True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 1)

It was 03:45 am and my wife Juliet and I were pushing a 2005 Audi A4 wagon on the very busy SS16 from Monopoli back to our villa in Capitolo.  Cars filled with mostly drunken disco douche bags were streaming by at 150 kilometers per hour and we were making at best 10kmph into a headwind.

This was clearly a dangerous situation and we were in fact, out of gas and ¼ mile from safety.

The day had been scripted by the gods of decadence as we awoke far too early from our previous night’s excessive consumption, in order to catch a train to Lecce.

Me, my wife, and two American companions embarked on the 20 minute walk to the train station, having only 15 minutes to make the train.  One of my friends was celebrating her birthday and I was feeling the pressure of being the tour guide and responsible for this painful, hung-over half jog as the temperature was already at 90F by 8:45am.  I assured the team that we needed to double time it in order to catch the train, but I could not promise them air conditioning once we got on board.  Much to our happy surprise we made the train and the AC was cranking.  We were, as is often the case in Italia, the main attraction for the locals on their way for another day at the office.  The ladies who were heading down to babysit the bambini were all too amused to sit ears cocked to the sides to hear the not so dulcet tones of our American English.  A nun had taken up residence in the seats behind us and I am certain Rosaries were being said for the protection of the young and the infirmed from the interlopers of Treno 12571.

Hunger was beginning to get the best of the birthday quartet when we landed on the platform in Lecce.  A quick duck into the disgusting filth hole of a restroom revealed some friendly immigrant males making their way into the womens room much to the chagrin of the classy Italian gents in wife beaters and suspenders.  While no fight ensued, we were already dangerously low on hand sanitizer by the time we began to negotiate the sun drenched streets of the Florence of the south.  That term really makes me laugh.  I still even use it sometimes in our marketing materials, but make no mistake, Lecce is not Florence and thank God I say!  Florence is easily my least favorite major city in Europe and I am sure it was 2006 since the last time there has been an Italian sighting there.  I am fond of many things Tuscan, but Firenze is not my bag.  Florence has more pictures of menu items on restaurant walls than the Houston Hong Kong Market.  I come to Italy to meet, work with, argue with, and sometimes even eat with Italians.  In Florence I am rarely given the opportunity to do any of the above and while I am certain I will get a list of GFY and die emails from Florentine acolytes, I simply needed to state my case and now I can move on to really cool towns, like Lecce.

...to be continued

Top 25 Italy Moments – #12 The Wrong Train

My first experience in Florence was a solo Christmas shopping excursion in 1992. I took a train from Rome in the early morning on a Saturday in December while the rest of my classmates went to visit Tivoli Gardens near Rome (I have still never been to Tivoli).

I was wide-eyed and thrilled by the carnival atmosphere of the leather market in Florence. I knew nothing else about the city other than the David Statue (11 trips to Italy and I still have never seen it in person). So, my Florence was leather belts, wallets, silk ties, and a few other personal and family Christmas gifts. I do not think I even had my camera so I could carry all my bags of goodies home.

I think I ate a slice of pizza or something for lunch from a crappy vendor with pictures on the walls. Speaking no Italian was a big #fail on this initial journey to the boot. After lunch I took my treasures and headed back to the Santa Maria Novella train station.

An Italian train station like most in Europe is an open-air space connected by one covered building which houses all of the essentials of train service. The platform area is divided into tracks, binari in Italian. There is a good and usually accurate schedule of the departures and arrivals all over a large station like this one. (usually accurate)

According to the schedule the next train to Rome left from binario 8 and so I moved over to track 8. I was carrying a few bags of stuff as I did not have my backpack, like an idiot, as I tried to play it cool like the Italians. Nevertheless I got to track 8 and looked at the sign above with its rotating letters much like an old baseball scoreboard. The sign said 14:24 Roma Termini: my destination.

I had a Eurail pass which allowed me unlimited travel for the 2 months we took trains so I could pop on any train that did not require reservations. As per usual a regional train was sitting on track 8 when I arrived. Of course there is also a train number on that train and that number will correspond with the sign above. I did not notice the train number on this day, I simply boarded the train and found an empty seat in a room without a reservation tag on the outer glass. At this point, and after traveling all over Europe I really thought myself to be a train pro. I put my things on the rack above the seats and sat down with my journal to write about Florence.

3 more people joined me in the 6 person room on the train. 2 very chatty Italian grannies and a young military guy in a perfectly pressed blue overcoat and uniform. Of course I said nothing to them as I could not speak more than 10 words of Italian and within minutes we were on our way. I remember it being cool enough for a sweater but not at all cold. The Italian women were wearing what looked like Parkas and the military guy shed his overcoat as the room began to swelter.

After 20 minutes or so I did not recognize the landscape being the same as on the way into Florence. This was not surprising to me because I am terrible with recognizing landscapes. When the conductor came and checked our tickets I could see the young military guy's ticket read Firenze - Bologna. I just assumed that Bologna was a final destination because I did not know Bologna was the opposite direction of Rome. I was a real Italian geography moron.

After another 10 minutes the military guy spoke to me in English: good English. He asked me if I was American. I affirmed his question, and then he asked me the zinger. What was I planning to do in his hometown of Bologna? I laughed and told him I was going to Rome.

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="259"] The Typical Italian Train[/caption]

He told me, that the train did not go to Rome and that Rome was in the other direction from Florence. In that moment all of my confidence, my joy of Christmas, my impressions of Florence, and my hope went mercilessly out of the partially cracked window of the train car. I could not believe what had happened! The sign, the schedule, and even the big sign at the end of the platform had told me this was the train to Rome. We had left binario 8 on time so what the hell happened?

It turns out that the train to Bologna was late by 20+ minutes and that it was still on the track even though the automatic signs had switched to the next train: the train to Rome. The Rome train was sitting out somewhere on the track and it is very likely we passed it on our way out of the station. In effect, I was hosed and near panic. Why? Because I did not have the money to miss dinner back on Campus. I had spent pretty much my final lira on gifts and so not getting back to Rome by 7pm dinner would be bad.

The young military guy must have noticed the horror on my face and he told me that there would be a train to Rome every hour from Bologna. He then made a gesture to me that I would never forget.

The young man told me he was in the air force serving his military conscription. It was only then that I learned all Italian men had to serve a mandatory 2 years in the armed forces. He had been stationed in Sicily and was on his way home to see his mother for the first time in several months (I did not realize how big a deal that was at the time). He explained that his Mom had been cooking a feast since the day before preparing for his arrival. He suggested to me that I come home with him as his guest and dine with his family and return to Rome the next morning.

Like an absolute fool I politely declined, citing some lame reason I cannot begin to recall. Can you believe that The Blissful Adventurer turned down a s welcome-home meal from a Mom in Bologna, the fucking food capital of Italy? This is clearly and I am not kidding, one of the biggest and only regrets of my life. What a dim tool I was for turning down such an amazing cultural opportunity.

Of course the air force guy, likely no older than me, helped me hustle off the train, find the track, and get back on the correct train to Rome. He must have been so happy to be home, yet he still took time for me for no other reason other than culture and his desire to speak English. I made it home to campus as dinner had begun. I stuffed in my usual pasta and moon-rock but I could not help but think what they were eating in Bologna.

This was long before email and cell phones. I cannot remember my buddy's name nor did I write down his information. I am sure he is out in the professional world with a family and a wonderful life. I have spent most of my adult life returning to Italy and have experienced so much similar hospitality, and I promise I have never again said no when offered a home-cooked meal in Italy.

Yet, I have indeed gotten on the wrong train numerous times.

Snoring in Europe (Part 2)

This is part 2 of my existential piece on snoring in Europe and how it enlightened me on Friendship, duty, and following my passion. Keep in mind I was living in Tuscany at the time this was written. Some fine work by my colleagues Alfonso Cevola and Jeremy Parzen have brought the subject of DOCG wines from the Montecucco appellation in Tuscany to light this week, and as I was embarking on a job in this area at the time I penned this, I thought it an appropriate piece for the week.

I had a nice long talk with an old friend last night and was awakened to the possibility that the challenges I am facing in this endeavor overseas mirror in many ways the challenges I have tried my best to avoid for much of my life. I can shirk responsibility at times and justify my actions with a belief that I am better at other things. It became apparent to me while traveling this weekend(2006) with the legendary Billy Jack that it is most certainly important to know one's strengths, and it is equally important not to become dependent upon them to the point of not choosing to investigate those things which one is not so adept at accomplishing. While the existential argument could be raised that focusing on what one does well only makes one better and more accomplished, I tend to believe it will atrophy one's ability to see the world in the contexts of new ideas and new methods of expression.

The big question begged in all of this is; what is the difference between what is real and what is perceived? By whom and how are we judged on personal growth? By personal growth I mean, not only how we view ourselves, but how are we viewed? Where is the fine line drawn between living "our own lives" and detaching from reality and the community of man? These are the questions I am struggling with as I prepare my next trip this weekend on the Tuscan Coast and the Maremma district where the Italian cowboys live and the amazing Chianina beef is raised for the ultimate Bistecca all Fiorentina (IKG steak 2.2 pounds, grilled and roasted bone down on the flames). I am open as always to dialogue and certainly willing to engage in a more thorough pondering of my whimsical sojourn into the world of metaphysics. In the meantime, sit back, crack open something cheap and ferociously alcoholic and enjoy debauchery with Brunello di Montalcino, Billy Jack, and myself!

I picked up Billy Jack at his airport hotel in  Florence on June 1. As always, Billy was curious and playful, already loaded up with coffee that I am not so certain he ever realized was so superior to anything in the USA (at that time), that coffee drinking at home is almost like choosing to drink varnish, and at temperatures that scrape every possible taste bud from the surface of the tongue upon impact.

Many American coffee drinkers (like my Dad's friends) drink over a pot of coffee a day and leave the fecal remnants in the freshly brushed restroom of some everyone knows your name establishment, or the back corner bathroom of a cooler than need be office building, in a place one is happy to pour over the sports editorials while making  multi-flushed mockeries of morning  assuring the job security of janitors round the country.

Coffee in Italy is so superior to coffee in the US that every Starbucks employee should be given at least a month in Italy to train with the real deal. I always hear that Starbucks really takes care of its employees. Well, they need to take care of their clients as the coffee movement (pun absolutely intended) is really starting to kick into high gear and soon Starbucks could go the way of KMART.

Billy was all jazzed up, yet he had absolutely n0 interest in going  the tourist route.  No Uffizi, no Rome, no nothing where I could actually wander off on my own and leave him to be culturally enriched by someone way more qualified than I.  Nope!  Billy was here to ride, eat, drink, and deride all things where I was not up to his standards. I did find ways to enjoy myself immensely during Billy's visit and am very grateful for the chance to show around a close friend; however, it makes for a far better read to discuss how close to wit's end I remained throughout the course of the journey. My mental fatigue was due in large part to the fact that I was living 5000 miles from home, working in a language I was far from mastering, and was continually forced to drink copious amounts of really amazing wine, gorge down pounds of fat and carb-laden cuisine, while performing my duties as trip guide and bike riding buddy. I managed all of this in a vehicle and on bikes that belonged to my employer so I was 100% responsible for.  Nevertheless, Billy was there and I was damn well going to make it fun.

We started with a rain-soaked ride the wrong way out of Panzano towards Greve and we had to climb back up a monster hill to return to the hotel in Panzano (the very lovely Villa le Barone).  Due to my wrong turn Billy assumed the role of navigator for the duration of the trip. Of course, when Billy takes a job he takes it seriously, and from that point forward if I needed to return a key to the front desk, or drop a log in the European toilets (which I continue to loathe after all these years of using them), Billy had a route laid out and was on top of keeping me going in the right direction. To poor BJs credit, he was on vacation, had never been to Italy, and was the financial sponsor of the journey, so I can see why he had big expectations and in many ways I think he got to see some great stuff, and rode some amazing rides.

However, the story of the journey could have been considerably more fun had I not been exhausted.  While outwardly, I appeared tired and somewhat cranky during much of the trip. I attributed this tiredness to lack of sleep because of worry, lack of shape on the bike, and too much wine. While these hardships had some detrimental effect, it was definitely the the nighttime sounds of Billy Jack that left me sleep deprived and praying for death on several occasions. Since Billy was paying he chose to share a room with me and forgo any chance of scoring a hot Tuscan surprise.

Now, Claude had set the precedent, but our beloved Billy snored decibels that small screaming children on airplanes could only aspire to achieve. The sudden grunts from deep within Billy were like some ghost of the Cinghiale(wild boar) Billy had voraciously ingested that day which was desperately trying to free itself from Billy's wine soaked gullet. I was sad at times, and at times I found myself close to smothering poor Billy to death with the mountain of pillows he had built around him like a fortress of protection.  The snorts, the grunts, and other sounds of digestion left me close to clearing my paltry little bank account and setting up my own room in each hotel we stayed over the course of 5 days.

As the trip grew into the final stages it was clear I was going to snap. One afternoon while Billy napped I disappeared into the respite of Montalcino and had an ice cream and pondered the amazing quality of the local wines and how much I adored them. This moment of solace allowed me to put the trip into perspective.

Billy and I had some really great talks, as we always do.  We discovered many ways we are alike, and some ways perhaps we both wished we were different. One of my colleagues whom Billy met  thought Billy and I shared enough style similarity to be related. I think overall he is a lifetime overachiever and he will continue to be. As for me I will continue to be the best friend I can, and know in all truth that sharing a room can be one of the quickest ways even good friends can falter.

When our final morning arrived I left Billy to a cab driver in Florence where I hope he got some rest, some Vivoli gelato, and maybe even an elusive Bistecca alla Fiorentina. As for me I drove the next day to southern Tuscany and braved the land of Italian cowboys  who ate 4 course meals out on the range and were amazing horsemen even in pink shirts.

So, what is perception, what is reality, and according to Billy, what is earned? When one plays in the constructs of the world that are agreed to, I believe it is all about what one makes it. I am comforted in my journey of discovery; at least until someone tells me I shouldn't be, then it is back to the drawing board of the 4 Agreements and my chance once again to decide what I am going to let drive my life.

Snoring in Europe (Part 1)

God be with those who explore

In the cause of understanding:

Whose search takes them far

From what is familiar and comfortable

And leads them to danger or terrifying loneliness.

Let us try to understand their confronting or

Unusual language; the uncommon life of their emotions,

For they have been affected and shaped and changed

By their struggle at the frontiers of a wild darkness,

Just as we may be affected, shaped, and changed

By the insights they bring back to us

Bless them with strength and peace.

Amen

This week for me begins with a tale from 2006 and my first days leading for BACKROADS. The prayer from above has stayed with me and in my pocket since 2006 and it never fails to remind me of who I am and what I do. As many of you know, I actually led cycling trips one summer before I decided to start my own biz with Antonello.

I was training in the south of France when this story took place and it led to a subsequent snoring story with my good friend while cycling in Tuscany a month later.

Snoring is a disease, and certainly there are methods to curing the suffering, and certain sleep dysfunction caused by the insipid palsy that affects so many in the tremors of the deep night. Whilst in France I was confronted with 2 sleeping options as I moved my things into the Provence leader house near Carpentras.

 A. I move upstairs to a large room with 3 or 4 other people whom I did not know, and face the challenge of walking up a flight of stairs that forced me to continue ducking until I reached the upstairs landing. Keep in mind I had just gotten a concussion that week from not ducking far enough under a trailer door as I exited carrying a pile of bike gear. This was pushing my number of lifetime concussions closer and closer to Troy Aikman territory and I had even grazed my head on the low ceiling above the stairs just a couple of days prior while at a return to Europe party in the house.

OR

B. I move into a room with one other guy, a friendly Canadian fellow named Claude (Clode) who had been leading trips for several years. The choice seemed so apparent to me I quickly ushered my things into the room with this bundle of esoteric knowledge; Claude. The funny thing was;  I went in with my gleeful bags of bouillon cubes, chefs knife, and far too many clothes, while the others in the house were looking at me as if I had just chosen Sam Bowie over Michael Jordan in the 1985 NBA draft. To those in the know, Claude the gentle while awake, became Claude; destroyer of all things, when sleeping.

However, I was undaunted as I was not only going to avoid further head trauma, I was going to once and for all wean myself from the habit of being a light sleeper. No more was I going to be fazed by erratic night noises including faucets, crickets, and flatulent girlfriends. Nevermore was I going to be left awake and contemplative of nightly suicide because of bright clocks, partially open windows, alcohol induced tremors, nothing. This Claude guy was going to show me the way to a real respite, and the white whale of a full night's sleep would be mine at last.

Sadly, just as Ahab spit his last breath at Moby Dick, I too was left grasping at the frayed elastic of my boxers and battening down the hatches of blankets over my head to endure the rampant and unpredictable squalls of snores cast upon me by the now malicious and hateful Claude. By day, he was a resource for all things Backroads. He was the inspirational traveler to Vietnam (cheers Claude, I made it!). He told me of cheap accommodations in Saigon (where he was likely evicted  after each night his unsuspecting proprietors heard the thundering tsunami of snores). Claude brought hell with each breath, and on night 1 I felt as though I had been assailed by not only Claude, but some silent arriving interloper delivering a second death blow of unique sound interspersed with the initial insonorous launch.  How could anyone claim to be asleep and make this kind of noise?

Then it turns out, to my sad surprise, that Claude is one of the legendary snoring ventriloquists. While rare, they can be spotted at times playing hold'em with the Yeti at a Lockness casino. Claude, had mastered the art of delivering a deep inhaling snore, coupled with a migrant, pitch shifting, exhaling snore which bounced around the sonic register as to appear to be coming from all sides. I mean this guy was like BOSE technology on snoring.

Needless to say, my egocentric side forced me to ride out the wave and blame the subsequent next day eye-bags on too much vino and too late to bed.Yet I knew the truth was lying 5 feet away while my short-statured colleagues were resting easy in their upstairs cave of tranquility. I loathed them all and prayed for some relief on night 2 of the onslaught. After a Tet offensive-like barrage in the first 20 minutes of tossing and turning I finally rose to my feet, blanket in hand, and made my way to the couch in the living room, only to find a sleeping colleague had beaten me to the punch which sent me back to sleep apnea hell for the remainder of another long night. I was told in the morning that the sofa would be free should I venture that way again; and I did, every night  until the troll guarding me from crossing the bridge to sleep-town decided to spend the night away...on my last night in Provence.

Puglia in May

Ca' del Fico is available in May!

Since I have been involved in Puglia my dear friend Antonello's stunning villa (Ca' del Fico)in the hills outside of FASANO in Puglia has never been available in May. As my readers know I fell in love with this amazing property in 2006 when I set eyes upon its' acres of olive trees, orchards of figs, and view of the Adriatic. Now, my first year removed as owner of Southern Visions Travel, I am more enamored than ever by the region and by this stunning piece of property.

• 2 full bedrooms including one in an ancient restored trullo

• 1 completely remodeled bath

• Free Wi-Fi all over the property (still unheard of in Puglia)

• Gorgeous Pool overlooking the sea and the Figs

• Excellent and well-equipped kitchen for fabulous food preparation

• Access to amazing bicycles and bike routes*

• Available cooking classes with a seriously talented local chef*

• Full day trips to mozzarella making, pasta making, and really killer wineries*

This is really an Italy that is not on the beaten path and not along the tourist routes of the usual money-heavy assholes that turn and burn these kinds of properties. Ca' del Fico has soul and Antonello can even arrange local bands and DJs to turn your vacation into a nightclub filled with locals, homemade panzerotti, and massage therapists onsite*

Check out the website and mention my blog for up to 20% off the typical May rate. Antonello and I can assist you with air arrangements and it is very likely this would be the best vacation of your life. Puglia is what Italy is all about and the food alone is worth the airfare.

Tell you friends as the Villa can manage up to 5 (maybe even 6) guests with ease.

There is nothing like Puglia in May (Ca del Fico)

Cheers,

Michael

*At additional costs and please inquire