Copy of Italy Stories - The Patron of Caffe' Roma (Part 4)

I had no intention of continuing this story today; however, the overwhelming support of my fellow bloggers has pushed me to go forward. This will be the penultimate chapter. Cheers!

Mike looked down at the floor of the A5. He noticed little dirt or anything that would suggest the car had been parked at a country villa. He thought this woman must have slaves doing her bidding to keep the car this clean on the infamous white rock  roads of Puglia.

The windows were down and the car was streaming along the coast road to Savelletri. Mike was impressed at how little traffic there was along the sea.  For so many days now it seemed the stream of preening and bronzed revelers would not cease until there was a snowfall; but he knew better. Italians could care less about the actual weather, it was seasons that dictate the cycle of life here. It was now late August and the hordes were returning to Rome, Milan, and Turin, leaving the roads empty and the ditches filled with refuse.

Litter made Mike sick to his stomach and there was plenty along this stunning stretch of sand. Mike never failed to notice the absence of trash in the Italian north and could not understand why the monied came down here and take industrial-sized shits on this piece of paradise. Mike promised himself he would do his best to defecate on the steps of La Galleria Nazionale the next time he was in Milan; or better yet he thought, leave it in a PRADA bag along with a half-eaten BIG MAC.

The woman was concentrating mightily on the road, not noticing that Mike was once again wiping away blood from his knee. It was clear that the wound would heal and there would be a scar. Mike knew there would likely be more before the day was finished.

Woman - are we there yet?

Mike - noooot yeeet

Woman - why are we going to a Greek restaurant in Italy?

Mike - how long have you been here?

Woman - too long

Mike - well then, I am assuming if you see another bowl of pasta you might fall faint , so I am hooking you up here

Woman - hooking me up or we are hooking up?

Mike - you are so subtle so hard to read

Woman - ha...watch this!

The woman pressed hard on the accelerator of the A5. The engine took itself by surprise as the wheels began to tear at the asphalt. Mike grabbed the handle above the door and breathed in very deeply. It was difficult enough for Mike to be out of control and it was clear the woman loved it.

Mike - this is a pretty windy road

Woman - no it isn't, I can see miles ahead of me...are you blind?

Mike - no, I am scared!

Woman - you don't trust me?

Mike - do you?

Woman - do I what?

Mike - trust yourself?

The woman jammed on the brakes and the tell-tale chug of the ABS system brought the car to a sudden and undramatic halt.

Mike - middle of the road huh?

Woman - DRIVE!

Mike - OK

Mike got out and his knee as his knee nearly gave way he narrowly missed being hit by a passing scooter. The woman again laughed at Mike as she slid into the passenger seat.

Woman - my God this door handle is sweaty

Mike - can you blame me?

Woman - how is the knee?

Mike - well my left is worse than my right so this clutch is a bit of a challenge

Woman - I can drive

Mike - no you can't!

Woman - fuck you, you are just a pussy

Mike - I wish that was all I was

Woman - how much further?

Mike - you got somewhere to be?

Woman - why are you here? why do you know so much about this place? why did you pick this town?

Mike - it kind of picked me

Woman - direct answers are not really your bag huh?

Mike - I came here to spend time along the sea and relive something I continue to believe I can relive

Woman - in the meantime you just hustle tourists?

Mike - I am surely the one who gets hustled

Woman - what the hell is that? (looking at a very small vehicle just in front of the car)

Mike - That is an APE (ah-peh)

Woman - what the hell do you do with it?

Mike - it is the most common farm tool in Puglia

Woman - look at that little old man driving it, he is soooo cute. Let's pass him, I want to wave at him

Mike - sure thing

Mike waits for a group of about 7 cyclists to pass in the oncoming lane and gives the A5 a little gas as they pull up next to the faded blue three-wheeled cart. The bags of lime in the bed of the truck-like midget car are leaking a bit and strewing streams of chalk along the sea road. The chalk bounces and in the early afternoon light appears as the images of animals disappearing from a magicians magic hat. The woman is fixated on the driver of the APE.

Woman - ciao buen señor ¿cómo estás hoy

Mike - Spanish again?

Woman - all I got

Mike - ciao signore come va? che bella giornata!

The Old Man - Sanda Tarèse pagò pe' ssènde é jji sèndeche nudde

Woman - What did he say?

Mike - (pressing on the gas and blowing by the Ape) - essentially, you need to shut the fuck up because you have nothing to say!

Woman - ahhh

Mike - sweet, we are here

They pull onto a white rock road and dust flies in all directions. The whitewashed building like all the others along the sea was trimmed in blue and looked much like a cafe in Santorini. In classic and cheesy Greek-style lettering was a sign that said SANTOS

Mike - the calamari here is unreal

Woman - maybe they could scrape some off of your knee if they run low...I mean are they going to let you in here bleeding

Mike - I probably won't be the only bloody person here

Woman - is this a restaurant or triage?

Mike - after the amount of food we are going to eat it might be both

Woman - OH MY GOD! Look at the ocean

Mike - it's a sea

Woman - its fucking water your pedantic motherfucker!

Mike - calma, Madonna!

Woman - do not speak French to me

Mike - does it make you wet?

Woman - yuck, you are such a silly little man

Mike - I do my best

The server came over after at least 5 full minutes of standing at the counter and staring intermittently at the sea and his phone. He was a young man of less than 30 years, air-brushed perfect skin, dark eyes, and sun-bleached brown hair. This was the kind of guy who preferred to spend 16-20 hours a day in a Speedo, and he could. He was in no hurry and there was not a single other person in the restaurant. The server took their order and brought over two icy Mythos beers before disappearing out the back door while pulling his smokes from some impossibly tight space between his shirt and the golden skin of his chest.

Woman - if this place is so good, why is it empty?

Mike - it's too early

Woman - Its 1:20 in the afternoon

Mike - yeah, lunch really gets' going about 1:55

Woman - so precisely?

Mike - yeah, it is really 2, but the early bird Italians get here at 1:55 to grab the seats they like while the slackers from the beach get here about 2:01 and always have this look of surprise on their face that so many people would be here. You would think that after, I don't know, 8 or 9 generations of people with the same looks on their faces that more than a handful might start to be early.

Woman - then there would be no dance

Mike - wow, you catch on quickly. Day to-day life for someone who makes $1000 a month must be more exciting than the money can buy. Drama is a 12 hour matinée called daylight and these people embrace it so perfectly

Woman - it would make me crazy

Mike - you say that, but hang out here long enough and the joy of fighting over the price of a toilet brush or other such banality becomes therapeutic. The rituals of making things difficult here that we find so easy to accomplish at home fills the days. I call it the principle of 4 things

Woman - this I gotta hear

Mike - in essence, a productive day in southern Italy is about accomplishing 4 things.

Woman - eat, smoke, fuck, and argue?

Mike - you must have Italian blood in you.

Woman - I have no idea, I am adopted

Mike - oh yeah?

Woman - I have never really wanted to know my birth parents. I always figured, fuck them for leaving me on a doorstep

Mike - they really did that?

Woman - yes, and I floated down the Nile like Moses...no dumbass it was a figure of speech

Mike - typically I don't let people call me names

Woman - but today you will let me do or say anything I want... because I have the car... and the vagina

Mike - check please!

...to be continued

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 6)

Here is part 6 of the day the disco broke down

After Da Matteo our Italian friends, Puglia Boy and Chef Girl, called it a night and even though we urged them to join our American beach-bound birthday bash the Italiani simply were not having it and I believe they just wanted a quiet evening alone. As we sat on our porch enjoying a bottle of wine (or several) we could hear the discos in the background revving up into the foreground and we were getting noticeably excited.

Puglia Boy explained that we need simply drive down the road and choose which club looked interesting. We all jumped in the Audi with the orange glow of the low fuel light glaring in my face. I took the driver's seat and as always questioned why Puglia Boy made a habit out of keeping the car so near to empty. On many occasions I have jumped in the car on my way to a time sensitive meeting or errand and the distance to empty meter on the trip computer indicated I had less than Zero km till empty.

Now, I have also seen my buddy drive the car across town and back on 0km more than a few times so I knew this indicator to be more Russian roulette-like than a forgone conclusion the car would cease to operate prior to making a fuel stop. I also been in the car numerous times and in fact just a few weeks later again when Puglia Boy pulls into a fuel stop with the car on "E" and I see him simply add 5, 10, or 20 Euro of fuel to the tank.

This is baffling to me. 10 euro of fuel is about 1.5-2 gallons which means that the whole 0km till empty dance will begin again in just a day or two. Now, as I am apt to do, I begin to adopt the same habits of those I am around and as I glanced at the glowing orange 0km till empty I knew somehow that if I went for fuel now rather than proceeding directly to the disco I would  be killing our very adventurous buzz.

In truth, I was actually pretty damned tired at this point (now well after midnight) and I knew if I stopped for fuel I might simply call it a night and I had 3 very excited passengers ready to get their disco birthday groove on, and I could not let them down. In fact, I wanted to just chill on the porch with PB and CG this night and relax to myself, but duty called and I could not let this birthday party come to an end without making every effort to lead our intrepid revelers once more unto the breech. So, on vapors both physically and mentally I drove us forward along the beach road, windows down, wine buzzes at their peaks, and everyone looking gorgeous.

Of course, the discos are all hidden by the treeline and only small nondescript signs indicate whether a club or a pay beach lay on the other side of the trees. As we made one pass along the beach road almost to the next town of Savelletri we knew we had seen all the choices and had to turn the car around and head back this time preparing to select. Keep in mind the orange indicator light was now glowing brighter in my mind's eye and I was actually concerned the next chamber held the big "E" bullet. As we were making our way back we saw the dimly lit parking lot on the left and folks making their way into the grove of trees across the road on our right. We knew we had found a place. I pulled into the parking lot and was waved along by a buff flag-man who was somehow smoking a cigarette, waving a flag, and talking on his cell phone all while wearing a little orange vest and no shirt.  We pulled into a spot that was about 15% smaller than a space in Texas that would be labeled Compact Car Only and we proceeded across the street to the club.

Doormen must have a particular genetic code that makes them doormen, because at any club worldwide the doorman, bouncer, ID guy, or fashion assessor has the same look, same stare, and same response. If you are a guy, solo, and without proper cash or cache you are likely denied, but with 2 beautiful girls, the chains are lifted and the entrance fees are forgotten (at least so we thought). Now, I had heard for years about the price gouging for drinks at clubs in Italy and most of Europe and the myths proved to be reality. In my experience with Italy, the Italian is not often a big drinker of alcohol as inebriation can lead to making an ass of oneself which is a high crime in the appearance is everything world of southern Italy, so it is not uncommon to see Italians have Coke, Fanta, OJ, or some other sugar-laden concoction deep into the night. The beach disco has taken all of this into careful consideration and charges no less than 8 euro for a non-alcoholic drink and 10 euro for any sort of call drink. Now, call me crazy, but if I can get a drink with a premium liquor like real Cuban Havana Club rum for 10 euro or a Coke for 8, I am drinking the booze on principle alone. Of course, this was a birthday bash and we needed bubbles so Lobster-Head (still pink but numb from wine) ordered a bottle of prosecco from the barman. This bottle would have been about 9 euro in the store, but was a cool 50 spot at the disco.

This particular club was a series of ground level decking laid out like sidewalks through the sand with little seating areas covered in white sheer fabrics along the sides and nestled into the small dunes.  Basically, it was impossible to avoid getting sand on you and in your shoes so we just accepted it and rocked on in our flip-flaps as the Italiani call them. There were little thatched seating areas all about with semi-damp cushions and sheer fabrics blowing in the breeze and waving in time to the thump thump of the euro-dance in the foreground. I was well into my troppo caro prosecco when the next idiosyncrasy of the Italian disco dawned on me. I looked up at the stage and noticed the DJ was surrounded by preening dudes. I did a double-take and noticed that unlike a club in America where the stage and the DJ would be surrounded by scantily-clad and very attractive women, the Italian beach disco was laden with guys each vying for their turn to dance at the front of the stage. I carefully looked about to make certain we were not at a gay club and in a moments' notice I was sure this was a well mixed crowd and it became apparent that the stage rush was just another classic Italian mating ritual. There were more gel-haired peacocks on that stage than grains of sand in my shoes, clothes, and ass (I made the mistake of sitting for a minute). Then I noticed that there was a guy with a microphone and he was "assisting" the DJ by riling up the crowd with pleas and dance maneuvers designed to keep the crowd in time, but he was really just being a total tool and listening to himself ramble. It was at this moment that for some reason (couldn't have been alcohol, exhaustion, or too much responsibility) I decided I wanted to leave and got into a bit of a tiff with my wife. Birthday girl and lobster-boy were in their own planet and I took a walk to the front and sat again on a muggy seat-cushion and ogled a few sparsely clothed girls who were a color of bronze not seen since the discovery of Pompeii. Holy shit where was I?  Of course, within minutes I was lonely, vexed, and in need of  a Mojito so I found my crew ordered the next round of 10 euro drinks and realized at this point I had dropped about 80 euro on booze, which  more than curbed any joy I received in the free entry.

This was the point that I learned that entry to the club was free, but the exit was not. When I spent my 80th euro I was given a small token that satisfied the drink minimum for myself and my wife. This was an all important token because basically if you do not present it at the door on your way out, you either pay 40 euro per person or are summarily pummeled into the ground by the doormen, the parking attendants, the bartenders, and the passing barboni.  Needless to say I kept my token close to my heart while attempting to upstage the peacocks with some vintage '89 dance moves that were all the rage for the Bizarre Love Triangle crowd. You better believe my 1.97 meter 105 kilo frame was stirring up some fucking sand on this night. The space around our dancing crew looked like the entrance of the classic Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil and I liked it this way. The 4 birthday revelers were owning the beach disco (at least in our heads) and no one was going to stop us; except the music was getting bad, the air was getting cool, and the day had just been too long.  We collected ourselves, our tokens, a couple of yards of sand and headed for the exit.

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

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 5)

Here is part 5 of the day the disco broke down :-)

Now, the disco in Puglia is not your father's club scene. This is Italy first and foremost, and we actually were living in a small villa at the epicenter of the summer disco onslaught; the beach town of Capitolo. Say this name to any Italian aged 19-31 and they immediately begin to groove in time with the music in their immediate memories, they will begin to drift in and out through the recollections of 3am make-out sessions on the beach, and will only snap back to reality with a vocal or physical jab!

Most folks out there have heard of the decadence in Rimini further north on the Adriatic, but Capitolo is no slouch with clubs alternating with pay beaches along 7km of coastline and cranking up the local decibel and traffic levels on par with an evacuation from Beirut. Our offices are in Monopoli and we were living in a villa in Capitolo and knew if we did not want to face traffic for upwards of 1-2 hours to drive 7km we had to be home from town by 9pm on Thursday-Saturday nights this summer. Not only do the clubs get packed with revelers during this season, but as is often the case in Italy during times of celebration or youthful exuberance the kids head for the streets on scooters, cars, heavy machinery, bikes, little red wagons, and of course loud, fast, motorcycles.

The motorcycle is the ultimate form of show in Italy as the opportunity to see and be seen at great speeds and with great pomp is unmatched. If you want to be king of the beach, roll into town in your box cut swimwear, shirtless with an unbelievable bronze tan (must be seen to be appreciated) on the back of your Ducati or Moto Guzzi with your helmet securely fastened to the back of the bike to show your appreciation for safety, and ride very slowly stopping to shout at a fellow bronze statue with sculpted abs that only Michelangelo could recreate or a muffin-topped ragazza with breast sizes admired and emulated by the world's best surgeons.  You can then make a few short gestures before accelerating and narrowly, but deftly avoiding a family of 5 as you jet back to work at the Bar 20 minutes late from your oh too short 3 hour lunch in order to make coffee for the old people who have come in from the beach bejeweled, sweaty, and in need of caffeine.

Once the Beach King finishes the next few hours of "dedicated" labor he rides home at breakneck pace in order to eat something very likely spectacular that Mamma has prepared and then it is off to the quiet solitude of the bathroom for the next hour to hour and a half to make the transformation from king of the beach to king of the club.

The Italian male is indeed king of the disco and in many ways I love this. In America, dancing is widely considered to be a feminine act and only in the presence of females are males perceived to have permission to dance. In essence, if you are a guy in America and hit the floor with other guys or without the required number of females present you could very likely be considered gay or perhaps a tool. Many closet dancers in America know the great secret that gay clubs are a safe haven to be free to express oneself on the dance floor without the scorn of friends or vacuous women.

The Italian disco kings do not possess our American hangups and dancing is widely considered to be celebratory and one of the principal reasons to attend a disco in the first place. Italian men are constantly seen dancing alone, with groups of friends, and also of course with women. However, you rarely see an Italian wallflower just standing in the corner making no effort to be cool while actually making every effort to be cool with only clothing, small gestures, and furtive glances.

The American disco king is a total punk, while the Italian disco king is very likely a dancing fool and this was precisely the reason we all wanted to celebrate this important birthday on a beach in Italy with the kings of groove without any fear that our desire to shake it would be misunderstood.

A typical Italian Disco Crew

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 4)

Dear Readers I am posting from the plane over the Atlantic :-) Here is part 4 of the day the disco broke down

Exhausted, nauseated, and suffering from a sudden case of cat shat fever our group of weary birthday revelers had made it to and from Lecce, eaten like queens, and now roamed the industrial back-streets of Monopoli in a scorching summer sun in order to return home to prepare for one of Puglia's, if not Italy's, greatest dinners (and values) at the gem of Triggianello: Braceria da Matteo.

Puglia is home to a great dining institution called Il Fornello, which is basically a butcher shop where you select your cuts of meat and they actually grill your selection for you while you wait or more commonly these days, you actually sit and enjoy the meat at very spartan tables along with some simple sides and very pedestrian local wines. The Braceria da Matteo in the bustling hamlet of Triggianello (population approx.200) takes the fornello concept to new heights and I will offer a detailed full review of the experience in a future blog as we will never make it to the disco breakdown if I start going on and on about one of my favorite dining experiences on the planet.

After some quality time in the shower while the office cat relaxed in the bidet, I was getting closer to ready for dinner. We all climbed in the trusty van and zoomed along the ridge-line towards Conversano from Monopoli which is a stunning drive featuring rolling elevation changes, ancient olive trees, nearly abandoned dwellings that appear to have simply emerged from the limestone, and sweeping vistas that indicate just how special the rustic beauty of this landscape can be if you simply go 10 minutes from the city centers. We arrived in Triggianello and as usual we were greeted by small groups of locals sitting in front of pale yellow and orange 19th century homes relaxing in lawn chairs and gossiping incessantly staring at our van and group of travelers like we were Cortes landing for the first time on the shores of the Yucatan. Within a few seconds we rounded one last blind corner and before our wandering eyes did appear, the bright lights of Da Matteo and their kegs of artisan beer. Triggianello basically has one square and old Matteo (an awesome Italian dude with an equally cool family) owns the Pizzeria and the Braceria both bearing the da Matteo moniker. We parked the van (in front of someone's house I am sure) and walked slowly, being drawn by the glow of the outdoor facing jewelry case of meat as if it was the Eye of Sauron. We all knew this birthday party was about to get right in a hurry.

Dinner was simply gorgeous and although I ate much less than my normal intake at Da Matteo due to lingering Lecce fatigue, I still did my best to recharge for the coming disco experience with a couple of pints of great beer (Italy has really jumped on the craft brew bandwagon and you know when it comes to food or wine, the Italians never take it lightly and they are crafting some killer stuff) some unbelievable carpaccio, and the best grilled meats this side of Brazil.