True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 2)

Welcome followers of Bliss. This is a multi-part series as a test pilot for my upcoming book on Italy travel and life in the boot. I thought this an appropriate final series before our departure to Italy on Monday; where we will be researching the rest of the book. Enjoy!

“Meglio non avere una storia che averne una noiosa.”

Better to have no story than to have a boring one – From the label of a bottle of Castello, a Friulian beer

As our blood sugars depleted while we meandered the fleeting shade of Lecce’s not so grand avenues near the station, I knew I could count on a secret weapon to get this birthday celebration started properly and assuage the demise of our collective spirits. My weapon of choice was; the Pasticiotto! This absolutely compelling oval of shortbread filled with pastry cream is essential to any nutritious Leccese breakfast and I was certain that each participant in this day of honor would be well served by ingesting one of these bad boys and washing it down with some of the killer locally roasted Quarta Caffe.

We sat down at the famous Avino Caffe looking out over the expanse of Piazza Sant’Oronzo (one of the largest Piazzas in Southern Italy) with the ancient 2nd century Roman amphitheater to our left and the latest billboard-sized fashion ad to our right, I felt immediately at home and at the same time had that all too familiar inquisitive feeling of: how did the object on my left lead to the object on my right?

The temperature was now starting to climb quickly and as we crushed down our pastries followed by a béchamel bomb called a Rustico and we were off and running to get our Baroque on!

Of course we polished off 1.5 liters of water in the first hour of walking and Juliet and I hammered down a second Quarta Caffe as we proceeded to attack each sight in Lecce with renewed vigor all the while ducking the sun and staying close to the shadows cast by buildings, ancient walls, gelaterie, and very large tourists.

At one point, in the famous Piazza Duomo, which had been recently uncovered from restoration, we had less than 30 square meters of shade and the remaining ocean of a piazza was bathed in Sahara-like sun. We had no choice but to run for cover! Cameras, water bottles, and books all trailed behind us as we fled to avoid scorching our non-Pugliese hides.

The rewards of shade on this day kept the hangovers at bay and after about 2 full hours of this dance our appetites began to return and the real reason for today’s excursion, the truth behind the early morning jog, the noisy nosy train ride, and the satanic sunshine was close at hand. It was now that the real promise of today could finally be realized. We were on our way to one of the culinary gems of Southern Italy, Ristorante Alle due Corti.

As we rounded the corner to the restaurant with our faces shaded from the violent sun and road crews ripping through 8 inches of concrete and cobblestone I was afraid my hopes of feeding this birthday bunch would soon be dashed on the rocks like my beloved polpo alla griglia (olive wood grilled octopus made from fresh 8-leggers that have been bludgeoned upon the rocks to be tenderized after being caught).

Nevertheless, as the dust was beginning to blur the map on the iPhone we saw the cheesy rose embossed sign of the world's first restaurant with a Unesco Heritage cook. That's right, the Mamma making the goods in this joint is certified legit' and her food is a joyous ride over comfort and satisfaction.

Inside, the AC was just at that 75 degree level that creates boat loads of sweat on hot bodies, and the two guys in this group were hot with temperature and in need of a sink. My wife quickly reminded me that I knocked the holy hell out of my head the last time I was here on the 6'2" entrance to the restroom and so keeping my 9th concussion in mind I ducked into the restroom for a wash and a glance down at the toilet I should have needed after 2 coffees and 2 waters, but didn't , as I was already at negative hydration long before I reached the charmingly short little pee room.

I managed to keep my head from being severed as I strolled refreshed from the bagno and gazed about at the standard-issue wood tables with Grandma's antiques on the wall. The Italian restaurant is not often a bastion of feng shui and this place was no exception. Tables are all close together to make for better eavesdropping and to allow two servers to manage more guests than 5 waiters would in the states.

Ahh, the Italian salaried server, only as busy as he has to be and rarely as nice as he could be. I am not a fan of Italian restaurant service and I know many Italians who aren't either. If you are an employer keep this in mind; incentive is the mother of good service.

Give me a 38 hour work week, a low salary, a pension, 4 weeks of holiday, and at least 2 days off every week while throwing a bunch of ding- dongs who rarely speak my language at me, and I would very likely not give a shit either about being friendly, attentive, suggestive of specials, and especially about turning tables.

In fact, I would hope that guests would really need the minimum of interaction and then leave me the hell alone as they camp out all night at their tables such time as I needed them to get the hell out so I could close down the dungeon, pop a Red Bull, then light a camel as I put on my scarf climb on my Vespa and putter off to the disco hoping to drown my day-to-day misery with techno and some ice-cold Coca-Cola. I swear there must be heroin in the Coke over here because they love to drink Coke any time day or night.

You would think from my bantering here that I was not happy to have been there, but in fact I was completely jazzed as I was about to fully get medieval with a plate of breaded and ever so perfectly fried hunks of vegetables. Green beans, peppers, mushrooms, carrots, zucchini, and even some artichoke on occasion are all fried beautifully here at the  Due Corti....(to be continued)

Top 25 Italy Moments - #13 Why I Was a Lousy Tour Guide

In 2006 I became a cycling guide in Italy. I wasn't much of a cyclist and at the same time I was certain my passion for Italy and knowledge would be more than enough to lead clients through the region and give them a great experience.

After all, I basically served in this role in 1995 on my University campus and again in 2002 leading two friends on two occasions through Rome and Tuscany. I passed the Italian language test in order to work in Italy and so I assumed my language was at least "good enough".

I quickly realized my language was not nearly enough and on my first week off in Italy I went to language school. I loved being in school and staying in the stunning Sicilian town of Taormina. I loved being there so much I really hated that I had to actually go to work the following week. I was fortunate enough to be able to shadow my first trip in Sicily and watch 2 professional and talented guides do a job I knew, even at the time, I would not be able to do.

Within the first few days of my guiding it was apparent to me that I lacked a very particular skill for being a guide in a foreign country: nurturing. My colleagues, mostly female, were so naturally adept at putting the client first, even to the guides' obvious discomfort and frustration. I was amazed by the energy and stamina these women possessed, and I knew I was in trouble.

Why? Because I was in Italy! Italy was my place, my home for discovery, my soul-seeking enterprise and no client, no boss, and certainly no language barrier was going to get in the way of MY journey. I was in Italy, someone was paying me (very sparsely) to be there and I would be damned if anything was going to hinder my pilgrimage of self discovery. Of course this is hindsight. At the time I was a nervous wreck. Was I saying the right things, would I be on time? My head hurt so badly from dehydration, I was so tired, so tense, and without experience to show me when it would ease.

The very talented guides I worked with seemed to have limitless energy and almost a macho need to test their mental and physical capacities. If two talented guides worked side by side for the first time it was easy to see that they naturally competed to see who was the bigger martyr. Sacrifice was indeed the game, and I had no compunction to join nor any concept of the rules. From who swept the floor the most to who took out more trash, loaded more bikes, cleaned more dishes, read and wrote more notes; this was about the JOB.

Now, please know that I respect these talented folks enormously and this was the first job in my life where I faced the stark reality that on my best day I would NEVER and I mean that, be as good as most of these talented people. The problem was: I didn't want to be. I wanted something else. I wanted a menial job so that I could be there and learning, experiencing Italy. I simply needed to survive and for the first time in my life I did not feel the burn to excel.

Sure, I gave a few wine seminars while I was there and I cooked some outstanding food for the group. I loved doing these things because it was the only time in my whole experience that my colleagues saw that I was more than a useless sack. I was so slow at loading bikes, terrible with knots, nearly sub-human with verbal directions (always have been), and not even proficient with the language. I was working uphill all the time and so when clients needed me, I was not 100% present.

I remain guilty to this day and damned near regretful about my intolerance of clients. Yet, I should be grateful. Because it was the client that showed me I was not in the right place. I was most definitely in the right country, just at the wrong time doing the wrong thing.

This was most clear one bright morning in the Maremma district of Tuscany. There were always 2 guides on a bike trip. One guide would cycle while the other would drive the support van. On this particular day I was the cyclist; my favorite job in the world because I had 1 clear task, to manage the riders and chat with them.

We had taken a short break mid-morning after riding through the tufa rock town of Sovana. Some of the faster riders had gone out ahead and now I was about to join the main group of riders for the remainder of the journey. I was already very tired as the hills were intense and steep in this region and I had been forced to double back on a couple of occasions to encourage timid riders to get down the hills. As we all were exiting an excellent coffee shop in town I heard a guest say loudly to another guest "my God I really miss my Starbucks!" I was devastated. You can miss cheeseburgers, fast flushing toilets, self-serve gas, and drive thru food while you are in Italy. You are allowed to miss wide roads, big parking lots, and reality TV if you are inclined. However, when you are in Italy, you cannot be forlorn for motherfucking Starbucks. You are in the land of coffee pressed through the clouds of heaven and laid in your cup by Maestros descended from the Renaissance. I could only think to say vaffanculo! So I knew I had to go.

I told the group that I was going to go out ahead and catch the lead riders and I would meet them in a few at the next town. I waved goodbye as I put my map in my pocket and went down the nearest road that would lead me as far from anyone in the group as possible. I rode alone for 1 and a half hours in the beautiful iron-rich hills of the Maremma. I thought about my future and my past. I knew this was not what I wanted to do. I had just left a very interesting job as a wine cellar manager and consultant to come here. I had broken up with a girl to come to Italy and finally live my life here. Yet, that was not the expectation of the company where I toiled. They had no interest in my romantic notions or my arguments to let me create wine-based trips in Italy. I knew I was in the wrong place and so did the company.

At the end of that trip I was told of my very discouraging client ratings regarding my performance. I was not shocked, and at the same time I was crushed. I had just spent the previous 10 years of my life making customers happy with my work. I had made life-long friendships with many of my clients and so the idea of being disliked and in some cases, despised, was more than I could handle.

The company offered me another chance (albeit one set on a collision course with failure) to right the ship. Instead, I informed them I had seen the writing on the wall and asked would it be possible to help in another way as I was not going to succeed as a guide? The company seemed surprised and at the same time obliged and sent me on a great trek across France and Ireland to deliver a van and bikes. It was my greatest 10 days on that trip to Europe. Sadly at the end my money was stolen (see the story here) on my return from Ireland to Italy. I left Europe in 2006 with my tail between my legs. I was a beaten man who had failed miserably at something where I thought I would excel.

I knew I had done a poor job and it would take me several years and even another attempt in the travel business to know why. I am now on a path the resembles very much my lone ride through the hills of Tuscany. I am free to see what I see and to tell of its greatness and wonder. Working for the company in Italy taught me much more about who I am not, as it appears I already knew who I was.

Why am I here?

I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.

Joseph Campbell

That particular question has driven me to write, travel, read, and think since I was old enough to remember doing any of those things. It is now once again the question that is ringing most loudly in the storm of my thoughts. Why am I here? Why am I in Colorado? Why do I want to write? It seems with writing, it is not about want, but some inner drive to create, to see things manifest from the immaterial of my memories and the images that come from absolutely left field in my head. I have done this kind of creation with directing and acting in the theater, firework shows, stand-up comedy, and of course storytelling both written and oral. I love an audience! I am pretty sure I am better at anything I do well with an audience.

Give me a nice meal to cook for 2 and it can be solid and quite good. Give me 4 dinner guests and that dinner will sing with compounding vigor. I hate being part of a crowd, but I love to be in front of one. I am not waiting in line to see, do, or eat anything unless the line is short and moving with alacrity; however, I would happily sit patiently while people wait in line to see me put on a show. I need an audience and I feel more fully myself when I have one.

Well Michael, how does writing fulfill this need of yours, you ask? You see, for me this blog is spiritual, my connection with God and the hero path the universe has shown me. Writing feels the same as designing the soundtrack for a fireworks show. The writing is the groundwork for a greater production of Michael David Housewright while the soundtrack to a pyro show is the melody and the explosions are the harmonies. If I write something interesting and people enjoy it, they will want more of it and therefore, more of me.

Travel, dining out, cooking, and encounters with crazies while working in a liquor store are all ammunition for the assault of the Michael show on the planet. I want to go about this attack through writing this blog, screenplays, and books. I want to do one man shows in theaters and readings on NPR like Sedaris. At the end of the day it is much like I told my technical director in college. "I do not do art for art's sake", I want to entertain, I want to make people laugh, cry, cringe, and crow. I am not on the fast track to deliver some literary masterpiece. I honestly just like to hear myself talk and enjoy the company of others who find my voice unique and/or irritating enough to curiously enjoy. I am not a train wreck, but I get the appeal. I am like Larry David in a redneck gentile costume. I call it like I see it and my mouth has gotten me in more trouble than I can remember so why not let it go even further and see if there is an audience for my humor and candor rather than fighting against my tendencies and coming across like a vacillating pussy.

The first group that challenges me are bloggers. I have been derided that I write too lengthy posts and post too infrequently to be a blogger. I tend to agree with this assessment, I am not sure I am a blogger as much as a  guy who tells stories on a website and likes to take pictures of things. Most successful bloggers I find are semi-journalists or even professional journalists who enjoy the creative license a blog gives them to report the news in a manner that suits their individual bent. I don't really have news or recipes, or any formulas for what I want to write, I just want people to be entertained. I am also aware that my writing and my blog are not going to have a mass appeal. Great, because in my experience anything with mass appeal on a grand scale I tend to find rather milquetoast and limp. I come at you with cazzo duro and if I need literary Viagra to keep it that way, then I will lean on Hemingway and Krakauer for my emotional chops, concision, and fact-finding. When it comes to honesty I want to be the Slim Shady of forthright. I am not going to publish every 3rd day on some schedule, because my thoughts and impetus to write do not function on a timeline. I write when I want, what I want, and how it sounds best to me on a given day. I write because it is the closest thing to a daily audience I can muster.

I am also challenged heavily by my own sense of perfection. I read this morning that Katie Parla, one of my favorite food writers on earth sometimes spends 6 hours on 250 word blogs. You see, I get this, I share in this kind of lunacy because at the end of the day I want to first and foremost impress myself, and when you've drunk Vogue Musigny it is never that easy to go back to Beaujolais (at least not in the same meal). Once something has been good, the internal pressure to keep it there overrides all sense of time and space. I can imagine Krakauer sitting there in anguish over whether to use pejorative or deprecatory, and I know that anguish. The more I read, the more I learn, the more damned difficult it is to choose the next word out of my keyboard.

This is what happened with wine. Some of you know that in 2001 I started down the path for MW. It took me less than 2 years of study, tasting, and meeting MWs to realize the deeper I went into it, the more myopic my focus would become and the less of me I would indeed become. I don't need to know at a moment's notice the premier cru vineyards of Chablis or the latest DOCGs in Italy. I discovered what I loved about wine was the wine itself, the place where it comes from, and the people who make it, drink it, cook around it, and those happier because wine exists. I am in no way denigrating those who pursue mastery, I just knew that mastery of wine in all its subjectivity would leave me  painfully deficient in a dozen other areas of life I would enjoy knowing better. Now, I am certain others are capable of much more than just an MW or MS while in their pursuits; not me though. I know the things about wine that I love, and I retain the details that allow me to be acceptably well-versed in the subject for myself and my individual pursuits. If I had stayed with wine, I would be a prisoner to my own perfectionist tendencies and likely would have grown to hate the industry.

I have a very close friend who has tasted and enjoyed more great wine than anyone I know at our age. When my buddy is faced with drinking pedestrian bottles of wine, no matter how tasty they might be to the standard 2-3 bottle a week consumer, his face is wrought with frustration that suggests he simply cannot even enjoy this perfectly charming, if innocuous bottle of  wine because of his elevated standards. Is it not true with all things? If you have great sex with someone and then they die, or leave, or decide to change sexual orientation and the next person you are making the beast with 2 backs with is not exactly their equal, are you happy? What if you have a great job and all is great then the company is indicted by the feds and the CEO gets a 10-15 year set of in-shower bent-over rows as the company and your job are liquidated? Is your next job "selling real-estate" for your uncle at C 21 going to get you jacked when your last job had a gym, a Starbucks, and a smoking hot secretary that smelled like happiness? It is our own standards that create expectation and breed misery.

I had to get out of wine because I was miserable. I remember one time sitting and tasting wines that some poor California farmer toiled to make and listening to a colleague tell the supply rep that the farmer should pull up his vines and plant lettuce because grapes should not be grown there. This is the kind of shit said in tastings all the time by dilettante buyers and inexperienced sales people in wine shops around the country.  While travel-weary supply reps  fight for that last second placements to earn a 6 day canned trip to Burgundy. On this "trip of a lifetime" they have the pleasure of tasting 150 green wines a day while listening to some jaded French importer who cheats on his wife with the fat girls on the trip wax on about terrior.  I was right there in the mix as the "quality" whore more than happy to deride some poor sap or laud some over-lauded esoteric masterpiece. I thought I was skilled and supremely confident my wine selections made me and my place of employment superior in some way.

However, I came to realize no matter how good I thought I was, I actually had little choice in the path my programs took. Oh, I hear  buyers around the country right now screaming that I am wrong; "I do my research and my list is dictated by me." Come travel with me a bit my friends and in each American city you will see on the shelves and on the restaurant lists the work of the distributors' salespeople of the year.  Cities are sheep led to the capitalist slaughter and for every bottle of Ribolla Gialla on a shelf or on a wine list there are 25-30 different labels of Malbec from Argentina. Wine buyers are given the perception of control and power by their bosses to assuage the mental and physical damage  of 60+ hour weeks. I once had a boss from the financial sector who offered me a wine job at a disgustingly low wage and when I asked him about the dollar figure and why so low, he simply said, "I don't know, you wine people just seem willing to work for so much less than other people." That has stayed with me since 2004, along with many other interesting assertions he made about the character of wine people (most of it absolute rubbish). In essence, the interplay between buyers,clients, distributors, and business owners is a complex dance that I like to call the "Stockholm Waltz". If you want to be a buyer with creative license (at least a modicum of creativity) you must own the business. Even owner/buyers are faced with the undeniable truth that every buyer in every city in America is subject to trends, fads, and their own inner circle of local wine pros who want to be like other wine pros in other cities which are perceived to be on the cutting edge, more sophisticated, or simply "better".

For some, this life is LIFE, for me, it was just another carefully disguised rat-race of whose whos and who will be or who won't be. I am here now in Colorado because of opportunity and luck. The opportunity my wife has to travel as a specialized and talented RN and the luck that I had meeting her and that she found me interesting enough to bring along with her on this life ride. I am also lucky that I spent only 15 years in the wine, food, and travel industries before realizing at only 40 years of age I could return to my youthful dreams of storytelling. Do not get me wrong wine people, I love many of you like family and the events I encountered while in the industry have given me great writing material for years to come. Wine has given me joy, travel, amazing meals, and more experience dealing with lies, liars, disingenuous customers, sycophantic suppliers, fair-weather friends, and tyrannical or inept owners  than one industry should ever offer in such a short career. While that may come off as sarcasm it is not meant to be, as I am truly grateful for my wine days because they have led me back to the most important question of all. Why am I here?

Rocky Mountain High

I am completely thrilled to report that Juliet and I will be moving to Parker, Colorado at the end of this month. Juliet has taken a job there so that I may pursue my nascent writing career in earnest. My unbelievably devoted wife has made this dream a reality for us with her tireless support and belief that we can and should pursue an extraordinary life.
To our amazing friends in Houston; let's celebrate some great times and if you feel like packing some boxes or just want to drink wine while we pack, you are welcome to join us any of the next 3 weekends as we prepare for departure.
We will be in Colorado for 13 weeks before we travel (hopefully) to Poland, Bandol, Friuli, and finally our home away from home in Puglia and the fabulous new Gelso Bianco. We do not know where we will be after Europe, we only know the adventure will continue from there.

Look for much more frequent posts about life on the journey from Tejas to Colorado.

To Juliet on our 2nd Anniversary

"O my love, my wife!

- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 5.3

As the Royal wedding was yesterday I find it appropriate to quote some Shakes publicly for the first time in our 4 and 1/2 year journey as we generally try to avoid references to R&J. Today is about much more than a milestone, a single moment in time, or the business of celebration. Today is about discovery, just as everyday has been since December 11, 2006. This week has been about reflection for me and the realization that Juliet has given so much to our relationship and I am not sure I have ever expressed my gratitude completely.

My dear best friend and partner, I am the one today who looks inwardly to question my ability and my resolve to love so unconditionally and to serve you with the same inexhaustible support you have given me for 4+ years. It is I that must know if I am capable of loving so thoroughly and so diligently the direction which you choose with each passing day just as you embrace the course I have chosen. Today as we celebrate 2 years of union recognized by the state I can say with all surety that I grow more thoroughly impressed by you and your ability to ride the waves of our atypical life. You are indeed a bright and shining beacon of continuity and connection to the visceral world for me. Even now as I am here listening to our beloved Beethoven station on Pandora I cannot for a moment consider the void my life would have without my dearest friend and supporter. I can become so distracted by the travails of quixotic creative intent, yet I am always and without fail so happy when you come through the door each day or when you emerge from a coma-like slumber and call to me with your eyes still glazed and assure me that no matter the direction or return to basics that our lives become you are unquestionably my greatest ally.

Today, we celebrate a union that was conceived through fortune and will. I was fortunate enough you were willing to accept me as the quirky, cocky, effusively opinionated man I am. In just about every way I can conceive of this notion I come back to wondering how it could be. I am truly fortunate and perhaps among those who espouse to be lucky,on this day I feel without equal. I may never publish a word or give another public speech so long as I live. I may never make another meal that elevates an evening to the company of the sublime. I may never piece together another performance of any kind with merit enough to be called art. However, I do indeed know that my greatest prize and likely least deserved stroke of fortune was having met you my dear Juliet.

On this day 2 years ago I was distracted, insecure about my professional life, and way too fat to be myself in my very fine suit you had chosen for me. However, when the Morricone played and I saw your darling face and felt the tracks of moisture in your hands as you reached out for me while brushing back tears of joy (mixed with fear) I was immediately at home and at ease.

I know I am a full head of steam often without regard for warnings of icy tracks. I know I am hell-bent on being hell-bent and I may be as ridiculous and prideful now as I was as a redneck kid in Ennis. Yet, your devotion to me, your belief in the journey, and the fact that what you do each day moves the world; mutes my pettiness and humbles me as I stand in awe of you and your value to the planet. I knew that day 2 years ago what I know now, I am capable and willing to love you for this fleeting lifetime and hopefully well beyond.

When Jimmy Page hit the first chord on track 1 of LZ 2 we were married in the eyes of the public,but our marriage began long before that.

Happy Anniversary dear Juliet and may our lives continue to be filled with "A Whole Lotta' Love"

La veste dei fantasmi del passato

cadendo lascia il quadro immacolato

e s'alza un vento tiepido d'amore

di vero amore

E riscopro te

"Il Mio Canto Libero" - Lucio Battisti

Michael