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.

Five thirty in the morning is an ugly word and ugly time in any language, in any time zone. But it is at 5:30am, local time in Perugia, that my alarm clock rings, waking me from a terrible night sleep interrupted throughout the night the by young Perugian collegians who chose to congregate outside my window and sing college fight songs (“Go Perugia, fight on for old St. Stephen”) and a balky stomach that has been giving me fits for the past day, perhaps as revenge for having eaten too many big meals or, more likely, for not ingesting enough grappa.

In any case, I shower, close up my bags and check out of the hotel and walk down to the car park where I have left the car, hoping that I understood the attendant correctly that the garage would be open all night. We have a train to catch at 6:57am and we have not left a whole lot of room to spare for unexpected surprises.

Well, practice pays off. I meet Jeff in front of the hotel, having planned the route from the garage to the hotel the day before. We depart ahead of schedule, not a car on the road. Quickly disappearing in our rear view mirror are small armies of uniformed men in jumpsuits who are finishing up the assembly of the numerous tents that will house chocolate displays at tomorrow’s Eurochocolate exhibition. Our time in Perugia has been wonderful and rich, the only regret my intestinal distress, but it is time to move on to Puglia, a less well known region in the south of Italy. The heel of the boot.

We bob and weave our way down the hill of Perugia along the route we had practiced the previous day. Everything looks different at 6:00am, however, coming at you faster because there is no light to see signs and familiar landmarks. We end up in on a small one way street that is clearly not one we had traversed the day before, so be back up and retrace our steps nearly to the top of Perugia and try again. This time we make the right turn and soon we are in front of the train station with fifteen minutes to spare. Had we not practiced the route I would be writing you from Perugia, telling you how wonderful the Eurochocolate has been.

* * * *

Italian train stations are pretty grim in general and Perugia’s is no exception. They are pretty easy to navigate, however, especially if you speak a little Italian. I have purchased our train tickets in advance online at www.trenitalia.it. There is an English version page and it is pretty easy to use; just enter your departure point and destination and the system will prepare a number of alternate itineraries. You can purchase your ticket online using a credit card but remember to print out your itinerary or at the very least, your PNR, a record locator code that you will need to retrieve your ticket from the ticket machine in the station. (If you are traveling from a smaller town, you should check the site to make sure your station has a ticket machine because no machine, no tickey. No tickey, no ridey.)

We get our tickets and a couple of bottles of water, find out which track the train will be arriving and departing from and begin the arduous voyage from the waiting room to the track. At many, if not most Italian train stations, the tracks run parallel to the station and you gain access to them by passing under the other tracks via an underground passageway. This necessitates carrying all of your baggage down the steps, dragging them a few yards down the hallway and back up the steps again. When you emerge from the tunnel you are about 15 feet from where you started, but generally require a change of clothes.

The train ride, which requires two changes of train (at Foligno and Ancona) is mostly uneventful. The first two trains are intercity type trains, a little long in the tooth but perfectly comfortable. We have nearly an hour wait in Ancona before boarding our sleek, lithe Eurostar train to Bari so we stop for a caffe and head for the more comfortable waiting room which inexplicably has many open seats. Upon entering the stench of urine is so overpowering it is a wonder that anyone can sit in there. Ah, the romance of train travel.

We board our final train, looking for our reserved seats, numbers 65 and 66 in carozza (coach) number 4. There is an illustration on the platform that shows the car numbers, helping you to wait in the right place for the train to arrive. What the sign doesn’t show is the middle aged man and his old mother sitting in seats 65 and 66 in carozza 4. This has been our experience previously. Reserved seats numbers are just suggestions that Italians may or may not follow. Apparently this bitter pair prefers the window and they look in no mood to offer them to us.
After some sleeping and writing we head to the dining car where a full meal can be had for about E20, which includes pasta, a meat dish, bread, dessert, coffee and, of course, wine. We are both hurting mightily from the previous four days’ overindulgence and sleep deprivation and order something light, with, of course, some wine. The meal helps pass the time and keep us away from the burning glare of our seatmates.

We arrive in Bari on time, waste some time debating whether to walk or take a cab to the rental car agency about a mile up the road and ultimately catch a cab with a friendly cabbie who promptly charges us E17 for the 3 minute ride. “Luggage, you know” he weakly offers as the reason for the charge. The cost of two plane tickets from Bari to Rome, which we are taking on Monday are E9 each, making the 2 kilometer cab ride nearly as expensive as an hour long flight. No wonder the Italians haven’t won any Nobel Awards for economics lately.

We hightail it out of Bari and find the motorway toward Brindisi, our destination the Masseria San Domenico in Savelletri di Fasano, about half way to Brindisi. We stop briefly in Polignano a Mare, a seaside town built into the cliffs above the Adriatic and a place Suzy and I visited last February. Polignano offers some breathtaking views from balconies and walkways along the sea. One restaurant, the Grotta Palazzese, features a dining room hewn out of the rocks perched above the crashing waves below. There is a hotel there as well, featuring rooms that look out over the ocean (Hotel Ristorante Grotta Palazzese, via Narcico, 59, Polignano a Mare (BA), tel. 080.424.06.77, www.grottapalazzese.it).

* * * *

We arrive at the Masseria San Domenico (72010 Savelletri di Fasano, tel. 080.482.77.69, www.masseriasandomenico.com) just as the sun is setting. Had management had the courtesy to place any signs at any of the dozens of intersections we crossed and recrossed as we looked in vain for the hotel, we probably would have arrived with an hour of sunlight to spare. A phone call to the reception proved no more helpful than our random wandering, the receptionist repeating over and over the not-so-helpful information that the hotel is “between Savellestri and Torre Canne.” Unfortunately, there are precious few signs for Savellestri or Torre Canne and any signs that do exist pointing you toward these (apparently fictitious) places are not followed up with additional signs confirming that you are on the right track. Two words of advice for anyone staying at the Masseria San Domenico (and I would highly recommend that you do stay here, despite our difficulty arriving); do not follow the signs to San Domenico Golf (even though the two places are related and not all that far from another) and do head to the road along the ocean and follow it until you get to the granite factory. The entrance is just past it.

* * * *

I cannot do justice to describing the Masseria San Domenico and I certainly don’t want to try to do so at the end of a day that has been tiring and a little frustrating. I will endeavor to bring you some sense of this place tomorrow, after I have had a good night sleep, my stomach settles and I stop muttering about missing road signs. Suffice it to say that a 5:30 departure, eight hours of train travel on three trains, an overpriced taxi ride and driving around in circles for an hour all seem well worth it.

Perugia is hopping. Today is Thursday and in two days the annual Eurocholate, Italy’s largest, perhaps only, chocolate festival begins. The old town’s main street, the Corso Vannucci, is filled with piles of materials that will be transformed into a dozens of white tents, erected by numerous Italian chocolate manufacturers and retailers, and filled with cases of chocolates to be sold and, in some cases, given to the tens of thousands of acne-ravaged chocoholics that come from all over Italy and western Europe to accelerate their own tooth decay. Suzy and I quite by accident were in Perugia for a Eurochocolate several years ago, and although we had a wonderful time, I can honestly say that I’m thrilled to be leaving Perugia on Friday, before the caffeine-crazed hordes clog every medieval and renaissance street and passageway.

Besides, my imagination is fixed firmly on this morning’s program (as the Italians like to call your day’s itinerary). We are going on a journey to Montefalco, a town in the mountains about a half hour to the south and east of Perugia, with Javier and our good friend Giuseppe Fioroni to meet Arnaldo Caprai, the patriarch of the Arnaldo Caprai empire.

Today’s plan grew unexpectedly from a casual question I had posed to Javier a few days earlier when he had inquired about our program in Umbria. I mentioned to him that I would like to visit the Caprai vineyard in Montefalco if possible, to taste some of their wines, particularly the Sagrantino di Montefalco, Umbria’s most renowned wine and the one that has really put the area on the wine map. I was familiar with Caprai only because it is available in the U.S., and thought it would be fun to taste some wines from around Montefalco, whether at the Caprai vineyard or somewhere else in or around the region.

Upon hearing this, Javier immediately phoned Maestro Fioroni, a long time friend and mentor of Javier’s, who Javier suspected might know Sig. Caprai. Within a few minutes Maestro Fioroni called back to say that the four of us were going to Montefalco on Thursday to meet Sig. Caprai and to visit the vineyard. Mussolini may have got the trains to run on time, but he had nothing on Maestro Fioroni.

I refer to Giuseppe Fioroni as “maestro” because he is a renowned man of arts in Perugia and more broadly in Umbria. His work has been exhibited throughout Europe and he has won awards in Italy and abroad. Last September, Bella Italia hosted an exhibition of his work at our store in Bethesda, Maryland and over 150 people attended a reception in his honor at the Italian Cultural Institute in Washington, DC. Such accomplishments merit the title “master.” But in addition to being a great self-taught painter, Maestro Fioroni has built a major grocery store consortium throughout Italy, making him a well connected and important businessman as well. It is both as businessman and artist that the Maestro developed a relationship with another of the region’s important business and cultural leaders, Signore Arnaldo Caprai.

We find the Maestro waiting for us at his offices outside Perugia, looking like a jolly Santa Clause, his flowing white beard and red suspenders unable to draw attention away from a sensitive countenance with gleaming eyes. We have not seen each other since he hosted a dinner for Suzy and me in Perugia in February, but it feels as though it was just yesterday. After exchanging greetings, the four of us climb into his SUV and we head toward Montefalco.

Or so I think. As it turns out, this is not just a wine tasting excursion. For although I am familiar with the Arnaldo Caprai name only from seeing it on the front of a wine bottle, the Caprai family, it seems, is actually engaged in many other businesses, all of them set around the valley near Montefalco. So we set off for the D.O.C. (Denominzatione d’Origine Caprai), an outlet store and factory in nearby Foligno to meet Sig. Caprai.

We pass by a number of beautiful hilltop towns, including Trevi, where Bella Italia’s Torre Mattige olive oil is produced, memories of previous visits to this area flooding back. Finally we pull into the parking lot of D.O.C., a non-descript looking building from the outside, and wander around until we find the main reception area. A receptionist seems unimpressed by our arrival and announces us, but when Arnaldo Caprai appears, he is most gracious in acknowledging us, particularly his old friend Giuseppe Fioroni whom, it seems, he has know for hundreds of years. Sig. Caprai is smartly dressed in a blue blazer, gray slacks and an open neck dress shirt, all of the finest quality. He exudes an aura of Italian chic without overdoing it. He is clearly the capo of the Caprai family.

Then begins an hour-long tour and education about some of the finer things in life, including Caprai’s trademark merletti¸ top quality lace made from cashmere, silk and other fine materials, silk and cashmere bedsheets and other fine fabrics. Sig. Caprai shows us the production facilities, machines that spin thread and that weave thousand foot long strands of cashmere into sheets or silk and gold threads into tablecloths and bedspreads. Other machines stitch delicate filigree patterns of lace on nearly transparent backgrounds that are later removed leaving a delicate and intricate merletti for which Caprai is rightly famous. We squeeze our way through rows of clanking mechanized looms that stitch and weave under the control of complex computer programs. But when asked, Sig. Caprai replies dryly that it is not the antiquated machinery that accounts for the elegant output, it is use of the finest inputs – expensive silks and luxurious cashmeres, and the relentless pursuit of the most distinguished and beautiful patterns, gleaned from historic research, that, when instructed by modern software causes these archaic looms to produce these luxurious fabrics.

To stress this point, Sig. Caprai takes us into several rooms, including one resembling a bank vault, complete with a foot thick door, comprising the most important private library of fine fashion in the world. Included are hundreds of samples of lace from the sixteenth and seventeenth century and beyond and an extensive private library of the history of merletti and other fine fashions, original volumes of which stretch back hundreds of years. The tour continues with rooms filled with ancient sewing machines, irons and boxes of thimbles dating to the time of Caesar.

When we return to the D.O.C. shop, an outlet store containing discontinued patterns and slightly imperfect samples (still well above my price range), Sig. Caprai makes an interesting comment. Neither he nor his company is interested in selling products. Rather, he says, he sells culture. The difference is that the customer should not just end up with an object, but an appreciation for that object and everything that came before it and on which it is based. While this may perhaps sound pretentious, it is clear that this man has devoted his professional career to developing and selling culture.

As we arrive at the Caprai vineyard, the place exudes this culture of which Sig. Caprai spoke. The main building, housing the cantina as well as the production facilities is beautifully designed and decorated. The vineyards stretching in all directions as far as the eye can see are neat and tidy. We walk under a blazing sun and clear skies as freshly picked bunches of grapes are unloaded from trucks that have brought them to the machinery for cleaning, separating and crushing. Sig. Caprai takes us on a complete tour of the facilities, describing every step of the process, leading us, finally, into the cantina where hundreds of bottles of all of Arnaldo Caprai’s offerings are displayed and where we are treated to a new I.G.T. offering. In the aftermath of the tasting Sig. Caprai offers to host groups we bring over from the U.S. for wine tasting and other cultural courses and hands me his card. Under his name is the term cavaliere, literally a knight or horseman, but more commonly used as a designation of a board chairman in Italy. It is clear that this man is indeed a cavaliere.

We depart the Caprai vineyard and drive to the nearby town of Bevagna, a tiny walled town that Maestro Fioroni claims has the most beautiful piazza in all of Italy. We park outside the walls, walk around a picturesque pond with waterfalls that power a grist mill and enter what is indeed a most perfect piazza, flanked with several perfectly preserved medieval churches and civic buildings. In the hot afternoon sun the clean, white stone buildings and stone square glimmer. We enjoy a little repose in the square before heading into a local trattoria, the Ottavius Ristorante (via Gonfalone, 1, 06031 Bevagna (PG), tel. 339.225.33.57), where we enjoy a remarkable steak and grilled porcini mushrooms that literally explode with flavor in the mouth. The Maestro is excited to offer us a Sagrantino di Montefalco and the velvety rich wine is indeed memorable and a perfect accompaniment to the meal. We emerge from the restaurant feeling cultured and satisfied but a feeling of shock and horror invades as I look in the sky and see the first cloud of the trip. Alas, perfection can not last forever.

* * * *

How strange is it to be strolling down a street in a foreign city and hear your name called out? Strange indeed. But later that day as I am walking in Perugia before dinner I hear my name called out repeatedly. Looking around I spot Michele Fioroni, the Maestro’s son whom I had met when he accompanied his father to Washington last year. He is taking a walk with his three year old son, Rodolfo, and their au pair. I round up Jeff and we wander up the Corso Vannucci with Michele and company, stopping at one caffe for a beer, being taken to “the most beautiful spot in Perugia,” being shown a church with an important work of Raffael and finally being invited into his home for “a good Italian coffee.” It’s nice to be recognized in a foreign town!

* * * *

A maestro and a cavaliere. Strange sounding titles to Americans. But these are men of culture, men who have spent their lives creating, enhancing and sharing things of beauty, who passionately love and value their cultural heritage. But it is not just this older generation that impresses. The younger Javier and Michele, so willing to share their time and the pride they feel for who they are and where they are is as great a gift as one can give to a stranger or acquaintance. Being able to spend some time in the company of these men and men of culture like them is, and continues to be, an honor. It is one of the things that keeps me coming back to Italy.