Postcards From Across the Pond

Italy is someplace I never thought I’d go, which seems strange. It’s close enough, and certainly famous enough (you’ve heard of Italy, right: Romans, Vatican City, lots of really old stuff), and that was most likely the problem. We thought cities on the Italian tourist trail might be a bit too crowded for our liking, and this was confirmed recently when some of them—Venice in particular—began telling tourists to “Stay away!”

So, we did.

But then Clive Myrie did a special on Southern Italy, where tourists don’t habitually go, and where the local economy could benefit from some tourist dollars. It looked nice, accessible, and welcoming, and so, we went.

Now, before I get into the good-natured ribbing (which sounds better than petty carping) allow me to emphasize that Italy was wonderful. The weather was perfect, the food plentiful and appealing, the accommodation salubrious (more on that in a bit), the scenery fabulous, and the people, without exception, were warm, welcoming, and had a better grasp of the English language than I do of Italian.

But first, the hotel:

A lovely place, right on the shoreline, with a generous, private pool, spa, and lounging area yards from the private beach. Four stars, the sign in front proudly proclaimed, and it was true. We paid a premium to get a room with a sea view, even though the hotel faced the Adriatic Sea, meaning you’d be hard pressed to find a room that didn’t have a sea view. But never mind.

_{View from our balcony–worth the price}

The room was not only small, it was poorly laid out, making it hard to get around. The towels were thin, the toilet paper was two-star, and there was no soft-close lid on the toilet. (How did we survive this long without soft-close toilet lids?) There was, however, a bidet, so swings and roundabouts.

Oooh, listen to me, crying because they spilled champagne on my cake.

So, yeah, it was nice, and the view was spectacular, whatever I paid for it.

One weird thing about the hotel that does merit mentioning, however, is the elevator: it’s a 160-room, luxury hotel, purpose built, yet it has one, just one (yes, one) phonebooth-sized elevator. We ended up in it one time with another couple—without luggage—and it was close quarters. The sign on the wall said it held five people, or two Americans. (I might have made that last part up.)

The hotel was half-board, so we had breakfast and dinner in their expansive dining room and, as mentioned above, the food was plentiful and appealing, even if their methodology was a little odd.

_{They may be gagging for tourists, but keep in mind that the photos I’m posting that look like this …}

Our tour group sat together, which is typical. However, we were seated at tables for two, and they were assigned seats, meaning we could not mingle and get to know our fellow travellers. And this group numbered 45—the most, by far, of any tour we have been on—so getting to know people took a lot longer than usual.

Breakfast was a buffet, featuring prosciutto, nuts, and just about everything in between. I blame the weight I gained during this holiday on the breakfast buffet because one of the “everything in between” items was chocolate cake. I didn’t want to eat chocolate cake for breakfast, but it was on offer. What was I supposed to do?

Dinner was typically Italian. There was a salad buffet with everything you could imagine (but no chocolate cake), then they brought out meal number one. After that, my wife and I were ready to go up to our room and read while watching the surf from our balcony but, instead, we were served meal number two, along with a side-dish, followed by dessert.

Fortunately, our room was on the top floor and, with the elevator being what it was, we opted to walk, meaning we trudged up and down 114 steps several times every day. I am convinced this is what kept us from having to pay an overweight penalty for our return flight.

We also did a lot of walking up and down stairs on the daily outings which, thanks to the Weather Gods, were always accompanied by perfect weather.

_{Matera, a labyrinthine hill town and ancient houses and even more ancient cave dwellings — some scenes from No Time to Die were filmed here}

We had originally thought the Weather Gods were through with us. After unexpectedly (and inexplicably) stunning weather in Shetland, Orkney, and the Outer Hebrides, we anticipated our luck running out, especially when the local weather forecast was for thunderstorms every single day that we were there. When we arrived, however, the weather was fine, and our tour guide told us the storms had shifted and we were now due for a day or two of sunshine. That turned into several days, and then the entire week. In fact, it didn’t start to rain until we took the bus back to the airport.

_{The Weather Gods always smiled on us, but one time they played a practical joke: we stopped for a photo op and, as soon as we got back on the bus, the heavens opened, but by the time we got to the next photo op (the world’s oldest tree, or something) the rain had stopped and we got a rainbow as an apology}

The weather, apparently, swapped places with Sussex, as that had been forecast to be warm and sunny all week but instead ended up drenched, dreary, and flooded. Sorry about that, all you folks in Southern Britain, the Weather Gods seemed to have favoured us; you’ll need to get your own.

The scenery was spectacular, and the towns were so quaint and quintessentially Italian that I felt like I was in one of those WW2 movies, sitting on a tank trundling down a narrow village street while signorine call from the balconies or run along side the tank, throwing posies and kissing any soldier they could get their hands on …

Sorry, I drifted off there for a moment. Trust me, it was nice.

_{We visited Monopoli, where they invented that game (not really) and then went on to Polignano a Mare – where the houses perch precariously on a cliff edge}

_{Although most of the tourist spots look like this, you only have to walk a block or two off the beaten track to find yourself virtually alone}

_{Two streets away, listening to our footsteps echo in the silence}

_{In Lecce they had a Roman amphitheatre …}

_{If you look carefully at the open door, you’ll see that toilet does not have a seat–none of them did, and most had no toilet paper
Consider yourself warned}

_{Alberobello, home to a large concentration of Trulli houses, offers an iconic view, but this was all I could see …}

_{… fortunately, ceramic representations of the iconic view were available in the gift shop}

_{In Martina Franca, my wife looks to see what is Behind the Green Door}

_{Turns out, it’s just some centuries old frescos}

_{Another quintessential street scene — hey, where are the signorine?}

On the final day, we went to visit the caves at Castellana, which were beautiful.

The guides helpfully told us we could not take photos, and I do like it when they do that. It means the pressure to capture an image I am going to do nothing with (along with the other 875 I have captured) is removed, and I can simply enjoy the moment. It also means we won’t be held up while 79 shutter-bug wannabees shuffle for the perfect angle.

What the guides did for entertainment was highlight the formations in the massive caverns and tell us what they supposedly looked like.

The resemblances were tenuous at best, and it seemed to me they must have had one of their friends smoke a doobie before sending him around the cave circuit with one of the guides scurrying after him, jotting his ramblings in a notebook:

“Wow man! That looks like a camel. And there’s an owl over there. Oh man, is that a wolf? And what’s that? Bacon! oooh, bacon …”

But at least it kept us entertained.