Tag: L’Acropoli di Puglia

I Love Italy Because it Loves me Back

Arno River Sunset, Florence

I fell in love with Italy on my first trip there in 2006. My husband and I went to Rome and Florence. The locals we met were gracious and welcoming. Their language sounded like poetry. The light was ethereal. The food was approachable and fabulous. The wonderful wines did not give me a headache-even when I overindulged. The art was sublime. I returned home and studied Italian. I bought Marcella Hazan’s iconic Italian cookbook and a pasta maker. I use Erica (Heather in Italian) as my “coffee name.”

Italy reels from the earthquake that destroyed entire cities and killed hundreds in the Lazio and Marche regions. When I heard about the earthquake, I thought about everything I love about Italy. What is it about this country that has me obsessed? Trying to explain requires a writer with more talent than I.

There is nothing like walking through Rome on a clear autumn evening. The famous fountains and statues are illuminated. With no one around, I sat on Bernini’s fountain in Piazza Navona and admired the ankles of the river gods he sculpted so elegantly. Less illuminated, but more atmospheric was a walk past dark ruins I could touch through an iron fence. I wondered what secrets they could tell. I got shivers and felt a presence. There is no place like Rome.

One spring morning in Rome my daughter Catie and I heard violin music. I looked out the window of our B & B and on the piazza below, a gentleman played violin for us. Later that day, I took her to the Pantheon. This gorgeous domed temple for all the gods, built in 118 AD is lit only by a hole in the roof.

I always eat at Vinando when in Rome. It’s a local restaurant in a beautiful little square and has fried potatoes my husband Matt talks about ten years later. We plan to eat there next month. The food is always fresh and delicious. The service is always family and friendly. The wine is always good.

Watching the sun rise over the Arno River was an unforgettable experience. Florence was quiet. I was the only one on the famous Ponte Vecchio. I watched the sun and the clouds reflected in the still river. Later that day my daughter and I would take a wine tour with people we became friends with.

Matt and I had ordered tickets to visit the Uffizi Museum. I was near tears to see Botticelli’s paintings of the Birth of Venus and Primavera. We sat and admired Michelangelo’s David-just the two of us-for thirty minutes. Just last week, I read an article in the New York Times Magazine about some cracks David has in his ankles. The museum needs to install a base to keep him level in the event of an earthquake or he might topple and crash into thousands of pieces. In typical politics, it has not yet been done. I wonder if this recent earthquake will encourage the powers that be to protect David for the world.

Catie and I drank with locals until closing time at a small bar in Venice. (My ability to navigate us back to our B&B without falling in a canal still mystifies me.) Matt and I drank with the staff well beyond closing time at one of our favorite restaurants in Venice. We returned the next day for lunch and they were out of limoncello. We had drunk it all the night before. Most of the Italians we’ve met are affable and their enthusiasm is contagious.

The sun reflected like diamonds on the Tyrrhenian Sea along the Amalfi Coast. It was blindingly beautiful. Matt and I wandered the side streets of Ravello and ended up in a wine bar. The owner gave us two wine glasses that we wanted to buy. He wrapped them neatly in paper bags and insisted we give him nothing. He gave us the recipe for the tomato bruschetta he was making. Our driver Michele introduced us to finocchieto, a local digestif made from the fennel that grows abundantly in the South. He gave us his grandmother’s recipe. Generosity from Italians should not surprise me, it’s the depth of their generosity that does.

In Brindisi, on the heel of Italy’s boot, a kind stranger called a cab for the four of us who had vainly waited in pouring rain. Near there, we met Vincenzo Lucarella to taste the fabulous olive oil his family has made since 1889. Thankfully, I can buy three-liter cans from his US distributor.

On a recent trip to Mantova, I had coffee every morning at the local bar. My Italian is improving. I understood some of the talk about politics, soccer, kids not calling home, who is selling their house. Italy has the best coffee; it has the best water.

At a restaurant tucked into a mountainside in the Valpolicella wine region, an older widow named Natalina brought us a blanket to dry rain off from the rain and made us a tableside lunch we rave about six years later. It’s the only time I’ve liked mushrooms. If we win the lottery, we’ll take our friends here for an extraordinary experience.

In the Chianti wine region, a winemaker named Lorisse walked Catie and me through the new vineyards he was planting. He showed us how he tied the vines to wires, and how deep he dug the holes. We hauled several bottles of his wines back to our hotel. I still order it online. Five years afterwards, I’m planning a return trip to see how his baby vines have grown.

In the Langhe hills of Piemonte we met Silvio who makes heritage cheese from the sheep he loves. We spent time with several families carrying on a tradition of quality winemaking. We learned how to make regional pasta with rabbit sauce. In Venice, we met Paolo who binds journals by hand. He showed us how he does it using a needle and thread. We met Toni, owner of the gourmet shop Pantigruelica who introduced us to the special Parmigiano-Reggiano Vacche Rosse. Italy’s almost ubiquitous commitment to quality is refreshing.

I learn Italian because I want secrets revealed. I’m always amazed at how patiently Italians will wait for me to butcher their language to say something many would most likely understand in English. They appreciate my efforts, correct my pronunciation, and teach me what they really say. It’s the Italians who make Italy such an amazing place.

Our DIY Shore Excursion in Puglia

I should have known better than to expect our schedule to go according to plan in Italy. I hate to play into the stereotype that things happen slowly in Italy; in this case, it was true.

Matt and I, along with Butch and Karen, a couple we had befriended two evenings ago, set out for our self-made shore excursion. Rather than take a packaged tour from the cruise line, or hire an expensive private driver, we created a DIY adventure. We rented a car in Southern Italy, which sounds insane. However, we were in Puglia, the heel of Italy’s boot. Unlike the Amalfi Coast on the West, the roads here looked relatively approachable with minimal hairpin turns. I ordered a giant road map, not trusting GPS after our experience in Valpolicella.

First, we had to get to the airport from the small port of Brindisi, which has no car rental facilities. Upon going ashore, I assumed we would see the usual line of waiting taxis, one of which could take us the ten minute drive to the airport. The first to disembark (we had a schedule, you know) we walked through the industrial-looking port and to the street with…no taxis. It’s pouring rain, by the way. Not atmospheric drizzle, but cold, unrelenting, sideways-blowing rain. The four of us huddled under our umbrellas looking rather lost and unsure of what to do, which is because we were both.

The only Italian speaker in our group, (and therefore weighted with being the tour director and wanting everything to go well and be perfect), I approach a man in a uniform in a port building, smile, and in my best Italian, asked nicely where we could find a taxi. He makes some gestures, looks around, and then asked me to wait as he disappeared. I returned to our group,
as the rain intensified.

I should mention that Karen and I were sick. I had a cough that could wake the dead, a sore throat, and a headache. But we weren’t going to miss this day! I wondered where everyone was? I did not see any busses lined up for shore excursions. Or anyone from our ship for that matter.

Just as I thought we were in the Twilight Zone, our uniformed man returned holding his cell phone and smiling. He had called us a taxi and it would be here in a few minutes. I felt enormous gratitude for the kindness of strangers in a new place. Our taxi arrived and only then did I recognize that we were four Americans, one of which was well over six feet tall. We piled into his small sedan and set out for the short ride around the bay.

I had not factored in road construction, the morning rush hour, and typical Italian driving, which leaves a lot to the imagination. It was a good opportunity for me to practice staying in the present because we were not headed anywhere else fast. Arriving at the airport, our driver gave us his card. After confirming he had trunk space for my planned purchases we arranged to meet at five o’clock for a ride back to the ship.

We then waited in line for our Hertz rental car. And waited. And waited some more. At least we were indoors. I watched pools of water form on the floor under our umbrellas. Even the Italian man behind us muttered “Dio Mio” with a frequency that started to concern me. There is no express “Gold Canopy” service at the Brindisi Airport. Time passed waiting seems to go by even slower when you’re already late to begin with. I glanced over at Butch and Karen, waiting on a bench, and felt bad that we had invited them to come along with us to wait in line.

Finally! Our turn at the window, and it went surprisingly fast. In the space between the clerk’s rapid Italian and my slow comprehension, I unwittingly agreed to pre-paid fuel and all the other options that easily tripled our once reasonable car rental price. He muttered space venti and we set forth in the rain to find stall twenty. We saw twenty-one and twenty-seven, but no sign for twenty. It did not exist. We wandered around lost again, in the rain, searching for a black car.

We overheard the “Dio Mio” gentleman behind us in line mumble “venti” as he emerged to retrieve his car. But we were stall twenty?! As he looked hurriedly for his car, we realized that the Hertz employee gave everyone the same stall number! Perhaps our line moved so slowly because they were busy watching hapless travelers locate their cars. Eventually, after clicking the remote furiously, we found our car wedged between several others and thus undertook the exercise that is Italian Parking Lot Driving.

Matt skillfully behind the wheel, a few harrowing minutes later, we exited the lot without mishap and found the autostrada. The rain persisted, adding another layer of adventure to our excursion. Proceeding northwest, we saw the wheat fields, olive trees, vineyards, and produce farms, that reflect the bounty of Puglia. To our west were the hills to which we were headed. I was certain it looked stunning in the sunshine.

Our destination was the Trulli area near Alberobello, about an hour from the airport. Another UNESCO World Heritage Site, the trulli are white round buildings with conical-shaped stone roofs. There are about 1500 of them, dating back to the 16th century. The idea was, residents could quickly dismantle their roofs when they heard the tax collector was coming to avoid paying taxes. Upon his departure, they would replace the roof. In the afternoon we would tour Alberobello.

But first, we had two appointments. We were of course, still running late for the first, with Vincenzo Lucarella for a tour and olive oil tasting at his family’s factory, L’Acropoli di Puglia in Martina Franca. As it so happens, I have been searching for two olive oils. A delicate one to dip bread in and make salad dressings, and one for cooking. I was zero for three on the last bottles I bought at the local Italian speciality store and frustrated. When researching what to do in this somewhat off-the-beaten-path destination, I stumbled across their website. Eager to see how olive oil is made, I was excited to try it at the source.

Vincenzo was gracious and welcoming, despite our tardiness. He gave us a tour in English, which my sore throat appreciated. Founded in 1889 and in the fourth generation, L’Acropoli di Puglia is a blend of old and new. The family uses timeless methods such as hand picking the right olives, crushing them in a large mill, mixing the paste onto mats, and then finally pressing the mats under hydraulic pressure. They age some olive oils in huge underground cisterns that we could see through a window in the floor. Others are stored in gleaming stainless steel vats. Modern bottling and labeling equipment readies it for market. They sell internationally and I was thrilled to learn they have a distributor in the US.

We learned “Extra Virgin” refers to olive oil that has no more than 0.8% acidity. Regular Virgin olive oil can have up to 2% acidity. All of Vincenzo’s olive oils are Extra Virgin. Vincenzo taught us how to taste olive oil properly. We had to slurp. While making sucking sounds. With the oil in our mouths we had to touch our tongue to the back of our teeth while inhaling. It sounds difficult because it is. Finally getting the hang of it, we tried four different varieties of which two were perfect for my needs. I bought One Liter tins of the “Amabile” for bread and dressing, and the “Florido” which I use almost daily.

We then dashed to our difficult to obtain reservation for a tour and tasting at Cantina Albea. I had called for an appointment in my limited Italian and was concerned our late arrival would coincide with their lunch closure. I learned about Cantina Albea from the esteemed book Gambero Rosso, which undertakes the enviable task of traveling Italy to rank the best wines. The book had many good things to say about this winery. One of their wines attained the highest honor they give, and the others were highly regarded. Cantina Albea also has a small museum dedicated to wine making in the Puglia region, with tools and machinery donated by the owner, Dante Renzini, and others.

Mr. Renzini himself gave us a quick tour of the winery, owing to our late arrival. He spoke faster than I could translate everything, but his pride and passion needed no translation. Modern equipment ensconced in carved stone pay homage to the trulli of the area. After a visit to the museum, we tried their unique wines along with some local meat and cheese. While buying six bottles of wine, I asked for a lunch recommendation. We were all hungry. I had visions of wandering around aimlessly in the rain with Butch, Karen, and Matt trying to decide which non-touristy restaurant would appeal to all of us. An insider’s recommendation would greatly improve our afternoon.

We were not disappointed. Il Pannacolo was superb. We would have walked right past it on our own. Tucked down a pedestrian only side street in Alberobello, it was in a trullo. It looked unassuming from the outside. We walked in to a crowded cavelike room and my hopes were dashed. No empty tables. “Avete un tavolo per quattro?” I asked hopefully for a table. The waitress, smiling cheerfully led us outside, where we saw a delightful patio. For one horrible moment, I thought they would have us eat in the cold rain. Thankfully, we proceeded around a corner, down some stairs into a charming basement area with open tables.

Pugliese cuisine is known as la cucina povera. Cooking of the poor, it is simple, fresh, and local. Orecchiette, ear-shaped pasta, is one of the regional specialties and I had never had it with a tomato sauce before. It was delicious, served with two types of meatballs and topped with the most fragrant basil I’ve encountered. A dumbwaiter delivered our food from the kitchen above, which was fun to watch. We all ate well, paired with local wine. No longer late for anything, we had a free afternoon.

We ventured into the unrelenting rain to stroll the streets lined with trulli. Some were shops selling souvenirs and local liquors. Many offered a “free” view from their balconies, assuming you’d buy something. Some were private residences. They were all white with grey stone roofs. Whitewashed symbols on the roof were the only distinction among many of them. We bought a postcard to decipher the ancient symbols, most of which were religious. A funeral was about to start at the trullo Church. Despite the tourism, people still live and work in these unusual structures.

The last highlight for me in Puglia was calling our taxi driver to let him know we were ready and waiting for him. I knew all the words in Italian. At five o’ clock, we were there, and he was not. We considered walking to the taxi stand at the airport but did not know where it was, how far away it might be, and we had 2 liters of olive oil and eight bottles of wine. It turns out, he was on his way and arrived shortly. Traffic, you know…

As we reached the port, the rain stopped. We walked to a pharmacy for medicine for Karen and me. This area of Brindisi was appealing. Clean and residential, we saw locals emerge from indoors all day. Taking dogs for a walk, catching up on gossip at the cafe, arguing about soccer. Birds chirped from the palm trees that lined the streets. It was all very relaxed and pleasant. We would not have seen it taking a group tour by bus. Our sense of adventure was richly rewarded in Puglia.