubbio and Sicily.

As we finish our business with Pasquale, he summons Rosanna to meet us. A young, attractive Italian woman who has worked for Pasquale for years, she brings order to the chaos that is his constant whirl of energy and activity. He then leads the four of us outside and up a staircase into his house where his wife, Lara is busily preparing lunch for all of us. Their beautiful house is filled with ceramic tiles and pieces, some of them nicked or chipped here or there, which makes us a tad homesick, as our own home is similarly filled with the unsellable and the expired.

We sit down to a delicious plate of spaghetti alla vongole which is followed by simply grilled fish, the secret ingredient being its incredible freshness. Salad and tomatoes from Pasquale’s garden are swimming in olive oil that is not only local, it is homemade. We finish off with a plate full of almond cookies and other little pastries that Pasquale has scrambled down the street to purchase while we are finishing our fish. And Pasquale insists that we cap the whole affair with a small glass of grappa, reputedly from Romania, Pasquale telling us that there is irrefutable scientific evidence that only grappa provides the therapeutic benefits of reducing cholesterol and fats from the blood while cleansing the digestive system. Amazingly useful information from a ceramicist who does not even play a doctor on TV.

After we say our thank yous and good byes to Lara, we head back to our car with Pasquale and Rosanna to view a couple of apartments that Pasquale owns and rents to visitors. He shows us to connected apartments, perched on the high hills of Ravello in the shadow of the Palazzo Sasso and looking over the Amalfi gulf, a panorama that stretches for miles and miles (or kilometers and kilometers, depending upon your nationality). The modern, comfortable apartments seem like they would be a great place to relax and take in life on the Amalfi coast.

We then drive to nearby Scala, just across a craggy valley from Ravello and also overlooking the sea. While development and wealth have been attracted to Ravello, it is odd that Scala, a mere two minutes away and literally in the shadow of Ravello, seems to have escaped modernity. A billboard in the town square displays a photograph of the entire population of Scala, perhaps 30-40 souls with the caption "Scala. Little town. Big Family." Pasquale shows us his latest project, an immense abandoned shell of a building which he plans to renovate into a small hotel, perhaps one that will cater to American weddings. Each of us agrees to get married there the next time around.

As we return to our car Pasquale asks us if we are interested in walking back to Amalfi along the pedestrian walkways that make their way up these steep hills. As we had been considering the walk that morning we take him up on his generous offer to drive our car back to the hotel and so we say our goodbyes to he and Rosanna and set off down the mountain for what he promises to be a ½ hour walk.

An hour and a half later, calves mooing, dogs barking and knees aching we arrive at sea level, having made a couple of disastrous wrong turns that take us off the 10 foot wide, gently sloped walkway on to private paths a foot wide, with treacherous drop offs and slopes that nearly require climbing gear. In fact one turn takes us past the Amalfi Rock Climbing Association. We persevere, however, as the only thing worse than going down these steep narrow paths is the prospect of having to turn around and climb up them, but as we return to civilization we begin to think that perhaps the missed turns were not really so disastrous, as they afforded us the opportunity to wander among orange and lemon groves, walk alongside waterfalls and generally escape the cobblestone and dog poop covered streets of the city.

In any event, we finally end up in an unfamiliar square and plop down on two chairs, ordering the largest available bottle of water and the coldest white wine, where we remain for a half hour, wondering where we are. Bill finally sets forth through an archway to the beach to determine in which part of small town of Amalfi we have landed. He returns a few moments later to report that we are not in Amalfi at all, but the village of Atrani. Fortunately, this settlement, which exists nearly completely underneath the Amalfi highway, is the next town over from Amalfi and our hotel is visible, and reachable from there.

We pay up and head back past the hotel to Amalfi proper for some last minute shopping. Returning to the hotel the manager asks us if we are interested in making arrangements for dinner and suggests a "special" place in, you guessed it, Atrani. He is amazed that we know exactly where the restaurant is, as apparently not many Americans venture to walk to Amalfi from Scala and fewer still get totally lost and emerge in Atrani.

Dinner is at a small restaurant called A Paranza a few meters from the square where we were nursed back to life. Seafood is the order of the day again today, as it is every day on the Amalfi Coast. After closely reviewing the menu we ask the waiter to decide for us and he recommends a mixed seafood antipasti and a local fish served with potatoes. The seafood antipasti is a neverending flotilla of small plates, the first with marinated tuna, swordfish, anchovy and a delicious firm white fish called flag fish. Next comes a flag fish filet rolled around scamorza cheese, which is followed by anchovy parmigiano, a fried anchovy filet stuffed with cheese, followed by a mixed seafood gratin served in a scallop shell, tiny prawns in a fava bean puree and finally a deliciously tender grilled squid stuffed with potatoes. America may be a meat and potatoes kind of place. Amalfi is definitely a fish and potatoes kind of place and they have hit on a winning combination.

Our waiter then brings us the main course, a grilled local white fish whose name we are told at least a dozen times only to forget immediately. It is served with soft cubes of potato and dressed with an oil and butter sauce, which necessitates us ordering a grappa afterwards in order to cleanse our blood of this offending fat. Whether the grappa achieves its desired effect, it unquestionably signals the end of a glorious meal and another glorious day and we bid our waiter adieu (or ciao) and head back to the Luna Convento to prepare for tomorrow’s departure from Campagnia and our drive to the south and the mysterious region of Puglia.

Day 2 - Rome-Salerno-Vietri sul Mare-Amalfi

As we arise on day two, yesterday’s grey dampness is replaced by blue crispness, and the masses walking past our windows are noticeably less bundled than the previous day. It’s February in Rome and our desire for a mild Roman winter seem to have been fulfilled.
We eat the obligatory cheese, prosciutto and bread washed down by exceptional coffee (in Italy, it seems, everyone is a barista, capable of making the best coffee), check out and, with a sense of dread of impending disaster if not financial ruin, board a taxi for the Stazione Termini. The stazione is Rome’s main train station and from the map it looks like a close call whether we can wheel the luggage armada there on foot or throw financial caution to the winds and go by taxi. Taxi wins out and 15 minutes and what seems like a dozen kilometers later we arrive at the shiny, modern station. Note to self: take taxi to station.

We have reserved tickets and seats on a Eurostar train, something we highly recommend. Tickets are available on www.trenitalia.it, which, if you are able to navigate rudimentary Italian, displays timetables on the dates between the locations you select. Ticket delivery options include ticket by mail (which is not available for those living outside the country), pickup from a ticket dispensing machine or e-ticket. If you choose the latter, you print out your confirmation, written entirely in Italian, of course, and bring it on board with you. Fearing that we may not have fully understood all of the legal disclaimers, we have chosen to print out our ticket from the automatic ticket machine. We select the prepaid internet ticket option (instructions in English), type in our confirmation number and a single ticket, with the number of passengers and seat number printed on it is dispensed. We head to track 9 with several hundred cubic meters of luggage in tow.

The Italian national train system is designed to punish those who refuse to travel light. We board the train, groaning, grunting and straining to lift bag after bag, seemingly hewn out of granite up stairs that, like the cable cars in San Francisco, seem to go halfway to the stars. A small but growing mass of scowling Italians, not appreciating American excess, waits "patiently" behind us as we complete our rock climbing adventure. We have completely screwed up our seat reservations as well, selecting seats that are cattycornered from on another in separate rows that don’t as we believed, face each other, but rather face the same way. Taking the only possible option, we simply sit in the seats that we want, figuring we may be mistaken for Italians. Unfortunately our loud English and boorish manners betray us and an Italian gentleman informs us that one of us is in his seat. He generously offers to change with us when he realizes that we are not only foreigners, but incredibly stupid.

The Eurostar train hurtles through the countryside toward Naples, except at random stations where there must be a pretty woman standing on the platform, because here and there we slow to a crawl, only to speed up again. The effect makes Suzy change colors like a chameleon, her obvious favorites being green and white.

We alight in Salerno two and a half hours after we departed Rome. Or did we alight in Sorrento? There seems to be some confusion here. Our tickets say Roma a Salerno. A quick check of the rental car confirmation says EuropeCar Salerno city office. But all of Bill’s crack research regarding what to see and where to eat centers on the lovely coastal town of Sorrento a hundred miles and, by windy coastal roads, several hours away. Salerno, too, is a coastal town, but from our vantage point that is where the similarity ends. We ease out into traffic and reacquaint ourselves with the adventure that is driving in Italy, starting off on our hourlong journey from Salerno to Amalfi, via the tiny village of Vietri sul Mare and along the famed Amalfi coast road.

We settle in for a short drive from Salerno to Vietri sul Mare but we were not expecting the drive to be under two minutes. Perhaps it will take some getting used to the scale of the map, but we expected at least five to ten minutes of twisty coastal road, the glimmering sea on the left beyond a sheer dropoff, towering mountains on the right. Instead, we leave Salerno (or is it Sorrento?), make one or two twists, enough to bring back memories of the Eurostar, and nearly shoot past the town of Vietri sul Mare. Having visited it a couple of years back we recognize a horribly ugly ceramics factory/showroom apparently designed by a disciple of Gaudi who either has no architectural ability or so hates the profession and mankind that he left us this monument. Fortunately it is not missable and we avoid completely passing by Vietri sul Mare.

To many Americans, the name Vietri is recognizable, for it is a well known brand name for ceramics imported from the town of Vietri sul Mare. The distinctive patterns include vibrant primary colors with primitive designs of fish, rabbits, pigs and the like painted around the rims of plates, bowls and mugs. A group of women in North Carolina so liked the designs that they began importing them and selling them across the country. This is a success story we certainly are all in favor of.

We park in the town’s main square. Vietri sul Mare consists of about 3 streets carved into the cliffs facing the ocean. One street reaches down to the sea, one tilts up toward the "highway" and the third meanders around in a loop, a few tributaries splitting off of it and petering out into dead ends. Incredibly we get lost on the main street, unable to find any signs of civilization or commerce, drawing stares from a few locals as we head toward what we think is centro, the town center, only to dead end at the local duomo, from which the only exit is to retrace our steps.
We finally reconnect with the main street and find a couple of restaurants. February along the Amalfi coast is definitely off season, however. The hordes of tourists that pack the streets, shops and restaurants of Vietri sul Mare, Amalfi, Positano and Capri are simply not here in February and, consequently, the hotels, restaurants and nightclubs that cater to these tourists are for the most part closed during the winter months. Fortunately even the locals need to eat out occasionally, so we find an small restaurant, la Locanda, open for lunch.

La Locanda seems to be run by a husband and wife team and the only other patrons are an American mother-daughter-grandmother (this is not a word game, there are three people there), which, surprisingly, we don’t find the least bit annoying. Being on the coast we opt for the mixed grilled seafood entrée, enjoying another grilled artichoke and a huge ball of delicate mozzarella di buffalo, a specialty of this region of Campagnia. The grilled plate is so simple yet so sublime, an indifferent grilled shrimp that is flanked by a light white fish filet that is made for the olive oil and lemon dressing that is spread over it and in which it bathes. The crown jewel is a smoky grilled squid, which is flattened and lightly grilled, which renders this often tough frutto di mare a tender sensation. Wash all of this down with a bottle of local falanghina white wine and life seems to be pretty good.

After lunch we wander from store to store (to store to store to store . . .), each displaying a small twist on the famed Vietri designs. We stop in our tracks, however, when we pass an alleyway with a few ceramics pieces displayed on the corners of the recessed building. It is the home of Ceramiche di Klaus, whose real name is Claudio. Inside his studio there is a collection of some of the most original and beautiful designs that we have ever seen. Combining modern designs evoking Picasso on unusual shapes, we immediately fall in love and express that love through commerce, buying piece after piece. (We’ve include this to see if you are reading, Wendy.) According to the delightful old man minding the store (who turns out to be Claudio’s brother), Klaus is in Paris at a trade show. The old man and his young son are basically acting as caretakers while the maestro is away and, with few tourists in town, no one can be expecting a big day at the till. We hope and think that we made their day the same way that Klaus made ours.

We leave Vietri sul Mare bound for Amalfi, the principle town in a once powerful maritime republic. The road to Amalfi is the stuff of legends (I will find a link to our previous writing on the subject) and we narrowly avoid several incidente along the way, some peace of mind deriving from the mandatory collision insurance that is included in all Italian car rentals. A half hour later, we pull up in front of the Hotel Luna, an ex convent founded of St. Francis of Assisi and converted into a hotel hundreds of years ago. We are shown to the "special suite" with two private terraces, one that overlooks the convent, the higher one off of our bedroom that overlooks Amalfi and the ocean. More on the hotel tomorrow.

We unpack and head into town which is deader than a vampire with two wooden stakes through his heart, taking an hour to find a decent place to sit and enjoy a glass of wine. We try a promising spot, a beach bar with a couple of dozen locals standing partially inside and partially on the beach. When we arrive we discover the commotion is the result of the fact that the beach bar is also the off track betting parlor and lottery ticket distribution center. The crowd definitely looks like the horsey set – gamblers, not breeders.

We walk the town, eying potential dining spots and settle on Risto, named after the owner/chef. The menu talks about Risto’s facility in making and adorning sciacatielli, a local hand made pasta and that is enough to seal the deal for us. We enter, are seated and begin a several hour adventure as the only diners in the restaurant that evening. Signore Risto brings out two beautiful fat red fish with enormous clear eyes, explaining to us that he wishes to prepare a special fish dish using these beauties, which are called occhio bello or pretty eyes. We agree and a little while later he brings us a pasta dish with a local sauce called acqua pazza (crazy water) that is a light, tomato based sauce, with potatoes, capers and shellfish. It is the perfect food for this place and we follow it with the occhio bello in a similar acqua pazza sauce, which Risto claims to have invented. A local white Fiano di Avellino completes the meal, which comes to a close when Signore Risto brings us a plate of local monaco cheese and pears, drizzled with raspberry sauce and two grappas. We celebrate 36 hours in Italy with full stomachs and sweet memories as we return to the Hotel Luna and fall asleep in the same spot that St. Francis did centuries ago after he, too, dined on seafood acqua pazza and drank the local grappa.

Sweet dreams, St. Francis.

Day 1 - Rome

It has been nearly a year since our last visit to Italy, that one in March 2005 with our four children in tow (and that one a different story to be told later) and our plane lands in a cold, damp fog at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport early in the morning, with our thoughts full of anticipation. The flight over has been uneventful, just the way we like it, and we are able to sleep a fair amount, the last sleep we will get for another 18 hours.

We fight through a phalanx of car service, bus service and independent taxi drivers, all begging us to engage them for the half hour ride to Rome. We opt, instead, for an official taxi in the queue just outside the terminal. The journey takes us past Eur, a monumental and monumentally ugly city built by Mussolini during his reign and through the city gates where we effortlessly ease back into the cacophony that is Roman traffic, a fitting representation of the rhythm of Roman life.

The taxi pulls in front of our hotel, the Locanda Cairoli, a smallish, comfortable hotel for locals and tourists alike located in the Piazza Benedetto Cairoli. The piazza, a small, run down square that is difficult for Americans to pronounce is virtually invisible to Roman taxi drivers – none, at least that we have met, has ever heard of it. We roll our small armada of luggage into the entryway of the building, down a long corridor, snagging every doormat and rug under our wheels, dragging them the length of the hallway to the entrance of the elevator, a turn of the century device obviously developed when humans were smaller and thinner than they are now and long before luggage was invented. We cram the fleet into these close quarters and Bill rides up with the bags, Suzy wisely deciding to take the stairs.

Amazingly, our room is ready even though it is before 10 in the morning. We are invited by the reception to help ourselves to breakfast and coffee, which we do. We plan our excursion for the day, thinking that we will see some sights and do a little shopping until lunchtime, then possibly retire for a nap sometime in the afternoon.

We leave the hotel and head directly for the Campo dei Fiori, one of Rome’s most inviting spots and a definite favorite of ours. An outdoor market of fresh fruits and vegetables, with some butchers, fishmongers, confectioners and a few misplaced vendors of low end clothing more suited for a fleamarket, the Campo dei Fiori never disappoints, even in the day’s cold gray mist. We are entranced by the incredible bounty of it all, the overflowing bins stuffed with endless varieties of lettuces and herbs, shiny red tomatoes that set off pavlovian gushes of saliva, zucchini, eggplants and colorful peppers and today is even made even more memorable by scattered fires in barrels, lit by stall owners to warm them and their customers on this damp, chilly day. Perched up on a crate is a large round melon of some sort, as big as a basketball and brown, the color of a football. It is only when we view it from the other side, with its innards exposed, do we discover that it is a pumpkin ("zucca"), its orange flesh and seeds looking every bit as tempting as our orange cased jack ‘o lantern variety.

We pry ourselves from this display and head toward the Tiber, our destination the Palazzo Farnesina which, according to an American Express Departures magazine featuring Italy that we squirreled away several years ago, contains an example of tromp l’oeil that is not to be missed. Sensing this, our city map plays its own tricks on our eyes, leading us in an enormous spiral that eventually leads to the palazzo.

The exhibit is interesting but rather unremarkable, the most engaging aspect being an adorable group of 5 year old Italian school children, sitting on the floor of one of the rooms, listening attentively to their teacher speak of Rafaello while the assistant teacher snaps flash photo after flash photo in the shadows of a sign prohibiting visitors from sitting on the floor or taking photographs of any sort. Italians reputedly don’t pay their taxes, either.

The Salone della Prospettive with the renowned tromp l’oeil fails to wow. The large salon is painted with columns that frame a distant landscape, which is supposed to make the viewer believe that the room has no wall, just columns that frame a distant landscape. And the painter succeeds, but only if you stand in one particular spot on the floor and even then only if you squint and imagine that you are on a terrace, with a distant landscape framed by columns. Our advice: if you have to walk 15 and ½ miles in an ever tightening spiral to visit the Palazzo Farnesina, you might consider skipping it. If you have a good car service that can drop you right in front, it’s worth a visit.

Lunch beckons, and after all, food is perhaps the principle reason we have come to Italy. We wander past the Trevi Fountain to the Piazza San Silvestro and duck into Tritone (via Dei Maroniti, 1-3-5, tel. 06/6798181, www.trattoriatritone.com) a smallish, simple trattoria in a pretty shishi area of Rome. We start with a roast artichoke roman style – grilled and lightly marinated in vinegar. We had seen multitudes of fresh artichokes (carciofi) at the Campo dei Fiori this morning and they are buonissimo. Suzy follows this with a plate of grilled fish and Bill has abbachio, a grilled lamb dish. Suzy’s strategy in choosing the grilled fish v. fried fishes is that you generally get better fish if it is grilled. When ordering the fritti misti, restaurants generally heap piles of unidentified tiny fishes, which could well be guppies or neon tetras given that they are battered and inhaled like aquatic french fries.

The rest of the afternoon is spent shopping for presents for the children (just checking to see if the kids are reading the website), but before heading back to the hotel and searching for dinner we take a stroll around the Spanish Steps. There we visit the cultural mecca that draws all visitors to Rome – McDonalds. Several decades ago we visited the McDonalds at the Spanish Steps, hearing of its legendary hamburgers and world renowned hot apple pies served over ancient Roman ruins. Entering then, we were struck by antique Roman mosaic floors and a festive fountain, but were asked to leave when Bill attempted to videotape this unique Italian adaptation of America. This time, we were free to film the sites, testimony to how the world has changed since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Deciding to dine lightly, we choose la Bruschetteria degli Angeli, right next door to our hotel (P.zza B. Cairoli, 2/a, tel. 06/68.80.89). The suffix –eria is a magical suffix in Italian that transforms anything mundane into the superlative. In this case a simple bruschetta, essentially toasted bread with toppings, such as olive paste, tomatoes or prosciutto is ennobled when served in a bruschetteria. But noble it is, and the perfect food to cap the perfect end of the perfect day. For while we have now been wandering and shopping and eating and sipping wine and drinking coffee and missing our kids and being amazed by imperial Roman, renaissance and modern art and architecture, it is time to close chapter one on our adventure. In all the excitement we have neglected to notice that we have been here for nearly three quarters of a day, that our internal clocks are set for somewhere around the Azores and that tomorrow morning we have a train to catch to the Amalfi coast. Roma, we hardly knew ye.

(N.B. While we were pleased with ourselves at not being taken in by gypsie cabbies at Leonardo da Vinci (Fiumicino) Airport, we notice late in the day that our Euros, dispensed earlier in the day from an ATM are running surprisingly low. It is then that it dawns on us that our honest, official taxi driver has scammed us in the most embarrassing way. For a fare of Euro 76, I tender Euro 80, a 50 and three 10s. He corrects me, saying that the fare is Euro 80 and that I have given him four 10s. Not noticing that he has switched the Euro 50 I have given him for a Euro 10 note, I give him four more 10s and, for good measure, throw on a Euro 10 tip. Total cost for a taxi from Fiumicino to our hotel – Euro 130. Being able to write about it on a travel blog – priceless.