* * *
WE ARE SIX hours from home. We decide to drive a couple of hours into Le Marche and spend the night in Ascoli Piceno, one of our favorite towns. We munch on bread as we drive through the countryside.
One winter night over dinner with close friends in Hillsborough, I said, “What if we all went to Puglia?” That afternoon, I’d come across a listing for a palatial and evocative villa outside Monopoli. Ed looked at me: What? We hardly ever travel with friends.
“Monopoli. Where’s that?” one said.
“Mid-Puglia below the spur but above the stiletto heel,” I explained. “We were near there in March. In May, the weather should be perfetto.” Ed pulled up the villa photo on his phone. Curly iron gates, an allée leading to the grand villa of long windows, a glass loggia, and a façade of dark oxblood stucco, peeling just enough to give an aura of decadent romanticism.
Ed and I have been to Puglia four times; still not enough. We talked Puglia. The crystalline water, massive olive trees, the vegetable-centered cuisine, Romanesque churches, stone walls crisscrossing the landscape, perched white villages that let you know the Greeks once lived there. What fun to share it with good friends. We drank a lot of red wine. We decided YES.
* * *
FIVE MONTHS LATER we all meet in Rome, where Ed has found a house that I could move right into. Three stories, refined taste, comfortable. I know I’d like the owners though I’ll never meet them. The dining room says who they are: a long walnut table with candlesticks and epergnes piled with fresh fruit, walls like buttercream frosting, old portraits, window seat with apricot velvet pillows, sideboard full of good linens.
We’re near Piazza Navona but on a quiet street near one of my favorite small churches, Santa Maria della Pace. By day, everyone goes in different directions since some of us never have been before, some have, and one was born here. Ed and I are on a quest to see the many-splendored Biblioteca Angelica and other great historic libraries of Rome. We all buy flowers, wine, cheeses. At seven, we meet for drinks in the living room—three roomy sofas—then proceed to dinner. In warm mid-May, we can eat outside at Santa Lucia, at Pier Luigi, on the terrace of Hotel Raphaël, and at sidewalk trattorias.
For the third day, we’ve arranged a seven A.M. tour of the Vatican libraries and galleries, and the Sistine Chapel. We get to enter before opening hours. This works well with the art galleries—we’re almost alone—but we’re bustled right along, as other private groups are bringing up the rear. We get a few moments alone with Caravaggio’s Deposition. I have always loved that long Vatican corridor with the early maps on the walls. It’s a pure delight to see them again after many years. We pause at a coffee bar while our excellent guide lectures us on what we’re going to see. By the time we enter the Sistine Chapel, many other private groups have arrived and soon the floodgates open. We’re treated to guards constantly shouting about no photos. I think of Michelangelo lying on his back on scaffolding, paint dripping down on his face, the cramped position he held for hours. Crushed by now, I think maybe it was better up there than down here. I want out.
Is any meaningful experience with art possible when you are trapped like a chicken in a transport crate? Ed, who suffers at times from claustrophobia, already waits at the exit. “Tell me we never have to come back to the Vatican again.”
A drastic idea. “I promise.”
In the gift shop, we buy a thousand-piece puzzle of the Grand Canal.
* * *
WHO DOESN’T FALL in love with Rome? A walk along the Tevere, a raucous lunch at Roscioli, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, Antico Caffè Greco’s pastries and coffee, little cakes at MADE Creative Bakery, shopping in Monti and fantastic lunch at Trattoria Monti, wandering Trastevere, a grand finale dinner at creative Il Convivio Troiani.
The four days are gone.
* * *
OUR FRIENDS BOARD the train for Brindisi, where a car will be waiting to take them to the villa. We retrieve our car from long-term parking. They arrive before we do.
Here’s our group of merry pranksters:
Susan—cookbook writer, extraordinary cook, nutritionist, and former food editor at Food & Wine, later owner of a book editing and production service. Fascinated by India; lover of Bollywood.
Ann—agent for avant-garde photographers, curates shows, lives in her family home, the oldest house in Chapel Hill, is up on every culinary event, first to appear at the weekly Carrboro Farmers’ Market.
Randall—trial lawyer with a houseful of books testifying to his English-major past. Married to Ann. Articulate with a wry humor.
Robin—former chef and owner of several restaurants, serious interior design talent, and always cooking for twenty or more.
Andrea—head of design at a major telecommunications company, walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, reader of books about consciousness and creativity. Married to Robin.
Michael—literary novelist, bon vivant, former head writer for a major soap opera. Just retired from teaching in theater arts.
Francesca—theater designer, recently quit professorship to freelance. Born in Rome to a complex family she’s producing a film about.
* * *
ED, SUSAN, FRANCESCA, and Randall, our intrepid drivers, go off to pick up a rental car and groceries. The rest of us unpack and check out the villa. I knew there would be some quirkiness—but now we have a lesson in what photos of a rental don’t show. The huge pool with umbrellas in the photo actually is surrounded by rough tarp-like material. If it gets hot, will it bubble like tar? The formal garden is enchanting with statues and a stone boat in a fishpond, a pergola, and an orangery—but the photo must have been taken twenty years back. In a futile gesture, a few clumps of lurid petunias and geraniums have been installed, probably for our arrival.
The bedrooms are fine, large and square, with antiques, soaring frescoed ceilings, and marble floors. The blankets are ancient mites. Only one bath was shown in the pictures. With good reason. Even the photographed one was only adequate. At least every bedroom has a bath, however primitive and minute. The two grand salons run the width of the house. In the main living room, the owners’ son, who lives on the lower floor, tells us not to sit on the horsehair sofas as the fabric will split. There is nowhere else to sit. The other salon is airy and charming with family portraits, buff marble floor with inlaid concentric squares of ocher marble, and a Venetian chandelier. The Empire furniture, stiff and upright, marching around the perimeter, won’t be comfortable. At least we can sit down. We pull everything in around an oval table where Michael dumps out the jigsaw puzzle we bought after our Sistine Chapel visit. A tall door opens onto another formerly formal garden with a view in the distance of the sea.
The dining room table seats eighteen. (We later find that it’s extended with plywood panels. If you lean on your elbow, the other side flies up.) A playful fresco of a trellis, vines, and birds covers the ceiling. The walls, unfortunately, have been painted in an awful attempt to resemble wood. Angels and dog portraits that commemorate pets must have been painted by an untalented family member.
The kitchen. Let’s not go there yet.
What is lovely: The front door opens into a two-story glass atrium with a marble plaque on the wall testifying in Latin that the villa was built in 1792 for the concept of otium: leisure, friendship, and relaxation. Stone steps ascend through the greenhouse into a foyer. This must have been divine when full of flourishing plants. Now it seems a false kindness to keep the stalky and dusty specimens alive, but barely.
* * *
ANN, ANDREA, AND I set the table outside. Limpid late-afternoon light casts its spell on the skeletal garden. I’m worried that everyone is just being polite and they’re seething that I’ve spent their money on this ruin when there are lovingly restored masserie (the old fortified farms) we could have rented for less. But everyone seems excited to be in Puglia. We’re laug
hing as we cobble together three folding tables. Thrown over them, a white tablecloth I found in a cupboard in the dining room. We set votive candles all along, and a vine of greenery. Mismatched plates and ugly cutlery. It almost looks like one of those clever settings on social media I’ve seen, where someone who wouldn’t consider ironing napkins lays out dish towels, cuts a few twigs and plops them in a jar, spontaneous anti-décor. Oh, contrived and fun.
* * *
SUSAN AND ROBIN are throwing something together; the rest of us sit drinking prosecco on a sun-warmed stone wall. Michael and Francesca think we should write a play to perform in the bereft garden. Randall makes his way into the kitchen to find another cold bottle. A chair must be wedged against the refrigerator door because it won’t close. “Do you smell gas?” Susan asks him. “The guy said the stove is brand new.”
“Yes, I do.” Twisting the cork, Randall looks on with alarm. Robin is shaking a pan of sausages over the flame. The kitchen provides a study in inefficiency. I do love the wall of dozens of mid-century aluminum colanders, frying pans, and saucepans. Do not love the cluttered low table that serves as a work space, or the oilcloth-covered table near the sink, which must harbor generations of germs. We layer paper towels over it. Shopping list: sponges, disinfectant, scrubbing powder.
Robin arranges olives, salume, tiny mozzarella balls. Susan improvises with fresh orecchiette, tomatoes, and zucchini. Sausages, salad. Ordinary, but elevated. “How is it that everything tastes amazing?” Ann asks. Toasts into the night. Some quotes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Andrea describes the brilliant twentysomething digital designers she mentors. Randall says what he can about a headline case he’s defending. We talk about tomorrow. Monopoli! Far out at the edge of the view, a knife-edge of silver where the moon reflects on the sea.
We drift off to our rooms. A life-size marble woman by the rear entrance, although headless, bids us good night.
We are kept awake by a maniacal kennel of barking dogs across the road.
* * *
IN THE MORNING before departing, I go outside and knock on the young heir’s door. He’s sleeping in. Opens an inch and grimaces. “There’s a problem. The dogs. What can you do?”
He squints into the sun. “Oh, sorry. Yes. The dogs. There’s nothing to do. The owners are away. They’ve been barking since October. You get used to it.” He wants to shut the door.
“Isn’t there a caretaker? Can’t you call the police? There must be noise rules in such an exclusive area.”
“No. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
And I do know about neighborhood vendettas in Italy. Calling the police on a neighbor might incite a generational war. “Well, I’m sorry, too, must be awful for you, but we need a solution. Otherwise, obviously, we will have to leave. Obviously.”
He suddenly seems awake. “I’ll try.” He frowns. Pesky Americans. Wanting to sleep at night.
* * *
MONOPOLI CORNERS THE market on charm. A line of whitewashed houses with blue doors opening onto the equally blue sea. A tanned and hairy man up to his waist in water pulls up a squirming octopus. Harbor of bright boats, green water. Cafés and osterie line the piazza. We come upon a Byzantine rupestrian cave church, dark and mysterious, down a flight of stairs. Under an arch, a shrine painting memorializes the story of roof beams strapped onto a raft. The raft washed in and landed in the harbor in 1117. A miracle: the very wood needed to complete the construction of the cathedral begun ten years earlier. Found on the beams like a gift card, an icon of the Virgin Mary and Child, now displayed in the cathedral, venerated and celebrated with festivals.
We overwhelm the tiny Olio e Vino shop and stock up on good wines and artisan olive oil. Fish lunch outside at Dal Ghiottone. After we eat, and the table is cleared, there comes that moment when, ah, vacation kicks in. Shoulders go down and at the same time a different energy surges forth. We linger over coffee. We have nowhere we have to be other than this ancient village where the air is room temp and the waiter has a megawatt smile you’ve been waiting all your life to see.
Afternoon stretches out. We’re lazy cats, reading, napping, lounging by the pool. Recovering from last night’s dog yapping. Michael types on his lap in an upright chair, legs up on a stool. Under his white straw hat with a black band, he looks like Truman Capote. The edges of the puzzle are finished. The heir comes up with a repairman to see about the gas. Someone has been called about the refrigerator. He has talked to the caretaker and, miracolo, the dogs have been moved. “Imagine,” Ed says, “he’s lived with that racket for months and all it took was a trip across the road.”
* * *
AT SIX, WE’RE picked up by Giacomo in his Mercedes van for a trip up to Polignano a Mare. Robin made this dinner reservation months ago. She’d seen a photo of a spectacularly positioned restaurant, so spectacular that we won’t even care if we’re served mediocre food. Like Monopoli, Polignano a Mare is a dreamy white village on the sea. Near the entrance into the old town, we see a statue of Domenico Modugno, who wrote “Volare,” which must be belted out all too frequently at many outdoor bars.
We reach Ristorante Grotta Palazzese by going down, down, down many stairs until we emerge into a cave above the sea. In front, the sunset splendidly splashes the sky with lavish orange and purple, and the water reflects the colors in ripples and swirls. In back of us, a blue grotto. Impossibly gorgeous! Robin orders the best Champagne because why not? When will we ever be in such a setting again?
Raw board: everything pulled out of the water today. Grilled red shrimp, whole fish, glistening oysters that surely must have pearls. The light behind Ed, sitting across from me, appears to emanate from his hair, showing him to be the beatific creature that he is. We are swimming creatures. We are finny and fine. The sky, now fading to nacreous pink. We do not sing “Volare,” although the notes strum through my head as we take photos to remember such a memorable night.
* * *
UP AND OUT early. Giacomo will drive us to our far point of the week: Lecce. We’ve reserved at Bros’, the edgy restaurant Ed and I discovered when we were there in March. Once let out in the centro storico, we keep losing each other. “Where’s Ed?” “He’s gone to a bar he liked before near the amphitheater.” “Where’s Ann?” “She’s looking for sunglasses.” Herding cats. We decide to meet at lunch.
Ed and I neglected the cartapesta, papier-mâché, tradition when we were here in March. Today, we visit the small Museo della Cartapesta in the Castello di Carlo V, where the city has collected some of the best examples of the craft. We’re enchanted with the detail of those original artists’ work, with how the figures reveal life at that time through what they wore, work they did. Known as “poor man’s marble,” cartapesta was early arte povera, art made from humble stuff, as their seventeenth- and eighteenth-century materials were rags, glue, plaster, straw, wire.
Now there’s more to it than religious figures and crèche furnishings. At Tonda Design, artisans display statement necklaces and rings. I buy colorful dangling earrings made of squares and circles of cartapesta. Tonda is primarily a furniture and lighting gallery, with very particular objects made from olive and other local woods. Then we meet the exquisite Francesca Carallo in her eponymous art gallery on vico dei Pensini, 1. She’s one of those women with short, stylish hair who make a white blouse and black skirt look chic. She welcomes us like friends and shows her abstract sculptures, two of which are pierced honeycomb wall lamps that cast radiating shadows. She’s apologizing that most of her work is away at a show. I think she must be the new Lecce.
I find La Casa dell’Artigianato Leccese and immediately call Ann. When I described the cartapesta angel I bought here years ago, she wanted to find one. And here they are. I pick three small ones. She’s here in a flash, sporting new sunglasses. There are many angels to choose from. They are artistic, not simpering. Ann finds one in a blue dress she likes—and now must
get it home without breaking off a wing.
Bros’! Once again, but more so—more fun to be here with friends to enjoy the zany and creative presentations. Out come the first tastes served on blocks of wood, charcoal, driftwood, even atop a potted olive plant. Behind the pomp, the food is fantastic. Pasta with sea urchins; lentils with coconut and dill; calamari with leeks and miso; duck with apricot sauce; quail with plums and green beans. Several of us order the quail, delightfully presented in nests of straw. They’re plump, glistening gold, legs tied, heads still attached. We have different wines with each course and I never know exactly what we are drinking, except for a Taersìa Negroamaro in Bianco, Duca Carlo Guarini, a Salento wine as ethereal as an angel’s wing. Dessert is called, inexplicably, Fucking Cold Egg. Served in a whacky box covered with graffiti slogans, it looks like a real egg, but tap the top and a sweet crust breaks open. Inside, creamy vanilla custard.
Lunch ends at four. Far south in Italy, where the sun hammers hard, how strongly somnolence can hit after a midday feast. Good thing Giacomo is waiting at the gate.
* * *
WE HAD INTENDED to sample country trattorie in the area but when we return from our explorations, we want to stay home. The gas smell is cured in the kitchen, but now has migrated to outside the salon door. No more candles lit at the folding tables, I suppose. The heir is disgruntled that we’ve noticed that a leak has sprung outside. I raid the chests in the dining room and set the tables with vintage linens. Tonight, Michael makes a grand caprese. We don’t want another course. Just the usual flowing prosecco and vino.
See You in the Piazza Page 31
