My first solo adventure began thus: At about 6am I peeled myself from my bed and caught the bus to Roma Termini train station for an 8:05 train to Bari, a city on the southeastern coast of Italy in the region of Puglia. It was about a four-hour ride, so I passed the time by watching Troy (after reading Homer's Iliad in Mythology I felt the urge) and killing a spider crawling my neighbor's bag (I didn't know the word for "kill" or "spider" in Italian, so I just did it myself). It was a smooth procedure, but getting off at Bari was a different story. It was November 1st, All Saints Day, which is a national holiday in Italy, meaning that everything is closed except a grungy bar on the corner. Very few people were around, and all the graffiti on the store doors gave it a distinctly seedy and eerie feel, along with the garbage, peeling posters, and dingy shops all veiled in the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke. (It was in all likelihood completely safe, but being alone in unfamiliar territory I felt uneasy and was very happy when the bus to Matera finally pulled up.)
Pull up this picture and you'll find Bari near the heel of the boot and Matera just within the eastern border of the Basilicata region (between the heel and the toe)
I was nervous the whole bus ride because, as we wandered around streets of cities whose names I missed, I realized I didn't actually know where the hell I was going once the bus reached Matera. A nice young man took pity on me (as I frowned over an ancient map the librarian had given me) and told me that the last stop was central Matera - my goal, I thought. But when I disembarked, the deserted streets held nothing familiar. I scrambled between three pieces of paper: the map, a piece of looseleaf with Internet directions, and my itinerary with the address and phone number of my bed and breakfast. Like Bari, the city was completely shut down and totally devoid of passersby. Trying to get my bearings, I set off in what I thought might be the right direction and was stopped almost immediately by a car, in which a polite man asked for directions (which I immediately knew was obviously a sinister plot to catch me unaware and abduct me). That got me very nervous, and I walked onward muttering continuously to myself a combination of encouragement and swearwords. I wandered, hopelessly confused, for almost in hour, completely turned around with woefully inadequate directions and an egregiously oversimplified map. City streets melted into residential avenues in the blinding afternoon sun; I panted and prayed and begged to find the damn place before dark.
Just as I was convinced I was going off the edge of the map (here, there be monsters), I saw a sign for BAGNI DI SOLE B&B. I almost whooped with joy and headed toward it. The scene must have looked quite ridiculous: a sweaty, red-faced, obviously-not-Italian woman half-running toward a bed and breakfast sign, wearing a raincoat in the middle of a gloriously sunny day, carrying a foot-thick backpack and an enormous leather bag. But in my head I was stumbling half-dead toward the Promised Land, having snatched victory from the gaping jaws of defeat.
My situation must have been quite plain as I trudged to the gate, where a young man asked me if I had a reservation. THANK GOD, I HAD MADE IT.
I was welcomed like being welcomed home. Espidenzo, the man at the gate, instantly caught on when I responded that I spoke little Italian but was trying to learn. Armando, the elderly owner, embraced and kissed me, asked my name, introduced himself as the "papĂ " of the house, and reminded me it was All Saints Day. Gianfranco, the young owner, showed me my room - a spacious, private single - and then left me alone, where I blissfully changed into fresh clothes and tried to cool down. Shortly thereafter I went outside to snap a few photos of the gorgeous view over Basilicata, the region in which Matera lies. Espidenzo explained carefully (in Italian) how to open and shut the gate; then I followed a gravel road to a hillside overlooking vast plains and towering hills and the distant white sparkle of a lake. It was spectacular, especially in the twilight of late afternoon, and I indulged in a few selfies while the disembodied barking of dogs punctured the still, tranquil quiet of the countryside.
As I made my way back, I ran into Armando again. To my utter delight, he spoke to me in Italian, repeating when I didn't understand and allowing me time to comprehend what he was saying. He invited me to come with him to a beautiful vista for photos the next morning. He also told me that I was "a daughter" and could thus use the informal with him, which nearly brought me to tears, for here was the kind of experience I'd been hoping for: meeting people, interacting with them, experiencing them as they are outside of the tourist world. Being welcomed in such a way was what I'd hoped for.
I expected to spend the rest of that evening at the Bagni di Sole with my emergency stash of granola bars; it was, as I'd discovered earlier, quite far removed from the rest of Matera, and being alone and at night I decided it wouldn't be wise to wander off (and everything was closed for dinner anyway, as far as I had seen). I sat outside with the host of pets, including an adorable and energetic ginger kitten named Pepignello, and then mustered up the courage to talk to a couple sitting inside. They were young and, as it turns out, Dutch, but they spoke excellent English. Their names were Morlaine (I know the spelling is off) and Robin, probably in their mid to later twenties, and they lived in Amsterdam (about which I proceeded to pick their brains, since I had a trip planned in a few weeks). It turns out they travel extensively and have been to China three times (including a six-day train ride from Beijing to Moscow), the Middle East, all over Europe, East and West Africa...but never the Americas or Oceania. They were absolutely delightful and incredibly kind to me; Robin asked if I was going to the pub later, and when I said I wasn't, they invited me to join them. Gianfranco, Espidenzo, and their friend Luigi were going for a folk music night. I was kind of nervous to accept such an invitation, but their friendliness and the ease with which I was speaking with them made me agree to go.
After picking up Antonio, Gianfranco's friend, in Gianfranco's absolutely ancient Jeep (of which he was very proud), we arrived at "Irish Cream" Guinness pub. I stuck to Morlaine and Robin like glue, having finally revealed my age to the inquiring Morlaine. I think now they may have realized they were taking me under their wing, but they said and did nothing to make me feel belittled or even like a third wheel (which, let's face it, I was). They ordered beer, and I helped Morlaine order a sandwich in Italian before ordering one myself (I was mortified to find out later that Morlaine had paid for it and would not let me pay her pack). The three of us sat on a table as the music began, a group of four musicians from Puglia playing traditional southern Italian songs on the accordion, the fiddle, the guitar, and the drum. I had never seen anyone play the drum like that : his hand was almost fluid, gliding across the drum as if stroking it but producing a powerful, driving rhythm. People of all ages gathered to watch and to dance - children through grandparents - on a floor awash with swirling skirts and colored lights.
Then Domenico showed up. I'd encountered him briefly when Armando had invited me to see the vistas, a mild presence in the background. But this Domenico was totally new: a deep red shirt (which he quickly soaked with sweat and thus removed), gel-crisped hair, tattoos on his neck and arm, sleek glasses, and a hoop earring in one ear (he has to be at least 45-50 years old). This Domenico greeted me as if we'd known each other our whole lives and promptly pulled me in for a kiss on each cheek before reminding me of my meeting with Armando tomorrow (which he would continue to do throughout the evening). This Domenico also brought castanets and showed Morlaine and me how to use them (after about two minutes I thought I'd developed carpal tunnel). And, of course, this Domenico hauled me onto the dance floor with him. I was horrifically clumsy and awkward, but he just grinned the whole time as I mimicked the other dancers and occasionally demonstrated where to put my hands or how to kick my feet. Morlaine and Robin drank their beer and watched as I alternately danced with Domenico and gasped for breath on the sidelines. This was just like a very rowdy and energized American wedding reception, except that this was just another night of folk music for the Italians!
Towards the end, Robin and Morlaine went out for a cigarette (Robin pointed out exactly where they would be and stayed within my view the whole time, bless him), so I mustered up some confidence and rejoined Domenico on the dance floor. I knew I was experiencing something very special. This was Italy - authentic, unsolicited, unrehearsed, by itself and for itself - and we were lucky/fortunate/blessed enough to be welcomed in as guests. It was obvious who the "outsiders" were, but we were treated so kindly that it didn't feel that way. I felt safe with Robin and Morlaine, who also expressed their feelings of luck/fortune at having experienced such a memorable night out.
When we finally left at about 1am, we were treated to Gianfranco and Antonio belting out a song "of love and passion" as we drove through the illuminated Matera. At the Bagni, I tried to express my gratitude to Robin and Morlaine as I said goodnight, but I had no real words for it. I considered writing a note of thanks, maybe with a few pizza or gelato recommendations for when they made it to Rome on their trip in a few days, but I decided against it. I guess there are moments in life when you must accept the gift of another's actions and not be able to repay them...and be at peace with that. I'll certainly never be able to repay all the people who made this trip so special.
(Tune in next time for November 2...which hopefully will be less rambling than this one.)
My room!
As I made my way back, I ran into Armando again. To my utter delight, he spoke to me in Italian, repeating when I didn't understand and allowing me time to comprehend what he was saying. He invited me to come with him to a beautiful vista for photos the next morning. He also told me that I was "a daughter" and could thus use the informal with him, which nearly brought me to tears, for here was the kind of experience I'd been hoping for: meeting people, interacting with them, experiencing them as they are outside of the tourist world. Being welcomed in such a way was what I'd hoped for.
I expected to spend the rest of that evening at the Bagni di Sole with my emergency stash of granola bars; it was, as I'd discovered earlier, quite far removed from the rest of Matera, and being alone and at night I decided it wouldn't be wise to wander off (and everything was closed for dinner anyway, as far as I had seen). I sat outside with the host of pets, including an adorable and energetic ginger kitten named Pepignello, and then mustered up the courage to talk to a couple sitting inside. They were young and, as it turns out, Dutch, but they spoke excellent English. Their names were Morlaine (I know the spelling is off) and Robin, probably in their mid to later twenties, and they lived in Amsterdam (about which I proceeded to pick their brains, since I had a trip planned in a few weeks). It turns out they travel extensively and have been to China three times (including a six-day train ride from Beijing to Moscow), the Middle East, all over Europe, East and West Africa...but never the Americas or Oceania. They were absolutely delightful and incredibly kind to me; Robin asked if I was going to the pub later, and when I said I wasn't, they invited me to join them. Gianfranco, Espidenzo, and their friend Luigi were going for a folk music night. I was kind of nervous to accept such an invitation, but their friendliness and the ease with which I was speaking with them made me agree to go.
After picking up Antonio, Gianfranco's friend, in Gianfranco's absolutely ancient Jeep (of which he was very proud), we arrived at "Irish Cream" Guinness pub. I stuck to Morlaine and Robin like glue, having finally revealed my age to the inquiring Morlaine. I think now they may have realized they were taking me under their wing, but they said and did nothing to make me feel belittled or even like a third wheel (which, let's face it, I was). They ordered beer, and I helped Morlaine order a sandwich in Italian before ordering one myself (I was mortified to find out later that Morlaine had paid for it and would not let me pay her pack). The three of us sat on a table as the music began, a group of four musicians from Puglia playing traditional southern Italian songs on the accordion, the fiddle, the guitar, and the drum. I had never seen anyone play the drum like that : his hand was almost fluid, gliding across the drum as if stroking it but producing a powerful, driving rhythm. People of all ages gathered to watch and to dance - children through grandparents - on a floor awash with swirling skirts and colored lights.
Blurry picture of Gianfranco (in the cap) playing one of the instruments
Towards the end, Robin and Morlaine went out for a cigarette (Robin pointed out exactly where they would be and stayed within my view the whole time, bless him), so I mustered up some confidence and rejoined Domenico on the dance floor. I knew I was experiencing something very special. This was Italy - authentic, unsolicited, unrehearsed, by itself and for itself - and we were lucky/fortunate/blessed enough to be welcomed in as guests. It was obvious who the "outsiders" were, but we were treated so kindly that it didn't feel that way. I felt safe with Robin and Morlaine, who also expressed their feelings of luck/fortune at having experienced such a memorable night out.
When we finally left at about 1am, we were treated to Gianfranco and Antonio belting out a song "of love and passion" as we drove through the illuminated Matera. At the Bagni, I tried to express my gratitude to Robin and Morlaine as I said goodnight, but I had no real words for it. I considered writing a note of thanks, maybe with a few pizza or gelato recommendations for when they made it to Rome on their trip in a few days, but I decided against it. I guess there are moments in life when you must accept the gift of another's actions and not be able to repay them...and be at peace with that. I'll certainly never be able to repay all the people who made this trip so special.
(Tune in next time for November 2...which hopefully will be less rambling than this one.)
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