Puglia: An Italian Oasis Drenched In Antique White
It’s nighttime when we land in Bari, Puglia. Roxy and I are here to enjoy the sun-bleached heel of Italy’s boot--its sparkling turquoise seas, rolling silver-green olive orchards, and captivating white towns. We grab the rental car and we’re off, re-energized by the road ahead and the high-speed, hour-long chase of the Super Strata, a two-lane highway (ha!). Italian drivers change lanes like a French teenager changes boyfriends. I floor the four-door Opel and pretend to be a FI racecar driver, leaning into the car’s throttle. I love the feeling of flying fast through the darkening sky, so much like a magic carpet ride. Roxy latches onto my road warrior mode with a “Whoop!”
When we arrive at the five-star, totally white and fabulous Il Melograno in Monopoli, they take charge of our bags and shoo us to the restaurant for dinner. It is already 9:00 p.m., and we are as hungry as hitchhikers. Roxy and I tuck delightedly into broad bean puree with chicory and eggplant parmesan. We talk about what to do in the days ahead with our server who recommends we do nothing but go to the beach and eat lots of fish. “What could be better?” I say to Roxy who is deep into her dish.
The next morning, I wake up in an airy white room with handmade lace bedding. I put on my hiking clothes and take a long walk down undulating country roads. I wander aimlessly, but on purpose--you know the feeling. As I walk by the stone houses each with a small organic farm, I’m reminded of what simple beauty really means to me. When I get to the end of the road, I can see far out in each direction. From this vantage point, I can tell that Monopoli is nothing more than a pinprick on the expansiveness of the region. I stop for a moment and meditate. Closing my eyes, I bring in the sensation of the wind to blow away all my fears. It sounds like the ocean. Waves of wind rustle the trees and I imagine myself tiny and small upon a leaf.
After my walk, meditation, and a lovely Italian breakfast, Roxy and I head to the hotel’s private beach club. We motion to the lifeguard to set up chairs, an umbrella, and towels right in front of the gentle Adriatic Sea--warm and clear and so blue. We read our books and walk along the shore towards the public beaches where merchants from Senegal sell cover-ups and woven beach blankets. Babies bounce and bob in inflatable donuts, and tanned Italians play paddle tennis. Banana and tangerine Speedos barely cover the bottoms of the sometimes-tattooed men. As we walk back, Roxy says, “It’s like two different worlds.” I nod in agreement and say, “That’s exactly why I like places where you can experience local life. Otherwise, why venture out at all?”
In the early evening, we drive to Alberobello to walk the white hills of the hobbit-like town. Climbing to a viewpoint above the piazza, we look out at the dreamy, whitewashed enclave hemmed in by protective walls. I make a short video as birds fly high over the charming conical-roofed trulli, which feel straight out of a children’s storybook. I could happily get lost in the charming cobblestone streets below.
We notice that everything from the bars and boutiques to churches and museums have the same whimsical fairytale look. We are eager to get a peek inside one of the buildings. Luckily, our wish comes true when we step inside Ristorante Trullo D'Oro. All at once we are encircled by white limestone walls. Cool and cave-like, it’s the perfect spot to dine on burrata, salami, orecchiette with fried prosciutto and gnocchi with clams and pistachios. It is a delicious ending to our perfect first day in Puglia, sweet, slumber-y, and simply sensational.
The next morning, we wake up at 8am eager to get on the road to Lecce. We had heard that it was the “Florence of the South.” Admittedly, as lovers of Florence, Roxy and I are a little let down, but the town is still charming. After all, there’s only one Florence. The baroque architecture is captivating and the Roman amphitheater intact, minus the gleaming marble that must have covered the seating so long ago. Just past the amphitheater and public square is a Jewish museum and a basilica under construction. Lecce is chockful of surprises and definitely worth seeing.
We decide to visit the Castle of Charles V, a historic fortress originally constructed during the Middle Ages. Next door is an Elliot Erwitt photography exhibit with audio tour, which is smashing. We soon discover that Erwitt was an advertising and documentary photographer known for unexpected and sometimes absurd black-and-white images. “Look at this, Mom!” Roxy excitedly calls me over to see an image of a chihuahua dressed in a turtleneck sweater next to a woman wearing a pair of wedge heels. We only see the shoes and the dog. Erwitt must have been on his belly when he shot this image. “I wonder what it’s like to be so small in such a big world,” I say. “Right? I love the perspective. Being on the shorter side of humanity, I can relate.” Roxy says.
Inspired and hungry, we lunch at a meat-forward spot Roxy found online called Mamma Lupa. We order an enormous Porterhouse steak. “Fresh today!” the waiter informs us. “Does that mean the cow was killed this morning?” Roxy wonders aloud. I shrug and dig in. The tender meat is served with sautéed chicory and a salad of cherry tomatoes and arugula. The steak, grilled to perfection, is pink at the bone. It reminds us of the Flintstone-sized cut of meat we had eaten at La Carnecia in Buenos Aires. When we mentioned this to our waiter, he deadpans, “But this is Italian, which is better.” Got to love that good old-fashioned Italian modesty.
Seated next to us is an attractive couple from Madrid. Chris, the husband, is dressed in a pressed and tucked blue button-down shirt. He’s wearing Gucci sunglasses pushed on top of wavy brown hair cut just above his shoulders and tucked behind his ears. His beautiful wife has a fair complexion and long blonde hair. They order two helpings of mortadella and horse meatballs in tomato sauce, as well as bruschetta with burrata and cherry tomatoes. They insist we try it all and assure us that the horses are raised specifically to eat.
Although we are adventurous eaters, we hesitate to take bites of the meatballs. “Try it, you must,” Chris says, holding the dish. I take one meatball off the plate and split it with Roxy. “It tastes like beef. It’s good, slightly sweet, and tangy,” says Roxy. I’m surprised by how soft and tender it is. Grazie!” I say. The mortadella is mild and melts in your mouth. We are grateful for the tastes of food we would have never thought to order. “There was a time when I couldn’t fathom drinking mare’s milk, and now I’m eating horse meatballs,” says Roxy. I’m proud of how adventurous we’ve both become.
In the evening, we visit the beach town of Polignano a Mare, with its grottoes and white stone walkways, winding streets, and windswept waterfront. There’s a Friday night buzz of activity, including a marching band that moves through the town to celebrate the end of the workweek.
Roxy and I love the energy and fall deep into conversation about the day’s activities. “I can’t believe I ate horse!” Roxy says shaking her head. “Good thing Jews don’t believe in hell, because I feel like I committed a sin by eating a trusty steed.” Trying to calm my guilt-ridden daughter I say, “Well, I know for a fact that is not the weirdest thing you’ve eaten.” Roxy thinks a minute and says, “Weirdest, no. Most mentally scarring? It’s up there.”
Not to be missed, Polignano a Mare feels like a tight-knit community, happy to throw its arms around every visitor. I love how the Italians know how to enjoy life. I think that’s why Americans are drawn to this part of the world. Italy shows us what it looks like to get off the hamster wheel and take a walk along the sea, eat beautiful food, and laugh with one another. We may have a high standard of living, but it doesn’t always translate to a satisfying way of life.
On our final day in Puglia, Roxy and I visit the hill town of Ostuni, a vast “White City” rising high above a sea of olive trees. Full of life, you can feel the joy of the place and the love of its people. We park the car and wander down the labyrinth of streets, through the maze of alleyways, staircases, and arches. It's a city for explorers and historians, and we love the vibe.
With the ability to sniff out a flea market like thrift store bloodhounds, we discover one lining the walkways just off the piazza. There are perfume bottles, earrings old and new, and small pictures in frames. It’s all pretty to look at, but we stop short of buying anything. “Look, Mom, over here. There are stores inside of caves!” Roxy says excitedly.
After an hour of shopping, we have worked up an appetite. So, we use our restaurant radar to locate just the right spot. As we search, we get glimpses of lovely views of the valley, spilling below us and out to the sea.
We decide to climb a set of stairs into a cave. There, our waiter tells us that the restaurant is known for ravioli stuffed with burrata and cherry tomatoes topped with a mound of shaved black truffle. We order it alongside a carpaccio of red shrimp with more burrata. “Too much burrata?” I ask the dimpled waiter when I order. He replies, “No, never too much, madame.” Then it’s grilled lamb chops over Tuscan potatoes, and finally, the tiramisu of a lifetime. We lick or lips and sigh. What a grand finish to our Pugliano holiday.
