Perugia is, in our minds, one of lesser known jewels of Italy. We wake early and decide to take a short walk before the city comes to life, stopping for a coffee at a small coffee bar. It is a slightly gray morning and because many of the shops take Monday mornings off, the streets are not crowded.

Clothes shopping, like many other shopping experiences in Italy, is a very different affair. It is not possible to go in and grab several sizes hoping to fit into the smallest one. Most shops display only a few items, in a single size, and everything else is boxed up and out of reach. If you are interested in buying, or even looking, you are at the mercy of the shopkeeper. He or she will tell you your size and what to try on. While this can sometimes feel humiliating it does avoid the humiliation of having a dressing room full of clothes that are too small. We find a men’s clothing store that we have walked by several times and Bill puts himself in the hands of an attractive young saleslady who is very comfortable checking everything for size. After a protracted sales dance, we purchase several items, say grazie and head back outside.

We meet Austin and Norma at the Locanda della Posta and walk a few blocks to the car park, the Mercato Coperto (covered market), a two storey structure that is built into the cliffs below the old town and which is accessed by an elevator that takes you from street level to the subterranean garage a hundred feet below. Our destination is Deruta, the spiritual center of the ceramics industry in Italy. The historic center of upper Deruta consists of studio after studio of artists painting and offering their pieces for sale to the mostly American public. While we see a few new studios it is sad to see that a number of studios that have closed down – and not just for the winter. The ceramics industry in Italy and particularly Deruta is facing hard times, mostly from cheap Chinese knock offs and other work farmed out to places such as Tunisia and eastern Europe. These new centers utilize cheap labor to paint in the Italian style. We are saddened because we strongly believe that there is something more timely and magical about the pieces we see being painted in Italy by Italian artists, many with generations of experience in their blood. Our sadness also stems from the fact that we consider many of the men and women we meet in the streets of Deruta as our friends.

Despite a house that is bursting at the seams with ceramics, Suzy finds several new pieces that we have shipped back home. Our shopping spree in upper Deruta is too short and we make plans to return at the end of the trip, or at least on our next trip.

Maybe we do eat too much in Italy. One dead giveaway is that restaurant owners always seem to recognize us and seem delighted when we return. We have planned to meet Gerardo Rigibini, the owner of Geribi ceramics at Tavola e Favola, one of the best restaurants in Deruta and one where we have dined a few times in the past. In what is becoming an all too frequent occurrence, as we enter the restaurant the waiter leaps up, runs over and shakes Bill’s hand. He doesn’t speak much English, but it is clear that he is thrilled to see him again and that he will take very good care of us. No need for menus – he knows what Bill would like to eat and proceeds to bring us lunch, announcing each course before he brings it, but not putting up his selections for discussion. We start with an antipasto platter with some sliced meats that are the specialty of central Italy – braesola, prosciutto and salami, as well as some local cheeses. Next he brings each of us plates with two pastas – a ravioli with black truffle sauce and a fettucine with tomato sauce. While these are delicious, it is the beef that the restaurant is known for and Paolo brings us tagliata, rare slices of grilled steak served with arucola and tomatoes. It is to die for. We have little time to linger today, so we have to say no to the jeraboam of grappa beckoning us, but we make a mental note to have two glasses of grappa when we return later in the week.

Austin has college applications that are due at midnight and Norma still has a shopping list of shopping a mile long, so we drop them at the Locanda della Posta in Perugia and head back down to Ponte San Giovanni to meet with Walter, the man whose house we are negotiating to rent. It is a difficult finale to our earlier negotiations and everyone seems to be unhappy, even though we seem to have come to agreement. Such is business, whether it is in America or Italy.

This has been a wearying day, from our early start to the quick visits to Deruta, Gerardo, Walter and a brief visit to Javier’s studio. We return to Perugia late and without definitive dinner plans. We decide to try a new trattoria, highly recommended by our good friend Michele Fioroni. We enter the elegant but empty entry and an engaging Italian woman greets us, immediately warning us that their credit card machine is not working. No worries, as our son Austin is flush with cash. Over the next two hours we proceed to have a wonderful meal, although it is unlike most we are used to. Instead of the traditional Umbrian pastas and meats served in a home-style environment, typically by members of the owner’s family, this is a white tablecloth affair, with nouveau Italian cuisine. But the service and friendliness of our waitress, who had greeted us earlier, bridge the gap from a sterile, formal affair to the warmth of the traditional Umbrian trattoria. The result is a comfortable, enjoyable evening with a very different cuisine. It is not something that we would choose every night, but this night it seems to work.

We start with a nouveau selection of first courses. Austin has a chocolate cannoloni stuffed with cheese, prosciutto on a potato puree. Suzy has half moon pastas made with quail eggs stuffed with duck in an amatriciana tomato sauce with cappellini with black truffle. Bill opts for the traditional stringozzi (a thick homemade spaghetti) with norcina sauce, a creamy sauce made with sausage and truffle. Austin follows with tagliata di bue grilled sliced beef with black truffle sauce, Suzy has a turkey breast stuffed with sausage on a dried fig compote and Bill has rabbit with pistachio crust. For desert we share a foot long tray of little pastries, which Austin devours and Suzy cuts in half, proclaiming, without trying them, whether they are good or not. Coffee and a tray of cookies follows, putting a cap on the day.

It has been a long day, but a good one. A cumulative fatigue seems to be settling upon the travelers and we have an early start planned for tomorrow so we can spend a day in Rome before Austin and Norma return home. So it is off to sleep, hoping to delay the hour when the alarm clock squeals its admonition to rise once again.

Bill Menard here, sitting in my hotel room, enjoying a nice helping of Siena morning.

Menard family lore has it that the patriarch of the family, a bit of a scallywag in his youth and one who supported the Boston Red Sox as much as the next man or boy living in Cohassett, Massachusetts, grew tired of hearing others’ names announced over the air during the game broadcasts. As the story goes, he and his brother, then both south of ten years old decided to send their own telegram to the Red Sox broadcast team, touting the joy one gets from listening to the Red Sox as well as the smooth taste of Kentucky Colonel pipe tobacco. During a break in the action the town was shocked to hear that “Lyman and Lincoln Menard are sitting on our porch, rooting for the Red Sox and enjoying a pipe full of Kentucky Colonel.” And so perhaps it is genetic that I, too, feel the urge to broadcast to the world just what is going on in my little corner of the world, here in Siena, enjoying a dose of Tuscan morning. It’s much healthier than pipe smoking.

Today’s installment is not about Siena; that will come later. This entire trip has been an exercise in catching up, as we have raced across the boot of Italy from the knee to the heel, back up to the knee, down to the shin, back to the knee and finally to some place that would, if Italy really were a boot (with a leg inside), be covered with muscle and bone. We have not exactly worked ourselves to the bone, but the constant movement and travel, packing and unpacking has left little time to chronicle and post our (fascinating) adventures in real time. So while we awake this morning in Siena, in the heart of Tuscany, we are writing about what transpired a couple of days ago less than a hundred miles away in Umbria, having in the interim spent a day in Rome, said our goodbyes to Austin and Norma at the Rome airport, made a too-brief and ill-planned stop in Viterbo and fought our way against traffic and an annoying rental car here to Siena. Stay tuned for these exciting episodes, dear reader, and why not fire up a bowl of Kentucky Colonel to keep you company along the way?

* * *

It is Sunday morning and Perugia is very quiet, a pleasant contrast to last night’s crowds. Today is perhaps the most important day of the trip; we plan to spend it with our friend and associate Javier Casuso to hammer out the details of a deal in which we will acquire a long-term rental of a charming property outside of Perugia, with the intention of establishing a business of renting to vacationers and organizing Bella Italia-led groups to Italy. After a quick coffee and pastry, we drive to Brufa to meet with Walter, the owner of the house we are hoping to rent. It is a short drive, just a few minutes outside of Perugia and although the day is hazy and gray, the house is delightful. As we walk through the airy bedrooms upstairs we begin to think of how we will furnish the house and how different types of families might use it. The downstairs kitchen is perfect, a huge rustic space with high wood beamed ceilings and a huge wooden fireplace. The room is big enough for a table for 12 and a few steps away one can walk out onto a covered portico. The garden is right outside and we envision the food we can create. Walter promises to start work on the back of the bottom floor adding two more bedrooms and bathrooms. We walk outside to look at the garden and the pool. We can imagine a few lounge chairs and some ceramic tables that will soon be sitting under the olive trees in our own little retreat.

Negotiations take time and much has changed since our initial conversation with Walter in October. We go back and forth and then agree to meet again tomorrow. We are cold and our feet are wet as we head back to the car somewhat disappointed. Javier happily tells us not to worry, that we are going to look at another property. Great! How big, where is it, does it have a pool? No worries, we will find out when we get there. The drive is beautiful and after every turn we look to see if the next farmhouse could be ours. The drive goes on and on and we get further and further from the highway. The view becomes even more amazing as we look out over the rich, fertile Umbrian landscape, spying many of the houses we had passed along the way. At last we pull up to the house we have come to visit. It is not quite what we had in mind. I am sure that in its day it was a beautiful old stone farmhouse, but in the present it looks like the shed from which Jed Clampett took his family when he discovered black gold. At least it has its original sone floors, which are slightly (okay very) uneven and its original walls. There is not a bit of plumbing or electricity to be had. It takes a great deal of imagination to see the beauty of the house and we can’t escape the dollar signs dancing in every nook and cranny. We leave without even asking the price. No doubt, ten years from now some canny investor will be sipping a glass of Montefalco Rosso, looking over these same hills, congratulating himself on his wise investment.

We drive to the town of Bevagna for lunch, one of Umbria’s most charming small towns, crowned by an extremely well preserved historic central square. The restaurant is, of course, unmarked, but we open the door and are greeted with a room warmed by a fire and the smell of rich Umbrian fare, a simple hearty cooking that highlights grilled meats and rich pastas that we have longed for despite many fine meals along the coasts. We are inspired by the fire and order bistecca alla Fiorentina for lunch. In the meantime, the pastas are house made and are great. The steak arrives perfectly grilled and for once it is not enough food – perhaps this is a blessing. We finish lunch and walk around the small town. Down every street there is a wonderful view of rooftops and arches. Bill and Austin take photo after photo.

We return to Perugia and plan to meet for dinner outside Assisi, at a restaurant that Bill visited last October. Since then the legend of this place has grown to almost epic proportions and we decide that we all must give it a try. La Stalla, which means the barn, is a simple room located next to a campground above Assisi. Nearly all of the food is prepared on a wood fired grill that is in the middle of the room, providing entertainment as well as nourishment. Over the years the whitewashed stone walls have become covered with soot from the fire, adding to the charm of the place.

We start with the grilled stuffed tartes – round bread toasted over the fire and filled with sausages, cheese or proscuitto. This is accompanied by a wooden bowl of polenta topped with tomato sauce and some grilled sausage crumbles. After a while the grilled meats start to arrive – sausages, lamb chops, pigeon, chicken. Our eyes roll back and we begin to forget what is arriving, simply trying to keep up with the onslaught of food. Finally little ramekins of melted cheeses arrive, which are smeared over more grilled bread, adding a satisfying layer on top of the animal slaughter that has preceded it. We call the evening and the day quits, forgoing a grappa in light of the long windy drive back to Perugia. And, because Italy’s restaurants have recently banned smoking (even in restaurants where the walls are covered with soot), we don’t light up a pipe full of Kentucky Colonel. That can wait until baseball season begins.

Go Bosox!

This morning we depart Sorrento, bound for Perugia in the north central portion of the country. For the past week we have experienced the life of southern Italy, first Naples, then Puglia before returning to the Sorrentine peninsula and Amalfi Coast south of Naples. Life in the south of Italy is very different from that in the north, with Rome being a sort of unofficial Mason-Dixon Line in this country. Italians from the north speak of their southern countrymen almost as foreigners and those in the south – the mezzogiorno as it is called – similarly disdain those from the crazed, industrialized, soulless north as pseudo-Germans. Being an outsider has its advantages; we have thoroughly enjoyed our time in the south and the friends we have made there. At the same time we are happy to be returning to the north, particularly to Perugia, a place that feels almost like home for us.

Compared to our disastrous entry into Sorrento several days ago our departure from Sorrento is a breeze. Literally, as a cool breeze provides a refreshing tailwind as we ease from the tree-lined driveway of the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittorio and into the chaotic streets of Sorrento. But today is Saturday and the hour is still early, the result of which is an almost pleasant drive through Sorrento until we reach the A3 autostrada, the motorway spur we were unable to find several days ago on our arrival into Sorrento and which resulted in us driving endlessly through the streets of Castelammare di Stabbia. Today, speeding along on the A3, an elevated highway high above the blight that is Castelammare, we soon find ourselves on the A1, the “autostrada del sole” which will take us to Rome and beyond.

We originally had planned to drive directly to Perugia, but we have changed our plans to include a brief meeting and lunch with one of our olive oil suppliers along the way. A few hours later we arrive at the arranged exit in Frosinone, about 45 minutes south of Rome, where we are to meet the Varriale brothers and Alfredo Cetrone, the owner of Frantoio Cetrone, producer of the award winning Cetrone olive oil. We exit the autostrada and park on the other side of the toll booth, looking suspiciously like a mob pickup. We call Carmine Varriale, who along with his brother Gianni is one of Cetrone’s principle sales managers, only to discover that his group is still 30 minutes away, a frustrating, but not unexpected turn of events on our trip. When the Varriale brothers and Alfredo Cetrone arrive their excitement is contagious and the delay is forgotten.

We follow the entourage back to their small home town, a lovely beach town just south of Rome that is so enchanting we have decided not to name it, referring to it only as “X.” This is the place where they produce Cetrone’s oil. The drive directly east from the autostrada takes about a half hour and covers some of the most beautiful scenery we have ever seen in Italy, passing soaring mountains and deep valleys, river streams and, everywhere olive trees. The drive along the autostrada gave absolutely no hint that the countryside would be this beautiful and we are in complete and absolute awe. About 20 minutes down the road the Cetrone entourage pulls over. We are very confused: is there a problem? Are they switching drivers? Have we gone the wrong way? No, this is why they insisted on having us follow them, rather than simply meeting in X – the hills ahead are covered with Cetrone’s gaeta olive trees and they did not want us to miss this sight.

The remaining ten minutes or so of the drive is beautiful and soon we catch a glimpse of the sparkling blue sea, which you can’t seem to avoid when you are in Italy. We enter the town of X and continue through the town center until we reach the beach, a wide expanse of white sand that stretches north toward Rome and south toward Naples. Although there are plenty of beachside hotels, the town is extremely pretty and well kept and unspoiled by overdevelopment. We park and walk to the Ristorante Violete where Alfredo and Gianni are unloading and carrying a number of boxes into the restaurant.
Alfredo is greeted heartily by the owner, a great big man with an even bigger mustache, who also gives us a loud buon giorno and we are directed to a table. Being a celebrity of sorts in these parts, Alfredo has arranged for the owner to open the boxes he has brought, which are filled with bottles of Cetrone olive oil and jars of olive products, including green and black olives in olive oil and brine and some in aromatic spices, green and black olive paste and artichokes in oil with wild herbs and mint, and to serve them to us. The owner brings baskets of toasted bread on which he soaks the olive oil – Alfredo makes two types of olive oil from the gaeta olive, intenso, which an extremely intensely flavored fruity oil pressed at the very beginning of the harvest and medio, still a strong, fruity oil, but with more subtleties and balance – and prepares bruschetta topped with the olive paste. We hear the story of these products from Alfredo, but the oil and the other foods do the real talking. After twenty minutes or so there are crusts and pits and puddles of oil all around and we haven’t even had lunch yet!

Then, once again as we have become accustomed to on this trip, the orgy of eating, worthy of Emperor Caligula, begins. This being a seaside resort, seafood is the order of the day. Many of the antipasto selections are slathered with more of Alfredo’s oil, which with its intensely green color and even more intense fruity flavor does not seem to overpower the rather intense fruits of the sea. Several plates of mussels baked with bread crumbs, garlic and olive oil arrive, followed by steamed mussels, and briny raw oysters. A seafood salad of calamari, octopus, celery, shrimp and steamed mussels arrives and is devoured by all. Steamed peeled shrimp on arucola follow, as well as long thin shells which we think are called file shells, with a small delicate meat inside, and then large grilled gamberoni (shrimp). Fritters – fried dough balls with bits of fish are passed around and one can sense that the party is beginning to lose some steam. Alfredo speaks with pride of his oil, noting that he is the fifth generation Cetrone to run the business, a decision he made after deciding against pursuing his lifelong dream of being a chef. He notes with pride that when he decided to become an oilmaker like his father he decided to be the best and the Cetrone oil’s recent awards – first prize for a monocultivar olive oil in the region of Lazio and voted in the top 10 oils in Italy last year – is confirmation that he is succeeding in his dream. Each bottle of the Cetrone oil has a small tag tied around the neck, a booklet of sorts that describes the oil and the family. On one page is a picture of Alfredo and a diner at another table recognizes him from the picture on the bottle and requests and audience. Such is the importance of olive oil in these parts.

During Alfredo’s absence more food arrives — raw gamberi which although we are hesitant to try are subtle and delectable. More varieties of cooked shrimp and marinated sardines finish up the antipasto course. We have finally completed the first lap. More – many more – to come.

Compared to the antipasto course our main course is relatively straight forward. We enjoy a grilled white fish, of course drenched in Cetrone oil and lemon. Grilled calamari, grilled shrimp and more mussels are similarly bathed and consumed. Despite the embarrassingly large quantities of food we have consumed it all seems so light and we are not as full as we should be. This is a good thing because the desserts are about to begin. A plate of interesting looking cookies arrives, large and crunchy with flakes similar to corn or bran flakes plastered all over the outside. We enjoy them when the most beautiful plate of sorbetti is presented. We have enjoyed fruit sorbet throughout Italy and it is often served in the hollowed out fruit skin from which it came. For example, a lemon sorbet will be served in the lemon, orange sorbet in a hollowed out orange. Today’s sorbetti are literal works of art, each looking like the native fruit, berry or nut from whence it came – walnut, chestnut, lemon, lime, peaches, plums, bananas, strawberries, prickly pear, pineapple. With each bite of each different but delicious sorbet pangs of guilt rush to the surface, as though we are desecrating a great work of art. But art never tasted so good.

Finally it is time for coffee and grappa and today’s grappa is a refined champagne grappa made from grapes used to produce French champagne. While tasting nothing like its bubbly distant cousin it is a warm, sophisticated cap to a wonderful meal. The final memorable moment is a gag which is perfectly executed by the owner against Carmine, who with an iron will has resisted the temptation to gorge himself as the others have all afternoon. Passing around little cups of espresso to each of us, the owner appears to drop a cup right over Carmine’s lap onto his beautiful pinstriped suit. Nearly leaping to his feet, Carmine realizes that the cup was empty and that it has been hooked to the saucer by running a spoon through the handle. The clanking and apparent plunge of the cup into Carmine’s lap brings great merriment to everyone at the table, especially Alfredo who has arranged for the joke with the owner.

Time is running late. We have been with Alfredo, Carmine and Gianni since 11:30 and it is now past 4:00. But they will not allow us to leave, insisting that we see a little of their beautiful city – X. They take us to a pre-Christian Roman temple of Zeus, which is perched on a cliff directly above the city. The view of the city, the ocean and up and down the coast is breathtaking. We then make a short visit to Alfredo’s offices, before departing around 6:00. Our brief detour to visit our olive oil producer has taken practically the entire day. But it is these unscheduled, unanticipated adventures that make our visits to Italy so rewarding.

We say our goodbyes and return to the A1 as the sun is setting to complete our drive to Perugia. While the sun does set early in the winter – we do seem to frequently finish lunch as the sun is setting – the drive goes quickly and we arrive at the lower part of Perugia by 8:00. Getting into Perugia is not a simple chore. It is a long way up and the road twists and turns and branches every whichway. Bill seems to know the way and up we go. As we near the top we realize that we are not allowed to drive in the upper city and that our hotel is on a pedestrian road. Not a good thought considering the amount of baggage in the car. We decide to take our chances driving into the historic center and park in a temporary space half a block from the hotel. This may be the approved way – Bill races down to the hotel to see what to do and returns with a bellboy pulling a large luggage cart. We check-in and head off for an evening passagiata down the main street, thinking of place for a light dinner. We settle upon the Bottega del Vino, an inviting wine bar with nice antipasto plates, but it is too crowded and the young waitress struggles with our English and Italian just shaking her head muttering that no that we can’t have a table now or later, until under Bill’s persistence she finally breaks into perfect English (turns out she too is American) and pretends to take our name. We head back out to the street knowing that we will have to return another night. It is getting late and the streets are packed with people. It is 9:15 and the Corso Vannucci, the wide pedestrian street is full of people animatedly talking and walking. Perugia is a university town, but the street is full of people of all ages. Families walking with their small children, old women in their fur coats and of course the young crowd her are just starting out for the night.

We decide that despite our large lunch, enough time has passed and we can enjoy a meal at our favorite restaurant in Perugia, the Osteria del Ghiottone. We enter and are surprised when the owner greets Bill enthusiastically, remembering him from our many visits in the past and his most recent visit in October. We have called Javier to let him know that we arrived safely and he is on his way to meet us. As hoped we have a wonderful meal – just a light pasta and grilled meat. Maybe a little dessert to finish and of course coffee and grappa. Austin and Norma have had enough for the day and head back to the hotel. We walk the streets with Javier and stop in at a local coffee bar for one last drink, a final punctuation mark on a wonderful, special day.

We wake to a beautiful January morning, the few clouds dominated by a chalky blue sky that seems to be the color of choice this winter season, in contrast to the deep blue of the spring and summer. The sea is calm and a cool breeze freshens the room. We enjoy the buffet for breakfast but don’t linger, for today we are off to drive along the Amalfi Coast and visit our friend and supplier, Pasquale Sorrentino in the beautiful hilltown of Ravello. We ask for directions to Amalfi and our jaded concierge smirks and tells us to follow the signs. Okay, so just stay precariously on the waters’ edge, a few thousand feet high and you will eventually find Amalfi. Getting out of Sorrento is an unpleasant chore; the road is narrow and windy and the traffic is heavy all day long. We finally get to the coast road and the view is breathtaking. Unfortunately, we can’t stop to take photos because the road is wide enough for perhaps one and a half cars, and there is nowhere to stop along the way. Unless, of course, you are Italian, in which case parking in the middle of the coast road is not a problem at all.

About a half hour after leaving Sorrento we arrive in Positano, the internationally renowned jet-setter’s dream come true. Another 30 minutes and we are in the more charming coastal town of Amalfi, which despite its image as a humble seaside town and tourist magnet, was at one time the center of a worldwide empire, controlling towns as far away as Pisa.

After cursing local parking attendants and drivers, we find an illegal parking space not far from the main square and we walk to it, where steep steps lead up to the entrance of the Duomo the Cattedrale di Sant’Andrea. The streets are full of little bars selling coffees, gelato and slices of pizza and there is a bustle of activity in every direction. There are several jewelry shops selling coral and cameos and plenty of silver and gold pieces. It wouldn’t be Amalfi without the little food shops selling local pasta, sauces, cookies and candies. The entire coast seems to be one enormous lemon orchard and the lemon theme runs deep – the shops are selling lemon soap, lemon candy, lemon cookies, lemon crackers, limoncello liqueur. The fruit stands have lemons as small as a walnut and as large as a grapefruit.

The drive to Ravello is beautiful although the two way road, which snakes its way ever upward is even narrower than the coast road. We arrive at the car park below the city square and walk up the stairs to the main square and down a small quiet street to Pasquale’s beautiful shop. As usual Pasquale is full of energy and plans for the next year. We discuss which ceramic pieces have sold well and he shows us new designs available to be shipped in the spring. We are still recovering from our Christmas season, but Pasquale is ready to begin the new year. We make lists of pieces and designers and promise place an order as soon as we get back home.

What is special about this day, however, is not the business that transpires, even though that is our primary purpose. Instead, Pasquale offers to spend a couple of hours with us exploring the jewel that is Ravello. We are ready, overdue in fact, for a little unscheduled time and when he offers to take us to the Villa Cimbrone, one of Ravello’s more famous landmarks, we agree. The group of five begins a leisurely, albeit sometimes strenuous walk through the narrow, winding streets of Ravello, up steep inclines, past beautiful private homes and classy hotels, each sharing staggeringly beautiful views from vantage points perched high above the cliffs and valleys below, views that inevitably lead to the expanse of the sea that stretches to the limits of sight, disappearing into the chalky haze of the sky. For fifteen minutes we indulge ourselves in this cardiovascular and sensory workout until we arrive at the gates of the Villa Cimbrone. Although it is written about in all of the guidebooks, we know little about it, save what Pasquale tells us. A privately owned villa, it, and more importantly, its gardens, are open to the public, giving everyone (who pays an entry fee) an opportunity to walk down tree lined avenues, relax in geometric gardens and sit in solitude, bathed in warm sunshine and crisp, fresh air that has made a journey from the sea below, across the citrus groves and baking, rocky cliffs until it, too, finds relaxation and sanctuary in this special place.

We stroll, and I use that word carefully, because one does not walk or saunter, one languidly strolls along the lanes here at the Villa, for a time, spying old ruins, bronze sculptures and heroic statues from days gone by, until we reach the belvedere, a word from the Italian bel (meaning beautiful) and vedere (to see), a sort of gallery at the end of the park, with a few benches and a few terraced porches with marble railings topped with busts that have been worn away by the elements over time. On the other side of the railing the terrain falls away, completely and absolutely, as the belvedere is perched on the edge of the cliff that marks the property boundary of the Villa. From here the view is breathtaking but after the initial gasp it becomes almost karmic, if I use that word correctly, because the sight before you is the single and central stimulus that floods the senses, not overwhelming them, but purging them, cleansing them, allowing you to find your center, without even thinking about it. Yes, the belvedere at the Villa Cimbrone is a zen experience. Your eyes slowly move from one hill to another, from a tiny white settlement in the mountains to a shiny seaside town, to the sparkling blue green ocean. Your eyes and brain enjoy the beauty of all that it sees, but all the while your soul is taking a long, deep, cleansing exhale. You find peace here.

It is hard to top an experience such as this, particularly as we are not aware of how this brief sojourn has refreshed us. The beauty of it all is that there is no need to try to outdo ourselves. In Italy, and especially in Ravello we are finding, experiences come in all shapes and sizes, and not always positive. But the experiences themselves are what is important, so we return to Ravello’s main square and decide to make a brief visit to the Villa Rufolo, a villa much smaller than the Villa Cimbrone, just a few paces off the main square. We enter and pass a building where chorale music is softly playing in the background, leading Pasquale to mention the numerous outdoor musical events that take place in Ravello throughout the year, especially in the summer. We pass ancient Roman ruins and newly excavated bread ovens, a reminder of the ancient settlements that covered this distant mountain outpost. After a relaxing stroll and more beautiful views we say our goodbyes to Pasquale and begin our descent from Ravello, bound for Sorrento.

Dusk has begun to fall and our drive back is in the dark. Bill thinks perhaps it is easier driving the coastal road in the dark because the headlights warn you of oncoming cars. The rest of us in the car are happy not to be driving the narrow road with or without warning headlights.

We arrive back in Sorrento exhausted from the day. We spend an hour or two packing, catching up on our travel notes and finally relaxing on the balcony with a glass of white wine. Norma wisely decides to call it a night but around 9:00 the rest of us set out for dinner. We decide on a restaurant called Caruso’s which looks a little fancy for our taste, but it is the last of the open restaurants we have found. The restaurant is named after the tenor Enrico Caruso and the walls are covered with framed photos and concert programs. Of course the music playing over the speakers is opera. There is a nice crowd in the restaurant and we appreciate not eating in an almost empty room for a change. The waiter brings us a glass of prosecco as we look over the menu. We are also brought a plate of freshly baked bread bits. We smother them in olive oil and begin snacking. Bill orders the vermicelli with clams, Suzy has her usual pappardelle with shellfish and Austin has risotto with artichokes and clams. The first course is impressive and we dig in with gusto. For a second course Bill has the fish acqua pazza (fish with crazy water), Suzy has breaded fish with clams, Austin, who has had enough seafood on this trip, orders Veal Caruso – which turns out to be veal with shrimp. We order fresh pineapple for dessert, which is tasteless and tough, but we are full so it is not a problem.

The waiter offers us limoncello with our coffee, when in Sorrento…. Bill enjoys the icy glass but Suzy thinks it tastes like chemicals. We settle up and walk back to the hotel to finish packing for our departure in the morning.

The alarm sounds off at 8:00 and we slowly wake up. The advantage of an excellent Italian hotel is that we are able to close every possible window and keep any hint of sunlight out of the room. We open the curtain and push the electronic button to raise the shade and the sun starts to stream into the room. It is cloudy day, but the earlier darkness is replaced with a new day. We enjoy another light breakfast at the hotel. Eating earlier means that we encounter more hotel guests and eavesdrop on their plans. Hearing nothing better than our own plan, we decide to stick it to take the ferry to Capri for the day.

After breakfast, Bill is off to the telephone store to complete his internet purchase and Austin, Norma and Suzy head off to find souvenirs in Sorrento. And souvenirs are exactly what a city like Sorrento is made for. One little stand after another with aprons, inexpensive ceramics and postcards. We find treats for everyone as we wander the streets. On our way back to the hotel we pass the Duomo Santi Fillipo e Giacomo and walk in. The church is not nearly as impressive as the ones we have seen earlier this week the simple façade is a result of modern construction. The choir stalls behind the altar are a beautiful demonstration of the local wooden inlaid artwork. There are a few paintings from the 16th and 17th century, but the church is not massive. A small group local woman are busily cleaning the individual altars and we remember that each church has its own special significance.

We meet back at the hotel and assemble on the hotel’s back terrace, which faces the Bay of Naples and is perched a hundred feet above the city’s marina. There we take a tiny elevator directly from the hotel to the port below. The elevator is small and shaky and halfway down we regret having stepped on, but soon afterwards the doors open. For some reason the elevator does not stop at ground level; instead we have to take stairs another flight down to the marina. The 11:45 ferry is about to leave, so we race to the dock and catch it, headed for the Island of Capri. The skies are a little gray but the view is still breathtaking as we head out. It is a perfect opportunity to see the sheerness of the cliffs and how the buildings are built directly into the side of the mountain. The ride is about 20 minutes and the wind is a bit chilly but we insist on enjoying the view from up top of the boat.

When we arrive we are greeted with a touristy dock of stands where you can buy tickets for boat rides, gelato, tacky souvenirs and guided tours. We head to buy tickets for the funiculare which is a straight ride up to the mountain to Capri town. The tickets are easy to buy but when we get to the funiculare it is locked up tight. We ask next door and they tell us to use our tickets to take the small orange bus to the top. We board the crowded bus and are treated to a wild ride on a windy narrow road.

When we get to the top we are ready for a break to catch our breath. The combination of the fast ride, the narrow road and buses passing on the opposite side have worn us out. As we enjoy our coffee and hot chocolate we read through the guide book of all that we should see. Fuhgetaboutit. It is time to enjoy Capri. The view from the main piazza is amazing. The sheer cliffs and the color of the sea below are a perfect combination. We wander the streets, enjoying the amazing collection of high end Italian shops throughout this tiny town – all of which are empty and opening again in March of 2007. Not a sale to be had, just empty. There are a few dedicated shops that are open, little perfumeries and clothing stores. We walk past gorgeous hotels and restaurants – all closed. We finally stumble upon the Canfora shoe store which is fortunately still open. Amadeo Canfora snc, Via Camerelle 3, 80073 Capri (NA) Italy, (39) 081.837.0487, www.canfora.com. In addition to a delightful collection of sandals, Canfora hand makes the Capri sandals made famous by many celebrities, most notably Jackie Onassis. We (Suzy) try on several pairs and finally ask if they have a certain style in her size. No problem – they can make them on the spot. She tries several bases and then we wait as they attach the straps she has chosen. After a few adjustments, they fit like a glove! The final alterations are made and we walk out with a perfect pair of sandals. I’m sure Suzy will be mistaken for Jackie Onassis or Sophia Loren when she wears them.

Fortunately the shoe shop has called around and found a restaurant that is open for lunch. We walk through the streets finishing our window shopping and never find an open restaurant. We go back to the main piazza and head down several side streets (not quite understanding the directions but knowing that somewhere there is an open restaurant). The Ristorante Buca di Bacco, Via Longana 35, is a sight for sore eyes. It has a small dining room with a little window looking out onto the water. We settle into our table and order aqua frizzante and naturale and a bottle of the local Aglianico red wine. While the pastas and seafood entrees look amazing we are all delighted to try the pizzas. Bill has the DOC, the authorized pizza with tomato and mozzarella, Norma has pizza with champignon mushrooms, Austin has pizza diavalo – spicy salami, and Suzy has the Siciliana – with tomato, mozzarella and eggplant. We split a mixed green salad and decide that since we are on the isle of Capri it is important to try the Caprese salad – sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. It is a perfect light, relaxing lunch and we enjoy almost every bite debating whether the restaurants in Italy should offer doggie bags so that we can enjoy more later or whether it is better to start over again at every meal. We all clean our plates so the discussion becomes a moot point. We finish with coffee and grappa.

We continue our window shopping – Bill’s favorite since everything is closed and all we can do is look and dream. We follow a little side street to get some shots of the water and then head up through tiny narrow streets. After a little way we realize we have no idea where we are and through the narrow maze it is impossible to do more than continue to follow the signs to Belvedere Cannone. The streets becomes steeper and steeper but we are committed and don’t turn back. We wind around corner after corner and go up higher and higher wishing that we were in better shape. Huffing and puffing we finally we arrive at a dead end, saved only by the fact that it is a beautiful view of the cliffs and the island from way up high (no surprise given the walk we have just taken.) Everybody snaps shot after shot – the boats sitting in the water, the sun setting, the trees, the houses built into the side of the cliffs – there is no limit to the number of spectacular shots we can get. Finally we remember that we have a ferry to catch, so it’s off we go. Downhill seems much easier than the uphill trip – we make a few turns and find a flight of stairs which leads us right to the bus turnaround. We buy tickets and quickly board the little orange bus with ten minutes to spare to catch our 4:25 ferry. Yeah right. The bus keeps waiting for passengers and despite the hair raising speed at which we descend the mountain, we arrive on the dock just as the ferry is leaving. We take deep relaxing breathes, remembering that we are on vacation with no set schedule and begin to check out the little souvenir shops along the water – nothing impressive although we can’t resist buying a few t-shirts and knick knacks. We settle in at a little bar gelateria and wait for the 5:25 ferry.

The ferry is more crowded on the way back. The last ferry leaves at 6:25 and the boat seems to have a larger share of locals returning from work and fewer tourists. Despite the drizzle and the breeze we settle in on the top deck for the ride back. We are entertained the entire ride by five young wise guys who holler at each other, wrestle, slap and generally carry on until the ferry is tying up in Sorrento.

We are all tired but decide a little walk before dinner is in order. Its almost 8:30 but the shops are still open and we wander in and out finding a few essential items to bring home. We are limited in our restaurant choices because so many are closed for the season. We opt not to eat sandwiches at a bar on the Piazza Tasso and head instead for a little garden restaurant we had passed this morning. The interior is full of plants and flowers making it a perfect indoor garden. We decide on pasta and vegetables for dinner. Not a traditional Italian meal – but this restaurant doesn’t seem to have too many rules. The pastas are adequate but not remarkable. Norma has the ravioli stuffed with cheese and served with tomato sauce; Suzy has the combination ravioli, pacchieri and conchiglia with mozzarella and tomato baked; Austin has the pasta carbonara spaghetti with bacon, egg and cheese; and Bill has a light bowl of minestrone. We also order grilled mushrooms, sautéed spinach, fried artichokes and fried zucchini flowers. The flowers are not in season, so we are not surprised when we are served fried dough balls with tiny bits of zucchini flowers in them. The food is perfect for the night. Not inspired, but a great atmosphere and an attentive server. Austin and Norma call it quits and leave Bill and Suzy to enjoy their coffee and grappa on their own.

As we turn in for the night, we reflect on how special a place Capri seems to be, even off season and how the relaxing uneventful day was a perfect antidote for the previous day’s day from Hell.

Every trip has at least one day from Hell and we can only hope that this one is our only. That this is the nadir. Because if it gets any more dreadful than today, we should consider packing up our bags and heading home!

The day starts off on a decent note. We sleep a bit later than planned, which is especially nice for Austin and Norma who have just arrived from the U.S. We meet in the breakfast room at 9:45, just minutes before they close and are treated to a wonderful buffet of meats, cheeses and fresh fruits. In addition, there is an American breakfast table complete with eggs, bacon and various cold cereals. We eat light and have extra servings of the thick hot coffee with milk. With internet access limited to the one hotel computer, we all take an opportunity to check back on important matters at home. (Go Gators!)

We begin our day in earnest around noon, headed for the town of Gragnano, which is known across Italy as the country’s premier pasta making town. We are looking forward to seeing the production of pasta, meeting a few suppliers and having a memorable meal of Gragnano pasta at a charming osteria. We leave our secluded little compound, which is connected to the main square in Sorrento by a private garden and emerge into the bustle of the Sorrentine Peninsula. Traffic in Sorrento is abysmal, alternately jammed to a crawl and then lurching forward, with whiny Vespas zipping in and out to keep you on your toes. The whole traffic pattern and street layout seems to have been designed by someone with a pathological dislike of straight lines, opting instead for manic swirls and violent turns, up steep hills and plunging down even steeper ravines. The weather, however, is nice, with bright sunshine and cool air.

Daylight reveals terrain that we were unable to see the day before as arrived in Sorrento after dark. It is for the most part an ugly landscape of soulless modern but rundown cities, connected together by windy roads, which stands in stark contrast to the overwhelming beauty of the cliffs that fall off into the clear blue Mediterranean. The absolute nadir of this drive is the repulsive town of Castelammare di Stabbia, a town totally lacking in Italian charm and, unfortunately, one which we seem to drive through forever. The icing on this most inedible cake is the enormous piles of garbage, some of which stretch for an entire city block, and that leap into view around nearly every corner. We can only imagine that the local garbage workers are on strike, hoping against hope that this situation is temporary. After a while the mountains of trash begin to lose their shock value and we even begin to see beauty in the various colored trashbags, the slope of these moutains, an occasional special item to attract the attention. We even stop to take pictures, selecting only the best trash piles, while turning our noses up on mere garbage piles. Our son Austin take a particularly artistic shot of one collection, which he dubs “EuroTrash.” A budding photographic career is born.

After an eternity we arrive in Gragnano and pull right in to a parking spot, just like they do in the movies. We walk up and down the street noticing several small shops and bakeries that are open, but as we find the doors for the pasta shops they are locked up as tight as a drum. We find, too, that the main (read only decent) restaurant in town is closed on Wednesdays, so we decide to drive a little further up the mountain to find a nice spot for lunch, preferably with a view, and then return around 3:00 or 4:00 when the shops should be open.

Thus begins our journey half way to the sun. We climb the mountain, following sign after sign for pizzerias, trattorias and restaurants. Each time our efforts are rewarded with a closed establishment, most of them shut down for the winter, with drop cloths over the tables and doors chained shut. We press on, following the narrow road higher and higher into the countryside, past run down villages, grand hotels (closed for the season), parked buses (parked for the season) until we decide that going on is futile. Our assumption, our belief, our fervent hope that someone in this region must eat out somewhere occasionally has been proven wrong. We admit defeat and head back down the mountain, alighting after an hour at the single restaurant has shown any signs of life. It is located in, you guessed it, Castelammare di Stabia.

The port area in Castelammare is rough and rundown looking, but our restaurant, il Dubbio, is like finding a needle in a haystack, or rather a jewel in a trash heap. Despite the late hour, they welcome us in and we happily take our seats. We are rewarded with a wonderful plate of octopus salad and spaghetti frutti di mare and dentice (snapper with a potato sauce.

After lunch we get back in the car (clearly a mistake) and head back up the mountain to Gragnano, passing some of our favorite junk heaps only to find that the famed pasta shops, including one described as a “pasta university” are not reopening this day. Everything is locked up still – perhaps they are closed on Wednesday afternoons. It only makes sense on a day like today.

So, we begin the long, slow drive back to Sorrento. A drive always seems shorter when you have achieved your goal for the day. Today is no such day. We make a quick stop just outside of Sorrento where there is a local produce market which is just closing – we stock up on oranges and apples and take a quick walk around, mostly just for the fresh air.

We return to the Excelsior Vittoria, thinking we will take a few minutes to relax before dinner, but decide instead to make a quick dash to the phone store before it closes to see if they have a high speed wireless internet access card that might solve our internet access problem. With mounting excitement we are shown the very answer to our technological prayers, a UMTS/HSDPA card from Telecom Italia. It does everything we want relatively cheaply. Now we will have the ability to check our emails, read the news and post our trip reports on time. Only one glitch, however. It cannot be activated until tomorrow. On a day like today, however, even this delay seems like a major victory.

While Norma has wisely decided to call it a night we head out with Austin in search of a light dinner. The front desk calls the Trattoria Tasso to make sure they are open and after a great recommendation of their pizzas we head out. The restaurant is enormous – in the summer it is probably filled to the seams, but tonight we are just one of 5 or 6 tables. The waiter is friendly and we order a pizza capricciosa, mushrooms, cooked ham and artichokes, and a pizza with spicy salami and a pasta from Gragnano (we are still determined to try the pasta) with a tomato fish sauce. One salad to share and we still have too much food. The restaurant begins to get more crowded as the evening goes on. We arrived just after 9:00 and it seems that we are on the early side. The food is good and we have a lot of laughs and head home to get a good nights sleep.

Perhaps tomorrow our luck will change.

We wake to a gray sky – perfect to match our mood because today we leave Puglia. Our room at the hotel is in a separate building across the street from the main hotel and while we have enjoyed our room and our balcony we decide to have our morning coffee in the hotel and check it out. The breakfast room is empty and we have our choice of tables next to an enormous plate glass window. The view is spectacular. The water is rougher and the waves are crashing up on the cliffs. It is a beautiful spot to drink our coffee.

We leave Polignano a Mare and drive to Bari to catch our flight to Rome. Flying internally in Italy is very efficient and can be inexpensive. It is important to remember that you can only check two bags and that you are limited to a baggage weight of 20 kilos per person. Of course our bags are already too heavy and we are told we will be charged an additional 5euros per kilo. We scramble to move our heavier items into our carry-on and lower the weight being checked. Unfortunately we have forgotten the new laws regarding liquids and when going through security we have to say goodbye to our shampoo and other cosmetics.

We fly into Rome, pickup our rental car and wait for our son Austin and Norma (who pretty much runs Bella Italia) to arrive. Their flight from London is slightly delayed and it seems their baggage is the last to arrive, but finally they emerge from the baggage pickup and we head straight for Sorrento. We have scouted out this drive earlier – going as far as Naples and are confident we will make good time. The road is fast and traffic is light. We stop at an Autogrill for sandwiches and a coffee and despite their best intentions to admire the views along the way, both Austin and Norma drift in and out of sleep. And then it happens, somewhere just past Naples we make a wrong turn, following what should be a major highway that turns out to be a different major highway, unfortunately heading away from Sorrento. We double check the map and can’t figure where the mistake was made but it seems from the tiny rental car company map that if we continue on we can just go for a tiny bit on a small road (shown in yellow) and connect back with the major autostrada without losing much time. This is a big mistake. NEVER go on a little small road, even for a little bit, especially on the Sorrentine Peninsula, the Amalfi Coast or anywhere in the mountains. If it is not green or red on the map, stay away. Yellow is not the color of caution in Italy, it is a toxic color. Invariably when our Italian friends give us directions they always seem to loop us around on the autostrada even when it seems clear on the map that there is a much more direct route on a slightly smaller road. There is a good reason to never use the little roads – they don’t necessarily connect to anything, sometimes they just end and they are always slow. We wind around and around as traffic on this little one lane road becomes heavier and heavier and goes in and out of one little town after another. What looked like about a five minute drive on this road turns into a very frustating hour and we finally drive over the A3 and loop around for another 15 minutes before we arrive at the entrance. As we near the coast, the road becomes narrower, and the descending darkness and unbelievably heavy traffic make it a nightmare scenario. We drive steadily on and the 11 kilometers to Sorrento takes almost 45 minutes. It is too dark to enjoy the view, but as we drive up and down through the cliffs we are anxious for what we will see in the morning light.
It is off season in Sorrento, which like the towns along the Amalfi Coast on the other side of the peninsula is a town. Much of the area is shut down during the winter and we have had to look at almost 20 hotels to find one that was open this week. After exhaustive research and much phone calling we have booked a couple of nice rooms at the five star Hotel Grand Excelsior Vittoria. While the summer is beautiful in Sorrento the prices are much less expensive and the crowds very small in January. We check in to a very quiet hotel and are lead to our rooms which have an unbelievable seaview. The hotel, which like many luxury hotels in Italy (at least in our limited experience), has a stiff, formal feel to it, but it is located high above the ferry dock and has a commanding view of Gulf of Naples. Before dinner we take advantage of the chilled bottle of Prosecco left in our room and sit on the balcony watching the ferry return from Capri as the lights of Naples flicker in the distance.

We take a small walk before dinner to get a sense of the town. The shops are all familiar and are still open at 8:00pm. We stop at the restaurant recommended by the hotel and are not impressed with the façade or the menu presentation out front. But we are tired and there is a good crowd of people inside so we wander in. We sit downstairs next to an animated group of American college students. The waiter is impatient with us but warms up as Bill speaks to him in his best Italian. For Austin and Norma it is a lot of food, but after yesterday, it feels like a small snack. Bill and I have pasta with shellfish, Norma tries the housemade gnocchi with tomato sauce and Austin has the mushroom risotto. Before the pasta arrives the waiters appears with a plate of baked dough fresh from the wood burning oven drizzled in olive oil. What a great treat! The fresh fish is a sea bass which we have grilled, Norma has the local sausage grilled and Austin is treated to a plate of fried fish. We clean our plates and truly pass up the offer of dessert. We have just enough room for a coffee and a grappa, which we quaff before returning to the Excelsior Vittoria and put this rather dull day of traveling behind us.

Warning: In our previous installments we have described brief moments in which we eat. Today’s installment is all about the food. Most people would probably save one culinary adventure per day. We have (wisely or unwisely) attempted to cram many into a single day. Such is life in Puglia, a bountiful region with hundreds of miles of coastline surrounding this peninsula which accounts for its wealth of seafood, greater olive, grape and wheat production than any other region in Italy, and a host of indigenous pastas, cheeses and meats. For travelers such as we it is both a blessing and a curse. A visit here awakens the culinary imagination and quickens the gastronomic pulse. Unfortunately it also threatens to expand the corporeal waistline. Perhaps a three day visit is not just what the doctor ordered, but at least it is something the doctor can object to.

We awake to the gentle lapping of the ocean against the cliffs below our window, but today the sun is not so bright. The skies are gray and rain clouds dart in and out. But the temperature is mild, perhaps 50 degrees, a veritable heatwave compared to the freezing, snowy weather we encountered here last February.

We drive to Gioia del Colle to meet Angelo, who will be our guide for the entire day, retracing the route by which we left him the night before. On the map the road from Gioia to Polignano looks simple enough. One heads east to the coast through the towns of Putignano (a town renowned throughout Italy for its production of wedding dresses), Castellana Grotte and then to Polignano a Mare. The previous evening we had not trouble finding Putignano, even in the dark. We smartly made our way from Putignano to Castellana Grotte without incident. However, it is a massive understatement to say that you simply drive from Castellana Grotte to Polignano to complete your trip. Somewhere along the way you slip into a parallel universe, a bizzaro world if you will, where your vehicle is powerless to drive in a straight line, uncontrollably turning right and then left, then right again, spiraling in ever tighter circles until the center cannot hold. You have entered the Castellana Grotte zone and although this town cannot possibly boast of a population of more than 20,000, you spend easily half an hour zigging and zagging to navigate through it. Entering the town from the northwest, you emerge an eternity later what seems like 50 yards away from your starting point, happily leaving this breaker of men’s spirits in the rearview mirror. If there was ever an argument for a beltway or bypass spur, certainly Castellana Grotte is the posterchild for it. Fifty years from now Castellana Grotte will have its own chapter in urban planning textbooks used at the finest institutions of public policy.

We meet Angelo in Gioia , kissing the ground as we pile into his car and begin our drive toward Santeramo, where we will meet the aunt of Filippo Mancino, our supplier of extravirgin olive oil. Filippo and Angelo have been kid enough to arrange for us to watch fresh mozzarella being made and Filippo’s aunt, who runs a farm just outside of Santeramo, has been making this signature cheese her entire lifetime. The drive is beautiful, with olive trees stretching into infinity and small stone fences lining the road. As we descend from the Murge, the plateau on which Gioia del Colle is situated, onto the plain that stretches into neighboring Basilicata, the terrain becomes rocky and then lush. The rain has given up and bits of sun occasionally stream through the gray sky.

We are greeted warmly by Filippo’s aunt a farm woman in her fifties and her eighty year old mother who moves with ease and who sports soft, ageless skin (it must be the mozzarella!). We are led into their kitchen which is connected to the cheese making area, a small sanitary area with some sterile metal cans and other devices for making various cheeses. Our mozzarella today, however, is a decidedly low tech affair. A simple plastic tub, filled with briny water is sitting on a stool and next to it, on a wooden table is a thick white mass the consistency of cottage cheese but smooth rather than lumpy. This mass will in a few moments become mozzarella, and has been made from a mixture of the previous evening’s milk and this morning’s milk from the farm’s cows. The milks have been heated to a temperature of 40 degrees celsius and rennet has been added. (When we ask about rennet we are told it is not a very “nice” ingredient. It comes only from the stomach of baby calves who are still drinking their mother’s milk. We are not quite clear how it is extracted from the cow, but we really don’t want to know.) The heated milk has been left to drain and has now settled into the light paste that is before us. The Aunt uses a knife to cut through the paste, mixing it up by cutting it (we are told that the word mozzarella comes from the old Italian mozzare which means to cut) and then placing it in a large bowl where her mother pours hot water over it. Using a long, flat, wooden paddle the cheese is rolled and pressed, moving it in and out of the water and over the paddle. The texture begins to change from a paste and becomes light and elastic, like a bright white wad of Silly Putty. The aunt shapes the cheese into a long flattened tube, tying a knot and using a knife to cut off the little tied pieces which she puts into a bowl of cold water. Alternately she rolls the mass into a small ball the size of an egg, gathering the edges together and tucking them away from view inside the ball. Asked if we want salted or unsalted cheese the mozzarella is transferred to a bowl of salted water and then we are each served a plate of cheese. A small glass of red wine and a piece of bread accompany the most delicious (and definitely the freshest) cheese we have ever had. The cheese has a mild taste, slightly salty but creamy and smooth. We finish our plates and are rewarded with another knot of cheese, Bill consuming six balls and braids of mozzarella so as not to be rude, dreams of Metamucil dancing in his mind.

We are told that the family raises cows only for the production of milk and also have a small stable of a special breed of donkeys. As we are preparing to leave, two donkeys are brought out for milking. The milk of these donkeys is very close to mother’s milk, we are told, and the family sells it to families whose children cannot drink cow’s milk.

We are feeling comfortably full, and it is time to head to Altamura to taste the famous bread from this city. The bread of Altamura is registered DOP and shipped all over Italy and around the world. Gianni Zullo, our friend at the nearby Viglione vineyard has asked one of his customers to show us around his bakery. It is late morning and the baking is finished for the day, but the shop is full of customers stopping in for a loaf of bread or a piece of foccaccia. We are led back from the shop to the bakery where bins of the famous bread are cooling and awaiting sale. The pane di Altamura is made in two shapes, one resembling a cardinal’s hat and the other a simple square. Some of the bread has been baked in the gas ovens in the bakery and others have the telltale marks of being cooked in the wood burning oven down the street. What makes this bread so special? Just the local ingredients and the regulated procedure for baking the bread. The ingredients are local durum wheat flour, salt, water and yeast. Extra yeast is used to help the bread maintain its freshness and one of the signatures of bread from Altamura is that it reputedly can stay fresh for 10 days after it is made.

The dough is mixed and kneaded in a huge mixer that makes Suzy envious and then set to rest for 90 minutes. Then it is formed and set to rest for an additional 45 minutes. The dough is finally reformed and set to rest for 5 minutes and then put into the ovens to bake with the doors open for 15 minutes and then closed for an additional 30 minutes. A very specific procedure, but with excellent results. We eat slices of the bread and begin to understand why restaurants in Rome would have the bread shipped up every day and why the baking is often timed to make sure it can meet planes departing for New York for distribution to restaurants there.

The bakery also makes a variety of delicious cookies and taralli. We go upstairs and tour the cookie facilities and are surrounded by bins and trays of cookies and crackers. Of course we are allowed to help ourselves and start snacking on simple biscuits, taralli with sugar and taralli with fennel. The taralli are a traditional cracker of Puglia, resembling tiny circular pretzels. The dough is made from flour, olive oil, white wine and salt and formed into little circles which are boiled and then baked until crispy. Fennel, rosemary or chili peppers can be added. Our tour has ended and we leave with bags of bread, crackers and cookies.

Angelo leads us on a stroll through the historic center of Altamura. We pass the Cathedral San Nicola and arrive at the Duomo which is much smaller than the cathedral in Lecce, but with an intricately detailed frieze over the doorway. We recognize the front arch depicting the last supper from the plaster reproductions we saw in Bari two days earlier. We walk a few more streets and out of nowhere Angelo opens a door and we enter a small osteria for lunch. Antica Osteria, Corso Umberto I, 58, Altamura, 080.311.8313. The Osteria is another customer of Gianni and he has recommended it to us for lunch. We are seated in a crowded room downstairs next to a couple who have brought their dog to lunch. We shift our chairs carefully so as not to disturb the dog but he is a bit grouchy and circles the table, finding a spot on the floor that is not so busy. The waitress is young and speaks in a delightful mix of English and Italian. We guess she doesn’t trust Angelo to translate properly. We were full when we walked in, but seated downstairs next to the kitchen the aromas have aroused our taste buds. We order orechiette with greens to start. When she offers the second courses we have a tough time choosing between the mixed grill of horse meat, pork and sausages and the bracciole (rolled meat) of horse meat cooked in a tomato sauce. We ask for a small portion of both and a salad. Once again we have way too much food – but we faithfully sample everything and decide just this once it is okay to leave a few bites behind. We skip the grappa but order a local specialty – padre peppe, a strong, thick, brownish liqueur made from walnuts. We return to the car and decide to go directly to Gioia del Colle and visit Filippo at the Mancino olive estate.

The olive harvest, which began in October was mostly finished in November (exclusively through the labor of Filippo, his brother and father and two other men) and the entire year’s production of Gravestelli oil, Mancino’s flagship oil made exclusively from the prized coratina olive, has been pressed and stored. A small portion of the crop has remained on the trees until now and these olives are to be pressed into Svevo oil, a blended oil with a slightly different character than the Gravestelli. We are fortunate enough to be at the oleificio at the moment when the Svevo oil is being produced and watch a vast array of machinery dedicated to extracting the prized oil from these tiny fruits. Crates of olives are poured into a chute and conveyed past an air blower which removes most of the leaves and twigs before sending the olives for a thorough rinsing and washing. The olives are then carried upward by a device resembling Archimedes screw, through a crusher which renders them to a goopy green paste. This paste then goes into an agitator where the olives recover from the stress and are churned for an hour then sent through the cold water where a centrifuge separates the oil from the water and the vegetable water. The new oil trickles out in a steady stream and the waste water is pumped to a holding tank outside, where it, and the composted stems, leaves and olive paste residue, are used to nourish the olive trees. Filippo is very proud of his production and talks often about the care and development of producing high quality foods and olive oils. He grabs a couple of plastic cups and pours us a taste of the new oil. There is no bread dipping here, just a quick slurp to make sure we get all the nuances of the taste. This Svevo is a great oil, with a strong, peppery taste. We look forward to its arrival at Bella Italia in the coming weeks! We taste a few of Filippo’s new products and review the list of pastas he supplies us we take a few samples of cookies and flavored oils and agree to meet for dinner in two hours, just enough time for us to drive back to our hotel and take a quick nap – hopefully just enough to refresh us for dinner.

Dinner promises to be an adventure. Angelo, Gianni and Filippo have become good friends and we enjoy tagging along with them and listening to their boisterous conversations and friendly arguments. No one can agree where to go for dinner and Gianni finally takes the lead, calls a friend and tells us to follow him. Unfortunately he is not sure where we are going and despite asking for directions several times we make several u-turns and finally end up at the Transatlantico Restaurant. Trav. Via Resta 1/3, Torre a Mare (BA), tel. 080.543.2486, closed Mondays. The waiter comes to the table and there is much disagreement over which wine to order and what food to order. It is unclear who won; perhaps the waiter simply brought everything mentioned. We start with a simple plate of stuffed fried dough and tomato mozzarella bruschetta. A platter of grilled octopus salad, pureed fava beans with baby octopus, fried fish in tomato sauce and octopus with potatoes in sauce follow. Our plates are replaced with clean plates every time we put down our forks and even more food arrives — farro with shrimp, fried shrimps with raspberry sauce, broiled mussels with garlic and breadcrumbs and more fresh mozzarella. Just when we think we have arrived at the end of the antipasti course, our plates are replaced and a tray of sea urchins is put before us. Now this is a treat we have yet had the pleasure of enjoying and Filippo’s eyes roll back in his head as he describes with gusto how much of a delicacy these are considered. The spiny shells have been sliced in half like a soft boiled egg, exposing an orange cream inside which is scooped out with bread or eaten with a spoon. Both work for us and we enjoy the briny treat which is best described as tasting like the sea. A platter of raw seafood – clams, mussels, oysters and shrimp is delivered to the table. Raw mussels and shrimp are a new treat for us, but with a little lemon juice they taste great. A bowl of raw calamari does not tempt us, but we try a piece, which gets worse with every passing chew, its chewy, creamy texture expanding and filling our mouths in a most undelectible manner. One bite is enough. The boys are great company and we enjoy getting to know them all a little better. They haven’t been able to agree on a pasta course so we enjoy a bowl of pasta with shrimp in a light tomato cream sauce followed by a bowl of linguine with seafood. Will this never end? Nope. The waiter arrives with a three foot tray brimming with grilled calamari, shrimp and octopus. No matter how full we are we have to have just a bite – it is wonderful. All we have room for is coffee and grappa until the waiter brings a plate of hot, fried dough filled with pudding. We can always diet tomorrow.

So we say good bye to our friends and tell them that we will not return until we have time to recover from this food orgy. But we make many plans for travel together next time and the business we will continue to do with each other.

It’s Sunday, our third day in Italy and a perfect day to sleep late and linger to enjoy the beautiful view from our little balcony, which is fifty feet or so directly above the Adriatic. As small fishing boats occupied by pairs of leathery Pulignano natives drift by, we can only imagine how wonderful it would be to stay here in the summer. Despite the chill in the January air, the sun is shining brightly and warms our little corner, the vibrant deep blue of the sky dissolving into the blue green of the calm sea that laps against the stone cliff from which the hotel is hewn.

Sundays in Italy are a challenge for tourists and we nearly always forget to plan for a day when cities will be partially closed. We decide to scratch our original plan to visit the ceramics town of Grottaglie, fearing that the long drive there will be rewarded only with closed shops. We opt, instead, to send the day in the city of Lecce.

Lecce is the largest city in southern Puglia and it is renowned as one of the great baroque masterpieces anywhere. It is slightly inland, and the coast is only 10 miles away. But lying 30 minutes south of Brindisi and over an hour south of Bari, it requires a commitment to visit. We arrive in the town centro early in the afternoon, glad that we did.

With our seemingly uncanny ability to manufacture good luck we drive straight to the middle of town and immediately find a parking space near the Roman amphitheater, the geographic and touristic center of town. In the middle of this classical piazza it is odd to see a perfectly preserved and excavated Roman theater, but there it is, 20 or so feet below street level, perfect in its semicircular design and in much better condition than the Coliseum in Rome. It was, like much of the Roman antiquity that is visible today, discovered by workmen digging a foundation for a new bank in 1901. Restored in 1930, it is used by the city for concerts and plays. Today it is hosting a nativity scene, complete with a running stream, cactus and the entire cast of characters made from papier mache, a local art form practiced by a number of Lecce artisans.

It is getting late, and Suzy is anxious to find a lunch spot before the restaurants all close. She promises to see all the sights that Lecce has to offer, including the amphitheater, as long as we eat first. We stop to take a few photos but Suzy is determined to find lunch so we head on. Everything (except the McDonalds in the piazza –we are not that hungry) seems to be closed. We wind our way through the city streets and pass the breathtaking Basilica of Santa Croce. It is outrageous baroque, the façade covered in swirls and curclicues, cherubs and grotesques climbing over one another, competing for the eye of passersby.

We pass from the touristic center to a more residential area and begin to resign ourselves to the thought that we might have to eat lunch at the Patria Palace Hotel which we passed a while back – surely it will be open on a Sunday. As we turn a corner we hear some noise and see a kitchen and dishroom and realize that there must be an open restaurant on the other side. Success! We have discovered Le Caveau degli Artisti, Via Rubichi, 6. With a beautiful white stone interior we join two families who are having a Sunday lunch. There are no menus and the waiter seems nervous that we are American, that we will be a lot of work for little payoff. He gamely offers to bring us a seafood antipasti and a bottle of the local white wine, which we accept. He returns a few moments later with a plate with a cold seafood salad with calamari, scampi and octopus and a piping hot plate of fried potato croquettes and fried mozzarella. As we start to dig in we don’t realize that another waiter has moved a second sort of half table next to ours, which they begin filling with more and more plates of seafood – marinated sardines, swordfish carpaccio with lemon, artichoke tart, grilled zucchini, eggplant and peppers, chicory greens and fried whole merluzzo, a local fish about the size of a snickers bar, lightly fried and served with its head on. As we are finishing our first round through all of these treats the waiter asks us about our next course. Housemade tubettini with fish for Bill and housemade spaghetti with frutti di mare for Suzy. It is very difficult for us not to clean our plates – both a matter of being respectful and because it tastes so damn good. Just as we have what we promise ourselves will be our last bite – the waiter returns and we order a whole grilled fish – something light to finish off the meal. When we are finally and completely finished, the waiter asks us about dessert and of course we simply order coffee and grappa. Not to be denied he brings us a slice of cake filled with cream and chocolate. When the waiter brings the bill he informs us that the restaurant is new – open only a few days and the credit card machine is not set up. Bill heads off to find a cash machine and Suzy has a few minutes to study the map of the city.

Filled to the seams, we are ready to enjoy this baroque city. In order to satisfy its seemingly insatiable appetite for baroque ornamentation, Lecce was fortunate to have an inexhaustible supply of the stone pietra di lecce – a soft sandstone that is easy to carve and hardens with exposure. Using this pietra di lecce, Antonio and Giuseppe Zimbalo, two local Leccese architects from the 1700s are responsible for many if not most of the baroque designs of Lecce’s buildings. Each façade has so much intricate detail it is a never ending adventure to explore the different features and stories.

As we head to the duomo we notice that the streets are filling up with people and the shops are starting to open. It is 5:00 in the evening and the town is coming alive. We arrive in the piazza del Duomo, unusual in that the cathedral is approachable only from one direction, in a closed square. The duomo, together with the other municipal buildings that line the square are all made from the same pietra di lecce, with its pale yellow color. Sitting in the stone-paved square, the entire scene appears to have been carved from a single block. It is peaceful (other than the child who is repeatedly kicking a soccer ball against the building) and beautiful.

We stop for a coffee and call our good friend Angelo Coluccia. He has been trying to reach all day to arrange a dinner meeting, but our phone has not been working. We make arrangements to meet Angelo in Gioia di Colle, his hometown, for dinner. We are surprised to hear that it will take a couple of hours to drive from Lecce to Gioia. With a homing pigeon-like sense of direction, we drive straight to Angelo’s family apartment, which we visited last February. We stop in and have a nice visit with Angelo’s mother and father.

Angelo suggests a new wine bar where we can sample the Primitivo wine of Gioia del Colle and have a light dinner of just a few small plates of food. Angelo is greeted warmly and we settle in to a comfortable table where we are greeted with an avalanche of small plates that keep appearing from the kitchen. Tarts filled with artichoke, peas and ham and tomatoes, foccacia with tomato, crackers with mascarpone drizzled with balsamico, plates of local salami, cheese with chilis, cheese with peppers served with honey, sheep’s cheese with blueberry preserves, truffle cheese sprinkled with chocolate and just when we have eaten our fill, a plate of warm lardo di collonado. We send away all of the small plates to make room for our coffee and grappa.

We bid our goodnights to Angelo, arranging to meet up with him in the morning for a new round of adventures in his native Puglia. Our drive back to Polignano, through small towns is itself an adventure, but one best left for our next report.

It’s an early start for us today. We race off to the funiculare to go back up to town in search of the Castel St. Elmo. When we arrive at Via Cimarosa we pass the Frigitoria Vomero where they have an enormous stove with pans of oil for deep frying. We quickly order two of the “graffe” – light, sugared doughnuts. If we had known how delicious the fresh doughnuts would be, we would have ordered more. The castle is not as close to the funiculare as we had hoped and we wind our way up and around only to find that the entrance is on the opposite side so up and around we go again. The castle was built in 1329 and is a massive fortress. We take the elevator up two floors to the Piazza d’Armi. The panoramic view is amazing. We can see boats racing on the bay and all of the rooftops of Naples.

As we head back to the hotel we stop at an alimentari and pick up some fresh buffalo mozzarella for lunch.

Leaving Naples on a Saturday is less hectic. The road is well marked and the traffic is lighter. We are ready for a siesta but the road beckons us on. The countryside is beautiful along the autostrada and we have an easy drive.

We arrive in Bari just after 3:30 and the town is very quiet. The streets are empty and the shops are all closed. We drive along the water looking for recognizable landmarks. We can’t help but notice the Castello Svevo and park.

This castle is not quite as massive as Castello Elmo but it has the same distinctive Norman influence. Inside the castle is an exhibit of the art depicting the life of San Nicola (St. Nick) through the ages from the east and the west. We arrange for two English audio guides and begin. With pieces from Germany, Russia, Asia, locally from Bari and other cities in Italy. you get an exhaustive tour. Tapestries, paintings, coins, wooden triptychs all tell the story of the life of the beloved saint.

When we leave the town is still closed and we stop for a disappointing gelato before heading to Polignano a Mare, a seaside town perched above the Adriatic on a sheer rocky cliff. We are staying at a hotel which is built into the rock and are delighted with our room which has a little balcony built into the cliff wall so that we are sitting directly over the water. (Hotel Grotta Palazzese, Via Narciso 59, Polignano a Mare. www.grottapalazzesse.it 080.424.0677.) We drop off our bags and head out to join the crowds of people walking through the streets. The town is delightful and we stop at a little wine bar, to enjoy a bottle of Primitivo di Manduria. The evening is cool we are treated to another little balcony where we can stand over the water and enjoy our wine.

As we head back to our room we spot a tratorria and stop in for dinner. (The Porta Picc, Via Anemone 36.) The restaurant is empty but it is off season and we are hungry. We order the seafood risotto for two which is a good choice. Bill has the grilled gamberoni – a plate of five large shrimp and Suzy has the fritto misto – fried calamari, shrimp and squid. We split an order of grilled zucchini and eggplant and have just enough room for pineapple for dessert. Of course there is always room for coffee and grappa.

And so we end our second day.

When is it a good time to travel? With four kids, two dogs and two full time jobs it never seems like there is a good time. So we bite the bullet and get ready to head out. The conflicts, the planning and the anticipation culminate into an exhausting 24 hour period before heading to the airport – finishing up work, ordering groceries, making carpool plans and playdates and ready or not time to head to the airport. Perhaps the most relaxing part is the ride to the airport – anything undone will remain and all that is left is to get boarded on time. My relief at arriving at the airport on time with 90% of my tasks completed quickly turns into annoyance and frustration as we are herded through the airport with less respect than a herd of cattle. Through security, onto a shuttle bus, into a tiny aircraft, through the maze of Philadelphia’s airport and finally onto our final plane where we are reminded that it is a security risk to use the foot rest before take off – whatever! Off to Italy. At last, the eagerly anticipated sense of relaxation as we take off and spend 8 ½ hours eating, drinking and definitely sleeping.

Arriving in Rome at 8:15am we have arranged to rent a car and drive to Naples to overnight. The road is clearly marked and after a brief stop at the AutoGrill for an espresso we arrive in Naples. The view from the Autostrada is not reassuring – the city has been rebuilt after much demolition during WWII and the boxy apartment buildings don’t have the typical Italian charm. As we head down to the bay to our Hotel we see the impressive Centro Storico in the distance, an amazing view of the water and Mt. Vesuvius. Much more of what we had hoped for. Our hotel, the five star Grand Hotel Parker’s, Corso Vittorio Emanuele 135, has a beautiful view of Vesuvius and the Isle of Capri. Fortunately we have booked a seaview room. The hotel is delightful and the staff is attentive, but as we often find in Italy the room is more serviceable than luxurious.

We drop off our bags and catch a taxi to the Museo Nazionale della Ceramica Duca di Martina before they close the doors at 1:15. They say that drivers in Naples have no regard for the laws of the road and they are right. After many close encounters and much swearing by the driver we arrive at the entrance at 1:03. The museum is in the Parco della Floridiana which is lush and beautiful, but we cannot find the museum. We walk through the pathway only to find a locked building. Perhaps we have arrived too late. As we wander around, we find a small kiosk and ask eagerly if we can still buy entrance tickets. We are directed to the back side of the main building. We race to the entrance (how is anyone supposed to find this?) A procter opens the door and directs us to the bookstore next door to buy tickets – we are now at 1:11 and worried that we have come this close to be shut out. At 1:14 we are admitted to the museum and warned that the doors will be closed at 2:00pm. The museum has a fabulous collection of European procelain and the largest collection of Asian porcelain in Italy. We meander through the two floors admiring the beautiful Meissen pieces, the intricate capodimonte pieces from the 1700’s and the delightful Ginori pieces. The ground floor is dedicated to Asian art and has pieces from the Ming dynasty, the Qing dynasty and Japanese pieces from the Edo period. We marvel at how detailed all of the pieces are and of course note the similarities to pieces that remain popular today. It is always fun to see the roots of our current ceramic designs.

The park itself is beautiful and is full of couples taking a stroll on their lunch break. It is a gorgeous, sunny day in January and everyone is taking full advantage.

We have gone WAY to long without eating to not be thinking of food. I saw a pizza place on the way to the museum and quickly head for it. We get to the entrance and the exterior looks a little blah and uninviting. We haven’t been away from Italy too long to remember that a visual sweep is not always the best way to pick a restaurant. When we enter the Trattoria Caprese (via Luca Giordano, 25, Naples, tel. 081.558.7584) fabulous – but we are in Naples and must try the pizza. We have a pizza with the local buffalo di mozzarella and cherry tomatoes and a fried calzone with ricotta and salame. Both are wonderful and we eat way more than we had planned. Perhaps because we have paired the lunch with a bottle of the local Aglianico. Not ready to leave we order coffee and Grapa.

Once we leave we head to the pedestrian walk area we had passed earlier, hoping to find a few good shops. Much to my delight we walk by Luisa Spagnoli which has a crowd waiting outside. Using our best Italian we find that the annual sale of 60-50% off of everthing is due to start in 2 minutes. We wait and are rewarded with two amazing winter coats. (For me!) Can it be that I have done all of my shopping on the first day? I don’t think so, but I have made a nice dent in it.
We continue on to Via Alesandra Scarlatti a pedestrian shopping street four blocks long. We are strictly window shopping now, but the street is full of familiar Italian shops and an assortment of small boutiques. We have a great time looking and watching the people come and go. Soon it is ready for another break, so we find a seat in an outdoor coffee shop and have a glass of wine. A perfect place to sit and watch as the crowds become larger and larger as the workday ends.
We have finally had enough and decide to head back to the hotel. We walk two blocks to the funiculare (a small train that goes vertically up and down the steep hills of the town). For 1 euro each we get a ride back to Corso Vittorio Emanuele. It is a quick ride and much less hair raising than the earlier taxi ride.

So Buona Notte – we end our first day.

This morning I am sitting outside on a pool chair (I can’t spell chaise longes), an open umbrella shielding me and my laptop screen from the soft, hazy sunlight and milky blue sky, while a cool gentle breeze occasionally rushes around my ears. To my right is a beautiful expanse of light blue seawater, pumped and cleaned and conditioned in an enormous outdoor stone pool, alternating in places as massive slabs of unfinished rock and punctuated by exquisitely crafted rock walls, one terraced above the other, the whole rising from the water and planted here and there with grasses, cacti, shrubs and olive trees. A small waterfall tumbles from the head of the garden, splashes down a channel that it seems to have followed for years and fills the pool, its gentle huss a soothing background tune for this scene. Matching deck chairs set out in pairs and trios and tall cream colored umbrellas line the perimeter of the pool deck, stretching as far as the eye can see until they disappear in endless gardens.

Beyond the pool is a heavy whitewashed building, Moorish looking without any obvious Moorish decorations, its simple white stone forming a number of large rectangular spaces that are joined together into a single large structure, their outlines forming perfect right angles of perfect straight lines, the lone outside stairway defining the only other angle as it rises up to an open rooftop terrace. This is the building where we ate dinner last night and this morning it, and the entire grounds seem completely deserted, save for an occasional staff member who saunters by unhurriedly, dressed in a uniform that is particular to the spa, pool, restaurant or reception.
Another large, whitewashed building, lower slung than the first, is directly ahead. Slightly to my left is what appears to be a set of meeting rooms, sage bushes growing on its flat roof, palm trees here and there. Pomegranate trees, bending under their heavy fruit, line a walkway to the left which is lined with other strange bushes and trees, as the walkway disappears into a grove of olive trees that the guest book says comprises 100 hectares. I am not sure how big a hectare is, but by the looks of it I am quite sure it is quite a lot.

Songbirds chirp overhead, hopping from tree to tree.

* * * *

I stop to write this reflection, my first impression of Day 6, before I have written yesterday’s (Day 5) account, breaking my usual discipline of writing each day’s story before moving to the next. I do this for two reasons. First, I have risen a little earlier than I would have liked so that I can use the hotel’s high speed internet connection in order to post my Day 3 and Day 4 stories, only to find that the connection is not working. I am, to say the least, slightly perturbed that a resort of the caliber of the Masseria San Domenico cannot offer me a high speed internet line. I am generally anything but the ugly American, but this really burns me. Sitting by the pool, soaking in the beauty of this place, however, has restored to me a sense of calm and balance and I don’t want to lose it by focusing on recounting yesterday’s travel day, which was largely uneventful. The second reason is that if I should die later today, I want to leave this record of this remarkable morning hour I spent in relaxation by the pool.

* * * *

The Masseria San Domenico is farm that has been converted into a hotel. Masseria is a term used in Puglia to describe the fortified farms that dot this fertile region. I am not quite sure against what or whom they were fortifying themselves, but one notices a feature in this countryside that is not common in other places around Italy – walls. Plots of land are clearly defined from each other by low walls made of stones piled upon one another. Inside these walls farmers did their daily work and, in the case of the masserie, small communities of workers were organized and defended against outside threats.

But the atmosphere at the San Domenico is anything but threatening. Rated one of the top properties in Puglia it is hard to imagine any care or hardship here. Armies of staff buzz about (but quietly and unobtrusively), as guests saunter from the pool to the spa to the dining room. Everything manmade seems to be made of white stone, which might have given the place a South Beach sort of feel were it not for the incredible lushness of the place. Everywhere you look there are plants and bushes and shrubs and trees, most of them sagging slight under the weight of fruits or flowers. A gentle breeze seems to blow constantly. It is hard to get motivated to do anything but sit.

But after several hours of doing just that we find a small, hidden store of initiative and ask at the front desk about the possibility of playing some golf. Not a problem we are told and a few minutes later we are arriving at the front gate of San Domenico Golf.

The course is completely enclosed by walls and gates and we are not exactly sure where or how to enter. We approach the electric gate, buzz in and announce our name. They are expecting us. The gate slides open and before us in the distance is yet another heavy Moorish stone building that is the clubhouse. A flat, immaculately maintained golf course stretches to the north and south, running all the way to the Adriatic.

We enter the clubhouse and are greeted at the reception desk by an English speaking woman who takes care of everything for us – greens fees, clubs, pull carts, balls, token for the driving range. All is available for a price, which we have neglected to ask about until now, and we are slightly nervous about what we might have just got ourselves into. Instead, the tab is ridiculously cheap and we happily strap it on and head to the driving range.

After a little practice it is off to the first tee, which has been marked number 16. This is not some Euro to Dollar or English to metric conversion. The course is being prepared for some European tournament in the near future and the holes are being reconfigured, presumably to improve its television appeal. We follow the numbers on the scorecard map rather than those on the signs and never get lost.

Not that a few ball are not lost. This is a rather benign course unless you drive the ball far to the right or left, which we do with regularity. Off the fairway is rough that, if it stood straight up would be about two feet deep. Instead it lies down at a height of about 6-8 inches, like a giant green combover. If you are fortunate enough to find your ball in it, it is nearly impossible to get out of.

I actually put together my best three shots of the day on the first hole, carding a birdie, and visions of European championships begin dancing in my head, even without the aid of grappa. That bit of wishful thinking is soon put in its place and I begin to worry that I have not bought enough balls to last the nine holes that we are playing.

San Domenico (St. Dominic), for whom the golf course is named is, as Jeff tells me (based upon his extensive research) the patron saint of golfers. Scholars are divided on the exact number of major championships he won during his lifetime (one camp includes in its total the results from the Greater Assisi Open, where Dominic defeated the hometown hero St. Francis on the third hole of sudden death in one of the great matches of the medieval period; others do not include statistics from Assisi, arguing that the monks who transcribed the records from ancient scorecards erred, believing it was good to have a higher score) but his work in aiding the poor by reselling used golf balls at a substantial discount is beyond dispute. Jeff’s research is, of course, completely made up but we are still convinced that it contains a kernel of truth somewhere.
After a grueling day of nine holes of golf and lunch on the patio overlooking the ninth hole, we return to the Masseria, completely exhausted. Our extreme physical state calls for some sitting around the pool and relaxing on the patio outside the room. Finally, in order to regain some strength we decide to drive to nearby Ostuni to find dinner.

On the map Ostuni looks like it is about three minutes from Savelletri, for how could it take any longer to drive a tenth of an inch on the map? It is only after we arrive in Ostuni about 45 minutes later that we notice the warning on the map that objects on map may be farther away than they appear. Indeed, although the distances look short, it generally takes a bit longer to get where you are going in Puglia.

But the drive is worth the additional time. Ostuni is an ancient walled town (there must have been a glut of these on the market when Italy started building towns because just about every place we visit is “an ancient walled town”), its buildings gleaming white (apparently, we are told, because the entire town is whitewashed annually). Although it is nighttime, the entire city is bathed in light from the outside, making it visible for miles as you approach. We are looking for a restaurant suggested to me by our old friend Richard Lasner, but have no idea where it is, so we follow signs to centro, the city center, and find a parking space that is slightly smaller than our car and at an angle bearing no known Euclidian relationship to the street or sidewalk. And so we start walking through a town the size of Detroit, expecting to simply walk to the restaurant for which we are looking.

The peril of asking for directions in Italy for someone like myself who speaks and understands just enough Italian to be dangerous is twofold: you look foolish asking for directions because you sound like a two year old and you look even more foolish when you are completely unable to understand the response. Mi dispiace signore, ma perche chiede in italiano quando non parli italiano? (Excuse me [mister], but why do you ask in Italian if you don’t speak Italian?).
Tonight, however, everything works perfectly. Asked and answered in Italian. We resume our journey to the restaurant secure in the knowledge we know where it is. It also helps that our guide points to where we are going.

We wander up the hill into the historic center of Ostuni, which is quite beautiful and quite crowded. The streets, mostly pedestrian-only (or perhaps completely pedestrian only but with Italian motorists taking a few liberties) are made of stone and are full of young people out for a night on the town. Large groups of ragazzi duck into and come out of a surprisingly large number of bars and night clubs. It is a Saturday night and Ostuni is hopping.

We at last find Richard’s recommended Osteria del Tempo Perso (via G. Tanzarella Vitale, 47, Ostuni, tel. 0831.30.33.20, www.osteriadeltempoperso.com). It is nearly empty at 9:30 and we are somewhat nervous that it is closing down, especially when they ask us if we have a reservation. But we are seated and over the next hour the place fills up, presumably for the second time this evening.

I order a strascinate integrale con cime di rape e mollica di pane, a whole wheat orechiette pasta that is topped with rape (turnip greens), the whole delicious concoction floating in a garlic sauce. Richard has recommended it and it indeed made the entire drive and walk up to the old town worth the trip. I follow this with some delicious lamb chops, a little coffee and of course, some grappa. A bottle of local Primitivo di Manduria, chosen by the waiter is both obligatory and delicious. Jeff orders a few dishes, but is still suffering from grappa withdrawal, being a courageous dinner companion without so much eating dinner.

The drive back to Savelletri seems shorter than the drive to Ostuni. Perhaps it is the grappa; perhaps it is the fact that we take the highway back. But within a few minutes of returning I am fast asleep, body and soul relaxing and unwinding in a fortified farmhouse called a masseria, secure that marauding nomads will be kept at bay, at least for one more night, by the army of staff here at the San Domenico.