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.

Why I Travel - Or how I almost became a Mexican DJ - The Finale

At last the final installment detailing the trip that began my life as a traveler and storyteller. This is 100% True.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

There was not much time between my return from her hotel and our scheduled farewell dinner that night. The other folks who had been part of the scuba trip not mentioned here in these stories now seemed to be all around me. I did not like any of them and did my best to steer clear of the stubby business guy, the used car salesman, and of course the snobby teens who had all been there for Scuba.

I had not been there for SCUBA, I was there for discovery of a much more telling variety. I was at the time a little sad I had not made friends with the main-streamers and over the course of the next 20+ years of travel I would learn why. I do not tick off boxes on a life agenda. I do not go where lines are long and patience is a requirement. I don't obey traffic laws when the law is not applicable to good sense, and I have always known that what goes on in Mexico does NOT stay in Mexico, it lives within us the rest of our lives.

I wanted dinner to be over quickly. I had to get to the Scaramouche and meet her tonight. I was sure that it was just the unfamiliar nature of our hotel room that held her back that day and like any self-respecting hormonal teenage boy, I could not go home to the gang without a real conquest. Besides, I had the sack to lead her from the dance floor one night. I could surely do it again.

I had been at Scaramouche almost an hour. This time I was fueled on lime daiquiris and nervous hope that the sinking feeling in my stomach was not a harbinger of doom. I was growing tired of the music and I was alone. The crew was all still at the farewell dinner and Scaramouche was not on the evening's agenda for the boys. They were planning to visit the beach disco Maya 2000 that night as it was purported to have a greater abundance of local flavor and in all honesty, cheaper drinks.

I paced back and forth looking like a caged animal waiting to pounce. I wanted to tell her I was sorry if I went too fast, hoping she would say no, you weren't going fast enough. I was ready to say so much when I finally spotted her. Somehow she had made her way into the club and was already on the dance floor and she was dancing with "Tony Montana". That sonofabitch! I could not believe it was him and I really could not believe he was wearing the same damned clothes. His hips were moving like they were on a swivel and my girl was smiling at him like she had just been given a new puppy.

Writing this right now I can feel my stomach turn with a sense of enormous loss and dreamlike disbelief at recalling this moment from over twenty years ago. I think it may be because I have experienced the feeling several times in my life since that night,and each time it cleaved a bit of fat from my soul.

I pushed down the remaining drops of my limey drink as I watched this dirty derelict steal my glory. I waited patiently and completely on edge till I saw her break for the restroom. I quickly followed and caught her near the front door.

Me: what the hell is going on with you?

Her: excuse me

Me: You told me to meet you here and I was waiting for an hour and now you are dancing with that thug

Her: you don't own me, I can dance with who I want

Me: yeah, but we were supposed to hang out

Her: well things change

Me: what do you mean

Her: I mean, he gets it, he met me before I met you and I wasn't sure until now, but he gets it

Me: really? this thug gets it? come talk to me outside

Her: why?

Me: so we can talk without this fucking music goddamnit

Her: oh, blasphemy now...its not worth it

Me: oh you are a good girl now...? come outside (taking her arm and getting as far as the stairs before she pulled away) I want you to come with me to the other club and I am sorry I was too forward

Her: I am not leaving with you

Suddenly like the fucking Myna bird from the 1930s cartoons I saw him from the corner of my eye smoking a cigarette along the sea wall. How did he get there I thought. I saw him motion to her and then puff out his chest like a bird on the Discovery Channel towards me. I was admittedly taken aback and I wished to God the donde boys had been there to deal him a death-blow.

She pulled away from me completely and began walking towards the creepy pirate. She looked over her shoulder after about 10 paces and in a partial whisper said, "I'm sorry"

As they met he took her hand and they began to stroll along the wall and I assumed to his place where he would lay claim to my loving cup.

I hollered out to whoever would be able to hear me, "Blasphemy? Really?" and then mumbled a curse under my breath and hailed a cab.

I arrived at the Maya 2000 with a heavy heart. The place was empty and the music was terrible. I was determined to return the Mojo that had been just stolen from me and I was going to do it in cavalier fashion. I ordered a rum and coke (a drink I despise to this day) and looked for a willing victim. At this point in the evening the club was sparsely dotted with aging douche bags and their leathery wives. I knew things were bumping back at Scaramouche but there was no way I was going back there. Besides, I knew my people would eventually arrive here.

After about 20 minutes of bad drink and awful music I made my way to the DJ booth to request a song. In the booth was a 5'5" 250 pound snowball in white with a beard and mustache. He was the color of burned caramel and had hands like a hobbit. I asked him in broken Spanish if I could hear a song. He cupped his hand to his ear suggesting he could not hear me and so I repeated myself more loudly at which point he looked at me and said:

SB - El DJ está ahí (the DJ is there)

Me: ¿dónde? (here)

SB - que está allí (he's over there)

Me: él? el baile tipo? (him?  the guy dancing?)

SB - sí, que lo es

The DJ was a man of about 45, lean, with slick hair and dressed entirely in white. His shirt was perfectly pressed with embroidered patterns running along the center of the shirt and finished by crocheted buttons. It appeared like everyone knew him and he definitely seemed like he had no interest in returning to the DJ booth.

The Snowball looked at me again and motioned for me to come in the booth. He seemed edgy like he had someplace to be and quickly. He pointed to a stack of records in crates and suggested I choose my song from there.

The smell of the warm amplifiers and the whirl of lights on the equipment hit me like a shot of courage from the Korova Milk Bar. Was this fat little Mayan going to let me at the helm of the Club 2000?

Sure enough he pointed to the volume, fader, cross-fader, and the video controls as he watched me queue up my first pick Rock me Amadeus by Falco. In moments I was headset over one ear and working towards bleeding in a little Need you Tonight by INXS. The system was crystal clear and after my first two songs Snowball left me on my own. I watched the DJ as he held court with no less than a dozen gorgeous women on the floor. He periodically made gestures to the booth suggesting approval for the choices made by his fat little colleague (who was now back at the bar serving drinks).

After about 35 minutes of my spinning records the place was filling rapidly, and that is when I spotted the donde boys. They tore in the front door and crashed to the bar where Snowball served them tall drinks. I knew as I saw my father stroll into the club with BR and the rest of the guests, including the tee-totaling teens that my moment to shine was then. I knew I had once shot to show them why I didn't SCUBA, why losing a girl would not bring me down, and why the real DJ must have been in fact an island angel in white.

I brought the lights down and left the disco ball and blue lights engaged. The place was honestly too dark to walk easily but the mood was sexy as hell. I faded out the beat and slowly brought up the opening of George Michael's Father Figure and as I watched the dancers grow antsy over the slow pace I faded into the Beastie Boys:

" LET ME CLEAR MY THROAT" - belted the lyrics on a volume level I am sure the audio system at the Maya 2000 had never attained before or since. "kick it over here baby pop and let all the fly skimmies feel the beat.....ummmmm DROP! BOOM BOOM BOOM! went the bass as The lights flickered and the woofers lurched forward to the point of pulling at their housings and sounding like a Mexican cabbie grinding the rusty gears of an ancient taxi. The wind from the speakers blew up skirts and shorts on the dance floor as the Beasties screamed "coolin on a corner on a hot summer's day". Snowball ran from the bar and the DJ spun in complete horror as I, in one sweet moment of audio overload, was completely destroying the Disco Maya 2000.

Snowball got to me first as he pulled hard on the volume lever like a pilot of a Cessna trying to bring the plane out of a terminal dive. I was laughing with joy as I cross-faded into Erasure's A Little Respect when the DJ met me in utter disbelief of my presence. However, soon he was all smiles because there were dancing bodies across the club cheering and smiling at thebpm  onslaught.

Not only had I taken the bridge of a dead club just one hour before as a 17-year-old kid from Texas I had brought it to heights of success and jubilant celebration that I knew was not happening at the hated Scaramouche. Somewhere on the island Tony Montana was being introduced to American Blue-Balls but I was having the most triumphant moment of the most exciting week of my life.

When the DJ walked me down from the booth to meet my waiting father I could tell the two men must have recognized one another as there was a bit of an awkward pause before the DJ he asked my dad if I would be back tomorrow. My dad smiled and said that I was 17 and I had to get back to Texas and to school. However, I knew in my memories I would be back everyday of my life.

On the flight home the next day I could tell my father was ready to be home to his wife. I no longer knew what home was.

This is why I travel and how I almost became a Mexican DJ.

Why I Travel - Or how I almost became a Mexican DJ Part 5

This is the penultimate chapter in the story of how I came to be enamored with travel and imbued with wanderlust.

I would suggest reading the first 4 parts before reading this one if you want the back story; otherwise, just dive in and let me know your thoughts.

She wore tight denim shorts. That is the memory that pervades the images in my mind as I consider our walk through the streets of Cozumel that day. I had completely forgotten where I was as I looked often at my new friend and could have cared less about the sea, the sun, or even investigating some new part of the island. Her body and how each component of it made me tingle in places and ways I never had before, was all the exploration I wanted. To this day the physical discovery of a woman is easily the most powerful curiosity I have ever experienced. No drink, drug, or thrill has ever surpassed the initial few hours of intimacy with a heavenly creature of the opposite sex.

She seemed a little annoyed that I insisted she see our shitty little dive hotel in town rather than seeking a beach. I am sure now as I think back that she realized I was not the dashing and brave young man fueled on rum and sugar that had spun her about the dance floor like Travolta in Urban Cowboy. I was indeed a neophyte lover seeking physical contact like a zombie wants brains, and just as clumsily.

As we were walking I began to notice a menacing figure lurking along the wall and then again near the shop where we grabbed a Mexi-Coke. At first I blew it off finding it odd that I would even notice or recognize a person more than once while on vacation and while wearing puberty-colored glasses. Yet, this guy, dressed in a dark printed silk shirt and black trousers with a thin pirate moustache was just creepy enough to stain my thoughts and create a nervous edge to my alternatively brilliant state of mind. As I saw him walking a few paces behind us I noticed my girl glance at him over her shoulder and even though this was indeed my "first rodeo" with a girl something about that wide-eyed peek told me all was not cool.

As we rounded the corner towards my hotel and finally without the specter of "Tony Montana" over our shoulders she looked up at me and smiled. We made our way into the hotel which I assumed she would find a complete dump compared to her modern accommodations. On the contrary she was immediately taken with all of the wondrous scuba equipment strewn across the floor. I wasted little time and began to undress a bit. With my shirt off and shorts almost down she put my mask and snorkel on me and then quickly threw off her shirt and pressed against me. At last, my first bra! I thought as I was much more adept with the snap than kids in movies I had seen.

Her breasts were much softer than I ever expected. They felt like a cross between a pillow and a warm water bottle. She put on my father's scuba mask and in our 12X14 room we began to act as though we were under the water. We both moved about the room with swimming motions and turned our heads sharply from side to side as if we had a 360 degree view of the world. We took turns wearing my father's BC and I remember how unbelievably sexy she was bare-breasted with that yellow and blue buoyancy control device providing intermittent support and glances to the promised-land. At that point I could no longer control the anticipation and  I "swam" up behind her and using hand gestures and faux bubble sounds I intimated that I could help her with her shorts. She obliged, and let me tell you that if I was good with the bra, removing her painted-on denim shorts set fire to our willing suspensions of disbelief and our playful underwater dance came to an abrupt end.

I started trying to ask how to make it better as she began to laugh uproariously. It took me a moment to realize I was still wearing my fucking scuba mask and I sounded like a moron when I spoke. Eventually I was able to remove her shorts and there we were very nearly to the bottom of the 9th and I was Casey at Bat. I was simply beside myself at what I was seeing when the full picture came into view for the first time in my life. I was so nervous I thought I would pee my already moist drawers. The site of this bronzed-beauty was such a stark contrast with my pasty skin tone it was almost jarring.

The flowers I imagined in her hair and the look on her face I perceived to mean "come on in" was like I had been born suddenly into a new person. This was going to happen!

Just 15 or 16 hours ago I had never even kissed a girl and now here I was on the cusp of conquest, the kisses, the aromas of food I never knew existed, and the newness of circumstance muted all my senses. I wanted to be touched too I thought, just like I am touching her. I have no idea how this could be bad I justified as I was readying myself for the victory lap.

Then, and without any warning came one of the most awful sentences any human had ever spoken to me. "We're not going all the way!" she said in a voice I did not even know she possessed. I can hear the sound of this sentence as clear now as it was nearly 25 years ago and in slow motion even "weeeee'rrrrre nooooooot gooooooiiiiiing alllllll theuuuuhh waaaaaaaaayyyyyyy"

Aaaaargh! I just gave her all I had. I just showed her all our cool and fun scuba shit! We were alone, we were in Mexico! What the hell.....why???

In that instant I heard the sounds of the donde boys from the stairs, and then I saw their faces through the shutters as they ambled along our second floor walkway. They were back, they were coming here, and my girl and I were in a compromising state of uncompromised. We were guilty and with nothing to show for it! She grabbed her clothes and ran for the bathroom. I sprinted up and locked the door just as my Dad's hand hit the handle.

I shouted "one sec, I am changing clothes" as I threw on my shorts and shirt. I opened the door and while it was so completely obvious what we had been doing in that room, no one paid us a bit of mind. When my unrequited lover emerged from the bathroom the boys and my father practically ignored her. I just knew I was screwed even though I hadn't because I had no knowledge of what my father and the boys had just experienced.

Somewhere on the other side of the island a man dressed in white carrying a 45 caliber handgun had come to the aid of 3 American strangers and without even knowing it, a young man from Texas was extremely grateful as well. I am certain had the boys not been shell-shocked they would have given my tease of a girl and I the third degree.

As it was she and I slipped out the door and took a cab back to her place. We sat in silence for the duration of the cab ride and as she exited I gave her a small kiss and she told me to meet her at the Scaramouche that night. I was more than a little confused as the cab driver made the turn back to town. I was not about to give up on her and at the same time the dull, blue ache in my loins would not belie the feelings to come...to be continued