Day 56 Exhibition

We had our exhibit today at the Accademia in Lecce. Shay's and Barbara's paintings were well received, as were Frances' gigantic photos of the magical olive trees she photographed.

There was a huge poster of my 100-word New Page submission, which I read to the assembled guests -- yes, in Italian. Luckily my essay was printed in both English and Italian and I only stumbled once, on the word percepiserro. It too was well received. The director of the Accademia asked me to autograph it and he told me he's going to have it framed and hang it in his office. He said he too has felt this sense of connectedness, of being rooted in this land. It made me very happy to hear him say that because I have a great liking and respect for this big bear of a man, Giancinto Leone.

Here is my 100-word submission to New Page, which will be appearing in store windows along with similar short narratives by other authors all over Lecce. (See blog Day 18 New Page for more information.) For those of you who prefer to read it in Italian -- always sounds better in a Romance language, doesn’t it? -- I have conveniently added the translation immediately below.)

When my bare feet touched this ancient soil,

Quando i miei piedi nudi hanno toccato questa terra antica,

I felt movement deep in the earth.

ho sentito il movimento in profondità nella terra.

I imagined, or perhaps I hoped, the bones of my ancestors

Ho immaginato, o forse speravo, le ossa dei miei antenati

sensed my return and turned toward me in welcome.

percepito il mio ritorno e si girò verso di me in segno di benvenuto.

I had thought the ancients speechless

Avevo pensato gli antichi senza parole

and I without ears for them. But I felt them.

e senza orecchie io per loro. Ma io li sentivo.

I heard their message through my skin:

Ho sentito il loro messaggio attraverso la mia pelle:

In the wind whistling against my ears;

Nel vento che fischiava contro le mie orecchie,

the warm rain pounding on my head and face;

la pioggia che batte caldo sulla mia testa,

the pitiless sun against my milk white skin;

il sole impietoso contro la mia pelle bianco latte,

the sweet taste of earth in my mouth,

il dolce sapore della terra in bocca,

they told me over and over

mi hanno detto nel solo modo

that I belong to them.

che potevano che io apparstengo a loro.

Day 55 Feasting

Shay had his heart set on going back to that unbelievable restaurant, Puritate, in Gallipoli. This time Frances and Barbara came along too. Shay confessed he was worried about being disappointed the second time around.  We weren't disappointed, though. We left ecstatic.

We reprised two dishes we'd had the first time, spaghettini with palmetto and the tuna scaloppini, and added spaghetti with lemon and teeny weenie shrimp, plus a lightly battered monkfish. And there was wine, of course. Two bottles of white, the second of which we didn't finish so we took it home.

Since we had only two primi and two secondi among the four of us, most had room for dessert, except for Shay who’s always a bit to virtuous about sweets. (He did, however, make mincemeat of the basket of tiny almond cookies that came with his perfectly brewed macchiato.) Ahhh....a lovely lemon torta for Barbara and me and a glass bowl of coffee-flavoured panna cotta for Frances.

The meal was worth the 40-minute drive to this beautiful fishing town of 20,000 on the Ionian Sea.

After the late lunch we walked through the centro storico. The wind pulled at our coats but it didn't matter. Everything was closed, of course, since it's Sunday but that didn't matter either.

I could live in one of those old wind-weathered houses. I’d pick one of the ones facing the sea. I'd stand at a second floor window and watch the roiling waves crashing against the rocks. 

Today Gallipoli provided a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

My lovely lemon torta (lemon meringue)

Somebody living in one of the houses across the sea wall has their put laundry out on the street to dry



A built in niche beside the front door of a residence holds a statue of the Blessed Virgin




The facade of the Cathedral of Santa Agatha of Catanio, 1629, was built on top of an earlier church on the island's summit. The interior covered with paintings most by Giovanni Andrea Coppola.




An example of one of the altars each of which has a large painting depicting a biblical story





Skull and bones of San Fausto, priest and martyr. The basilica also houses the breast of Saint Agatha.



Day 54 Corrupting wine

My housemates, Barbara, Shay and Frances have succeeded in corrupting me. They'd stated their intentions early on but I never thought they'd achieve it. More persistent people than they have tried and failed.

I am now officially a drinker of wine in all its luscious hues and textures: red and white, very dry; rose, ditto; sparkling white prosecco and a sparkling red which I tasted for the first time today when Shay handed me a full glass on the rooftop this evening.

I came back from my run and heard them calling me from up there. I climbed the steep stairs and there they are were, smirking with glasses in hand (not Barbara, though. She's suffered from either food poisoning or a virus of since last night.) slurping up this sparkling ruby red stuff. Shay filled, yes filled, an entire elegant tulip-shaped glass for me and I drank the whole thing -- and that's before any thought of dinner. 

The corruption process started with them filling a half of a liquer glass two months ago.  The other day, on my own initiative I went out and bought a bottle of Montenegro, a lovely digestive, when I noticed we'd run out of amaro.  The bottle says the liquer is made from herbs....




The evening sky from our rooftop.... lounge?



Housemates Frances (enjoying a glass of sparkling red) and Barbara in our rooftop lounge



Shay relaxes after having filled everybody's glass



Day 53 Blue skies

As my departure approaches, I'm torn between wanting to stay and a desire to return home to the people and things that belong to me.

I walked along today trying to imprint in my mind's eye the exact shade of blue of this marvelous sky so that I call it up when I'm shovelling snow at home this winter.

We are going out to dinner tonight to a place called Le Sierra. I believe it's Calimera's only bed and breakfast. Its restaurant is reputed to be excellent. I will so miss going out to dinner three or four times a week with my lovely housemates, eating at really good restaurants for relatively little. Twenty Euros per person gets you a top-notch full course meal with generous servings of vino. But we've never spent that much. We order a few dishes and share since not a single one of us can down three full courses. 

When I go grocery shopping I'm amazed by the reasonable cost of produce. At home I never walk away without spending less than $25. Here I rarely spend more than 5 Euros for the same amount. It's true selection is limited but everything is dirt fresh.




Blue skies over Calimera



Day 52 The doors of Calimera

In punishment for not taking a walk yesterday, I took an extra-long excursion today to Calimera, of course.

It might sound like heresy to say this, but I keep going back and forth to Calimera because unending stretches of country roads filled with olive trees, of which there are plenty here, and nothing else bores me. I’m a city girl. I like the visual stimulation of walking through towns. I like looking at how people set up their gardens and what kind of fencing they use. I like looking at their doors, the colours, the materials – wood or metal, bronze or steel – and compare the distances from the street.

Doors interest me particularly so today I took pictures of Calimerian doors. This did not please some of the Calimerians who saw me doing it, however. Twice groups of people, who happened to be nearby instead of enjoying their siesta as they should have, objected. 

What are you going to do with those pictures, Signora, a woman out of the first group of people cried out? Nothing, I just think the doors are pretty, I answered. Ah, she replied dubiously.

You’re not allowed to do that, shouted a fellow on another street as I stood about 100 feet away composing the shot. I didn't answer fast enough to suit him so the old fart started walking toward me and insisting I shouldn’t be taking pictures of people’s doors.  Perche no? I shouted back. You need the owner's permission, he said.

Both my parents are Italian and so am I. I was born with genes that know precisely how to deal with the situation in which I found myself. I took the picture, I shrugged and I sauntered away, as if he hadn’t spoken.

Beats me what those people were worried about. Did they think I could steal their souls by taking pictures of the doors to their homes?

Some of the doors of Calimera.....

The start of the old road from Calimera to Martignano

Day 51 Nothing but excuses

Didn't do much of anything today. Found a way to avoid writing by doing a bunch of unnecessary research for my novel. Ended up nose deep in World Health Organization statistics and discovered it's a great time way to spend three hours..

I didn't even go for my usual walk to Calimera. Too cool, I told myself, although it's was sunny. The temperature didn't stop my housemate, Barbara, from taking her walk to and from Martano, which is 5 k each way. She's a beast for trekking.

I toyed with the idea of doing a little yoga, but I found a way to get out of that too. I figure sometimes (not too often) when you're resistance is that strong against doing something, it's just better to give in. (That's my zen excuse and I will not budge from that position.)

We're going out to celebrate three birthdays tonight someplace Paola called "the countryside." A small place, she said, not too far.  If I could look forward to eating the way I eat here every night for the rest of my life, I would die contented.  Frances just had a birthday, Shay's is coming up and Mario, a painter friend we met recently. will also celebrates his. 

For those of you who know my pathetic drinking habits at home, I would like to report I'm up to drinking a full glass of vino with dinner. I've even been know to slurp a little amaro (digestivo) after la cena.

I love the life here.... a domani, ragazze et ragazzi.


Ten of us had a truly memorable dinner at a restaurant on a country road just outside Lizzanello, Puglia

Paola, who runs the residence where I live, and Mario an artist friend from Lecce

Housemate Barbara and a Uccio, a cousin of Paola's





The meal at this countryside restaurant was fabulous, ample and inexpensive: 18 Euros each

Day 50 Bureaucratic blues

The highlight of my day was a late morning hour-long visit with Postitalia, the local post office. I wanted to send home a box of clothes to make room in my suitcase.

Two people sat behind the counter. One deals with mail the other with banking. One of my housemates, I don't recall whether it was Barbara or Frances, got in the wrong line one day and got punished for it by being kept waiting an extra long time.

I made sure I stood in the right queue. When my turn came Vincenzo, the clerk. had difficulty locating the appropriate customs declaration. But he found it, in time. I stood to the side and filled it out while he served the next customer. But just as I handed it back to him, the postal pick-up driver arrived.  

Vincenzo was deeply apologetic (He took a liking to me after he discovered I live not too far from the Niagara Falls Casino – I don’t know, something about televised poker.) but he'd have to take care of the driver first.  I stepped to the side once more.

Vincenzo counted and recounted envelopes. He tapped on his computer, printed out forms, stamped them furiously front and back and initialled them. That done, he placed a handful of registered mail envelopes in a big yellow plastic box along with one of the forms, covered it and sealed the box with a bendable plastic strip emblazoned with a barcode. He started the same process with insured mail only to discover he was one piece short. Vincenzo cut open the seal on the first box and started counting all over again.

I was fascinated but the line behind me was growing and growling.

Vincenzo finally turned his attention to my box. There was much scratching of the sparse-haired head as he tried puzzled over the tariff to Canada. In time, he concluded my 5.5 kilos of used clothes would cost me 70 Euros to ship.

Anything cheaper, I ask? Do boats still cross the ocean? He found another form that offered a shipping cost of 50 Euros.

If I were you, he advised, I wouldn't bother. I said, you're right, Vincenzo, hoisted the box and left.  



A courtyard in a Calimera



A porcelain head in a Calimera shop window