Italy: Day 5 - Bound for Bari

Our next destination was my top choice on the pre-trip, must-visit list of locations - Bari! I think it was number-one for Ron as well. It was the first city I lived in when I arrived in Italy as a young missionary in 1982, and I spent six months there.

First up though, breakfast. We walked down to the town square and found a panificio (bakery). I went with a slice of focaccia. Ron and April did the same but with tomatoes. I should have followed suit because mine was a bit dry. But hey, after yesterday's downpour it was just so nice to sit down outside, enjoy the sunshine, warmer temperatures and good food.

We loaded our packs in the car and decided to backtrack part of the route we took the previous day. We wound our way through the narrow streets of Peschici and took the roadway along the seaside. 

It was so windy that you couldn't even think about going very fast but that didn't stop the Italian drivers. They would punch it and pass, even on dangerous curves with no sightlines. Motorcycles and even a pack of bicyclists did the same. At one point, I came around a tight turn and right in the middle of the road was a whole bunch of sheep. Luckily, we didn't plow down any of them down. 

One stop we had to make is perhaps Gargano's signature site, the Arch of San Felice. Centuries of water and wind created the unique rock formation in the white rocks. Legend has it sea nymphs dug the arch in the stone walls in honor of Neptune, the king of the sea, and his wife Amphitrite, who visited the lands to experience a romantic holiday. The nymphs tried to make the scenery even better by forming additional rock monuments and sea caves.

Arco di San Felice with Vieste off in the distance

Sanpellegrino aranciata? Yes please

We continued south and eventually made our way to Bari. I wasn't thrilled with driving into a big city because, well you know, crazy drivers and all. But again, thanks to great navigation help, we had no issues at all. It was also nice that the car drop off zone was not in the heart of Bari. We filled the car with gas ($1.80 Euro for one liter =  $6.85 per gallon in U.S. currency), drove right to the Hertz office, checked it in, put our packs on our backs and headed out on foot thanks to some accurate directions from a friend named Google. 

It didn't take long until Ron and I realized this was not the same Bari we knew from years long since passed. We made our way down the main pedestrian thoroughfare (which wasn't there before) loaded with big name, stylish, chic businesses on both sides of the walkway. The changes only continued as we transitioned into Bari Vecchia, or the old town of Bari, with sites dating back to the 13th century. When we lived in Bari, Bari Vecchia was dark, run down and, to be honest, not a place you wanted to be after the sun went down. Now it was bright, vibrant, cleaned up and just plain beautiful. 

Entrance to our Bari apartment - second on the left 

We arrived at our Airbnb in the heart of Bari Vecchia where our host talked us through the "need to know" info for our two-night stay. What an interesting set-up this was. We were given two different keys because the apartment was in two different locations a couple of floors up. On one side of the landing were two bedrooms, however the kitchen and bathroom were on the other side of the landing. So, if you needed to use the restroom in the night, you had to leave our bedroom, walk through Ron and April's room, grab a key, go out our door, cross the landing and unlock the door to the kitchen/bathroom in order to get in. Our host said that's how all the Bari Vecchia homes were configured. While we're on the subject of keys, Italian keys are, well, kind of funky (see photo below).  

Given that it was day-five of our trip, and we were living out of our backpacks, we were all about out of clothes so we needed to do laundry. Forty years ago, we would wash our clothes in a washing machine and then dry them either out on a balcony clothesline or on interior drying backs. Surely, Italians would have adopted clothes dryers by now, right? Nope. None of the nine places we stayed had dryers. And this particular apartment didn't even have a washer so we had even more work to do. The Smiths went first. Once they were done and hung up their wet clothes to dry, it was our turn. Lori handled wash-by-hand duty in a large sink on the balcony. Then I took the sudsy clothes inside, rinsed and wringed them in the kitchen sink, and hung them on the clothesline, kitchen chairs and on a ladder we set up in the kitchen because we needed more room to hang clothes.

Doing laundry in the shadow of the Bari Cathedral

With that chore checked off our list, it was time to do some exploring. And time to eat. We found a sandwich shop where I ordered a slice of focaccia with a yummy peach drink (I later found out was tea, which I don't drink--oops). Now this was the focaccia that I remembered. (Of course, I picked the olives off it it just like I did when I was a missionary.)

After a short walk deeper into Bari Vecchia, I stood in the first place since I'd returned to Italy that I recognized and vividly remembered from my missionary service. There it was, towering above me - the Bari Cathedral. Built between the 12th and 13th centuries, it was constructed on the ruins of a Byzantine cathedral destroyed in 1156 by William the Wicked, the second king of Sicily. Inside, it was cavernous yet majestic. 

I have some history of my own in this building. One thing we tried to always do as missionaries was whenever we were to walk past a church of any age or denomination, we would go in and visit with the clergy inside. In the fall of 1982, my companion at the time was Anziano Ensign. We chatted with leadership inside the cathedral and worked out an agreement to visit once a week for an hour and he would play the organ. While he did that, I would make the rounds inside the church and talk to locals and visitors. It was really, really cool. Ensign would play rocking LDS church hymns and I would be spreading the good word about our church within the historic Catholic building. (I don't think local leadership knew what I was doing.) Good times indeed.

We had a date that evening to meet some of Ron's friends so we had more time to kill. I popped my head into a business and asked in Italian, "Where is the nearest place to find gelato?"

"Are you American?" she responded.

"Is my Italian that poor?" I asked.

She chuckled and said this in English, "I just want to better help you out."

She told us the best gelato in Italy was just across from the old castle. A close walk, we were there in just a few minutes. As we stood in line outside Gentile Gelateria, we noticed the sign said "Since 1880." Wow, once again more, evidence that even Italy's recent history is a night and day difference compared to America's where even old stuff is relatively new. I ordered half lemon (shocker huh?) and half vanilla with chocolate chips in it while Lori went with cinnamon chocolate. The four of us sat and ate on a small wall in front of the castle. Was it the best gelato in Italy? Well, we had many more gelaterias to check out but it presented a strong case!

Once fully satisfied, we decided to take a walk through Castelo Svevi di Bari. It dates back to 1132 when it was built but that King William of Sicily destroyed it not even 25 years later. Roman emperor Fredrick II ordered it rebuilt about 80 years later. Over time, different leaderships and regimes took control of it until it eventually became a prison and a barracks prior to today's museum. If it looks like it used to have a moat round it, it did except for the northern wall which used to border the Adriatic Sea.

Tradition has it Emperor Fredrick met St. Francis of Assisi in the castle and sent an upper class prostitute to his room. He then watched through a peephole (apparently as an ancient Peeping Tom) but Francis sent her away. Instead. impressed by his actions, Fredrick spent the night in conversation with  Francis.

Looking back toward the Bari Cathedral

Next, we walked a short distance to visit the historic Basilica di San Nicola, a church well-known across Europe and a destination for Roman Catholics and Orthodox Christians alike of great historical significance. You see, the English name would be the Basilica of Saint Nicholas. Yeah, that Saint Nicholas. (Whispering now: You know, Santa Claus.) An early Christian bishop, he is recognized as the patron saint of many groups of people including sailors, archers and children. His habit of secret gift-giving led to the tradition of Santa Claus. It's said that in 325 he was among the original signers of the Nicene Creed. History has it that as San Nicola was later traveling to Rome, he chose Bari as his burial place so an order went out to build a church to house his remains. Construction wrapped up by 1197. If you go downstairs, which we did, you can see where his bones and other relics are displayed in a vaulted crypt. (Whispering again: you know, Santa Claus.)

St. Nicholas

The timing of our San Nicola visit was good because mass was going on when we entered and I was hoping we'd be able to catch a service during our visit. We sat in the back and followed along for another 25 minutes or so until it ended. 

The rain continued to fall outside but that didn't stop us from walking a little bit along Lungomare, a seaside walkway that wraps around Bari Vecchia along the Adriatic. One portion of it is lined by 197 black cast iron street lamps. The promenade is "the" place to go for many couples, families and groups of friends. It's that way today and it was that way when I lived in Bari in 1982. In fact, we used to go there as missionaries every Sunday evening. We would set up the mostra, as we called it, or a small billboard of sorts with photos of families, the Book of Mormon and other images. The place would be packed and we would talk to those who took a moment to stop and visit with us.

Rather than keep walking in the rain, we decided to head to the rendezvous point of a restaurant where we would meet Ron's friends that evening. He had met and baptized both Marco and Vito when he was a missionary and tracked them down via Facebook later, and remained in contact. It was such a joy to watch them see each other for the first time in 40 years. There were hugs, smiles and even some tears. Marco brought his wife, Liana, with him although Vito's was at work. We sat and talked and ate and laughed and ate and talked some more (and translated for Lori and April). 

I ordered a wood-fired pizza with sauce, mushrooms and kind of a fatty bacon as well as a blood orange aranciata. Just oh so good! One thing worth pointing out is if you order such a pizza, they don't bring it to you cut up into pieces. Instead. you're given a knife and a fork so you can cut it up however you please. 

Because of the way we were seated, Lori was on my left, Vito to my right and Liana was across from me so that's who I talked to for the next two hours or so. I was again surprised how much I understood was said. Here were on our fourth day in Italy and the language was really coming back to me. That is, hearing and understanding it. I struggled a bit trying to remember the words and verb conjugations. Still, it was easy enough to communicate and Vito and Liana were understanding with me. Ron was next to Marco and April on the other end of the table. 

Vito shared his baptismal story with us, which is a bit of a doozy. He had a date set with Ron and his companion to get baptized along with Marco. He was 26 years old at the time but was living at home. He said his parents didn't really care about anything he did or didn't do but when they found out he wanted to be baptized into another church, they locked him in his room so he was a no-show. The next day, Vito meet up with Ron and said, "You'd better baptize me tomorrow or it may never happen." And that's exactly what happened, two days after the original baptismal date.

Vito was just so friendly and took great care to communicate with me, the American who spoke Italian like a fourth grader because of a limited vocabulary. Still, it was awesome to form a friendship with him and the others. We had a server take a few photos and when we stood to leave, Marco, Liana and Vito gave each of us a hug and a double cheek kiss. I had never been on the receiving end of such an embrace. It was so touching. Ron was teary-eyed as he expressed his great appreciation for them all. We would see Vito the next morning at church but Marco, who serve sas first counselor in the stake presidency, would be visiting another congregation and Liana would not be there. 

Even though we expressed our goodbyes, we really didn't. Instead, they said, "Let's go for a walk," so off we went into Bari Vecchia and then along Lungomare. We must've spent another hour to 90 minutes walking, talking and enjoying each other's company. It was hard to see this 40-year reunion come to an end but it eventually did sometime well after 11 o'clock. 

What a wonderful evening! To spend it with loved ones, new friends, great food and in a country we love made it more than just memorable!

Italy: Day 4 - On to the Puglia

Not gonna lie but I was a bit nervous going into this day. We got off to a flying start, up and at 'em, showered, packs on our back and caught a taxi to the train station. As we waited for our train to arrive, we snarfed down our chocolate and cream-filled cornetti (croissants) purchased the day before at the Casa del Panne. 

And what we didn't finish (see photo below) on this morning and throughout our trip, Ron volunteered to take and eat and run or eat and walk or just plan eat. In fact, he did it again and again and again, day after day. The thing is, he's basically the same height and weight as me -kinda bean pole like- but has an innate ability to seemingly eat all day and yet never get full. How does one acquire such a skill? I honestly don't know how he did it? And doing so in Italy? There can't be a better place on earth to possess such a skill. I was envious and yet in awe. New life goal = #belikeRon  

One thing we learned is, despite the passage of four decades, some things never change in Italy. When Ron and I were missionary companions, public transportation strikes seemed to happen all the time. They were unannounced and bothersome. In fact, one time while living in Catania, the bus drivers went on strike. That didn't stop us so we walked to the far size of our zone on the other side of the city to do some missionary work. It was a steamy, hot, overly humid day. And to make things worse, there was an ashfall from Mount Etna, an active volcano spewing lava and belching out ash high above the city. We were beat but rather than walk home for lunch, we decided to make a larger loop downtown to the mission office. When we arrived at the front door, we were a sweaty, muddy mess. Sister Turner, wife of the mission president, was like, "Oh my goodness!" I wish I had a picture of that. We went inside and wiped ourselves down pretty good. I don't totally remember but I'm guessing we took off our shirts and ran them under the water before wringing them out and restoring some whiteness to them.

The reason I hearken back to that memory is we were greeted this day with another such random public transportation strike but this one was nationwide across Italy. That meant our scheduled and paid-for train ride south could be cancelled. We waited, watched the information boards and hoped for the best. While some other scheduled routes were cancelled, ours was not. Whew! 

Once on board, we settled into chairs that faced each other for the three-hour ride to Foggia in the Puglia region. When Ron and I rode trains back in the day, especially the really old ones in Sicily, well, I equate them to washing machines on wheels. They were army green in color, maybe because they dated back to World War II or earlier, and would rock back and forth in a cadenced or rhythmic, yet noisy manner as they rolled down the tracks. These 2023 trains were most definitely not your 1980 trains. According to the on-board monitor, when I looked at it anyway, our bullet train was humming along at 250 kilometers per hour or about 155 miles an hour. We were booking! And it was a smooth, scenic ride with olive groves as far as the eye could see.

For the four of us, this was our first real time to just relax, chat and catch up. Though we'd been together a day and a half, we were always coming or going, seeing and experiencing or eating. Now we had the chance to sit and talk kids and grandkids as we played cards and shared some missionary tales of years long since past. It was so wonderfully nostalgic. And to share those throwback Italian stories as we zipped across Italy was amazing.

We arrived in Foggia with no issues. As we lined up to get off the train, a woman leaned into her monstrous suitcase on wheels to build momentum to get rolling down the aisle.

"Is there a little boy in there?" I cracked.

"Where?" she asked.

"In that thing. It's huge," I said.

"It's heavy too," she laughed as she offered it to me to lift off the ground. She was right. It was heavy, certainly heavy enough to have a kid in it. Dang, I felt the language was slowly coming back and that made me really happy.

After getting off the train, we looked for a bathroom in the station and found one. It had what I guess you'd call a security glass door over its entrance. To crack the code, you had to put a one dollar Euro coin in the slot. You got it, it was "pay to poop," the first of several we saw across Italy.

If you gotta poop, you gotta pay

The plan was to walk to the rental car agency to pick up a small four-seater I'd previously reserved to continue on our trip. We arrived at the office with nobody inside. I pulled up my reservation information, made a call and was told our car would arrive shortly. Sure enough, it wasn't five minutes until I was inside, filling out the final paperwork and we were on our way.

Okay, here's the "nervous" part I referenced. Driving in Italy is not even close to driving in America, where signs and stoplights are almost meticulously followed. In Italy, they're more like suggestions. At least that's how Italians, who are extremely offensive drivers, seem to use them. They don't check blind spots. They don't obey the rules of the road. In fact, I think they make up their own rules. They dart in and out of traffic, lay on the horn early and often, make faces and hold their hands up as they expressively bark out demands and accusations. Add to that the unpredictable Vespas scooters that zigged in and out of traffic like bothered water bugs after you chuck a rock into a pond. They would even swerve into oncoming traffic or jump up onto sidewalks. 

The ironic thing is, Italy is where I actually learned to drive a stick shift in the first place. As a young missionary who had barely turned 20 years of age and had just received a new leadership assignment, we had a little, four-door Fiat assigned for our use. We didn't drive it all the time but I did have experience driving the streets of this driver-crazed nation, albeit from 40 years earlier. 

To be honest, a stick shift on is no big deal at all. My first two trucks were sticks, Lori's car she brought into the marriage was a stick and I'd driven cars on the job when I worked construction that were stick shift, plus I'd driven stick shift tractors and forklifts over the years. Although I reserved a Fiat, what showed up was a four-door DR, also made in Italy but supposedly based on Chinese cars using parts from a Chinese carmaker.

Now, here I was climbing behind the wheel again and, just like in the mid-1980s, hoping to avoid crashing into anyone and having anyone crash into me. All I needed was good fortune and support to get out of town and that's exactly what I got thanks to in-car navigation skills from my fellow travelers. "Turn left, turn right, go here, go there" and we were out of Foggia and traversing roads less traveled as we headed northeast toward the Adriatic Sea and Gargano National Park. 

The DR was fun to drive. The route was pretty too, with long straightaways and tunnels giving way to windy coastlines. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, our stomachs had a two-word message for us as we could see water on the horizon: feed us! So, we pulled into the town of Manfredonia to look for a place to satisfy our hunger. Across the street we saw L'Angolo dei Sapori (The Corner of Flavors). The second we walked in, we knew this was a classic Italian bakery-eatery. Why? We could see it, we could smell it and we could taste those aromas before we got our lunch in our hands. This was the Italy I remembered from years ago. As young missionaries we never, ever ate at sit-down restaurants because we could never afford to do so. Instead, we ate at small Ma and Pa, salt-of-the-earth shops just like this one. For lunch, I went with salami and mozzarella on fresh-baked Italian bread, a Fanta aranciata and blood oranges bought from a fruit stand just down the way. 

(left to right) Ron, my panino, April, Lori & me

Mm, mm, excellent!

We wandered over to a small park right on the Adriatic Sea, sat down and ate. It was a breezy but beautiful day. When we finished eating, Lori checked her first box of "sticking a toe in each of the three oceans that surround Italy." Off came her shoes and into the water she went. Yes indeed, she was in her happy place.

Neither Ron or I had visited Gargano National Park back in our missionary days. I stumbled across it while doing some pre-trip reconnaissance and floated it as a possible destination. The online imagery was impressive but the real thing was downright beautiful, even stunning. We found a narrow roadway pull-out to get a better look at some of the rock outcroppings. I found myself with a set of "if only" thoughts running through my head. If only it was warmer and sunny. If only we had all day to climb on the rocks. If only we had our paddleboards with us. If only we could dive into the deep blue waters. If only we could paddle back into the caves.

We didn't have paddleboards and we didn't have all days so we took photos, threw rocks, climbed some, soaked up the sun when it poked out from behind the clouds and we enjoyed each other and the scenery.

While looking for seashells, I made a most interesting find - an empty box of cigarettes with bold white letters that stated "Smoking causes heart attacks." But what got me was the accompanying image of a man with his shirt off, laying on his back in obvious distress with a defibrillator paddle on his chest. That's a pretty strong message but, unfortunately, we saw a lot of people including many teenagers that it didn't apparently scare.

We continued our drive along the coast and eventually stopped at a campground/RV park, used the restrooms and then walked out to the beach. It was still cool and breezy but hey, at least it wasn't raining. 

We looked for seashells and came across an 82-foot-tall, free-standing white monolith on the beach just below the coastal town of Vieste. It's called Pizzomunno. As legend has it, it was named after a young angler who once fell in love with a local golden-haired beauty named Cristalda. Every day, as Pizzomunno went out to sea, a mermaid tried to lure him to become her king. He refused again and again so one evening while the fisherman and Cristalda went for a walk on the beach, the jealous mermaid grabbed her, stole her away and took her underwater into the depths of the sea. Pizzomunno was so "petrified" by shock and sorrow that he was transformed into the great white rock, which remains to this day. It's said that Cristalda comes out of her abode in the sea once a year to visit her lover in Vieste. I didn't see her.

Vieste is pretty town that just screams "Italy" with its old stonework, narrow streets and scenic views. After parking the car, we walked into historic Vieste Vecchia (old Vieste) looking at shops and soaking in the sights. That's when it started to sprinkle, then drizzle, then rain followed by a torrential downpour with booming thunder. 

We giddily huddled together under a second floor balcony (I'm already standing there in the above photo) and watched a small stream shoot down the stone stairway to our right, flow over our feet and continue downward. April cackled up a storm as she captured it on video (watch below). 

 

As quickly as the rains came, they left and we continued our trek until we found ourselves in front of what's called Chianca Amara (bitter stone) just outside the Vieste Cathedral, the very spot where a real-life and extremely graphic tragedy took place centuries earlier. In 1556, the Turkish pirate Dragut Rais landed in the harbor just outside Vieste with his 70-ship fleet, which bombarded the city and Castle of Vieste with 970 cannon balls. Locals took up arms. They held off the pirates for six days but on the seventh day Dragut reneged on a promise to allow the citizens to leave the town in exchange for their gold and silver. Instead, the pirates sacked the city, attacked the women and captured men to sell as slaves. The pirates escorted the children, elderly and the men and women would could not be sold to Chianca Amara where they were beheaded. Yikes!

Chianca Amara

We made our way to the edge of town and walked along a stone pathway overlooking the Adriatic Sea on Punta San Francesco, a small peninsula on which the medieval district stands. The focal point is the Church of St. Francis, framed below by a nice post-shower rainbow, built sometime prior to 1289 and named after St. Francis of Assisi who founded a convent in Gargano.

We were getting hungry but as we'd already learned, dinnertime for Americans is not the same as dinnertime for Italians. We had some time to kill so we made our way back to the car and drove 15 miles to our night time destination of Peschici, another small seaside town in Gargano National Park. 

After finding and settling in at our Airbnb, we went in search of dinner and found a great landing spot in the Ristorante da Peppino, an older man (wearing red in the background of second photo below) who had various roles in the restaurant since 1961. The menus were in Italian so we relied on Ron to play the role of translator. After all, unlike me, he had prepared much better to be able to speak and understand the language prior to our trip. (Atta boy & thanks, Ron!)

We all ordered pretty much the same thing. The four-course meal off the farmer's menu began with homemade bruschetta. As a kid, I would turn my nose up to dishes that featured chunks of tomatoes. Maybe that's because those tomatoes weren't like these tomatoes. They were tastily seasoned and  complimented nicely by the crunchy bread base beneath but the real showstopper for me were the pickled zucchini. Wow, so good! That being said, not even being on Italian soil was enough motivation to for me eat the handful of accompanying olives on my plate. I tried one but they were and remain nasty.

The second course was my favorite because it was pasta. I mean, how can you go wrong with pasta? I went with fresh orecchiette (tiny ears) with fresh tomatoes and ricotta cheese. Yeah, now we're getting somewhere! I could not get enough of it. One thing that stands out is the way Italians prepare their pasta. I noticed it the first night in Rome. They don't cook their pasta until it becomes soft all the way through. Instead, they leave a little bit of chew on it, so to speak. It's not like the way Americans cook their pasta until you don't really need your teeth to chew it up. 

The third course was oven-baked eggplant. Now this, too, is something I probably wouldn't order at home. It was finely seasoned and the accompanying small orange tomatoes were a nice, acidic compliment.

Lastly, a fresh salad with lettuce and tomatoes was put in front of me. And let's not forget that a basket of that awesome, chewy homemade Italian bread accompanied the meal. We had one or two helpings with our meals and I got another for the road. 

While we're talking bread, let me take a moment to climb up on my personal podium to dispel something I see again and again at "Italian" restaurants in the United States. So many of them serve bread (that's usually not like authentic Italian bread but that's another story for another day), however my main point is it's served overly seasoned and often with liberal helpings of pesto and/or oil. That's just not a thing in Italy. Or at least it isn't a thing in the regions of Rome, Naples, Puglia or Sicily where we ate. I also never saw that when I ate with Italians in their homes 40 years ago as a missionary in the Puglia or Sicily. Maybe that's how they do it in northern Italy. Still, when preaching the gospel of Italian bread, take it straight up. 

The "bread of life" #preachit