Magical Mystery Tour

Magical Mystery Tour

I boarded the magical mystery tour bus after schlepping half a mile down a steep hill in a starry, clear black sky at 3:30 a.m. with Rosa, her cousin Rita, their luggage and the two dogs who were trying to herd us back to our senses and into the house. I wasn't sure where we were going or what the agenda was. Rosa had told me only that it was “beautiful, beautiful places.” The excited chatter at the bus stop escalated as more villagers arrived. I, of course, was in a stupor since that time of the morning is when I'm usually just heading to bed. But these people were in party mode, having worked long and hard all their lives they were finally getting to see the national sites of their country. The average age was probably 70 – only because two teen kids in tow dropped the stats way down. The chariot arrived already half full from neighboring towns, all jovial with hands talking and smiles flashing... not a word of English was to be heard. It was a joyous sound and I fell into a blissful coma.

I am sitting next to Rita, who is delightful in her traditional Italian ways. I point out Venus to her, which is low in the sky and she tells me there are no planets, only satellites... I think that's what she tells me since I have limited, flawed comprehension ( and my Italian is even worse...) and she mentions something about men and machines. Later I realize she's college educated, an accountant and well read. The back of the bus becomes a full blown party after the stop for coffee (espresso) and pastries at a truck stop that has everything – walls of toys, novels, gourmet candy, gallons of wine, bags of beautiful pasta, olive oil and paninni on cibatta bread with fresh mozzarella and prosciutto... all the stops are like this. The Adriatic suddenly spreads dark blue across the vista in the morning mist. Fishing boats are cruising out for the catch.

My name in the Italian tongue sounds like “down-nay” and just doesn't work so both Rita and Rosa have renamed me – Rosa calls me Aurora, her daughter calls me Donna and Rita calls me Alba, which roughly translates into “sunrise.” I don't know how to introduce myself anymore. The women are far more patient with my floundering language skills and Rita is more than willing to take over the role as my teacher. “Get the book,” she points to my dictionary so frequently that it lives in my lap now.


The satellite sets somewhere in the west and the landscape waxes flat as we roll south into Pulia. It is Florida without the alligator farms and congestion but apparently has its fair share of mini Disney, Italian style. Expanses of vineyards and olive groves, the temperature is noticeably warmer and occasional palm trees and cacti dot the scape. Our first stop is Castel del Monte just outside of Andria in the province of Bari. Volumes of studies have been written about this UNESCO World Heritage site, (I suggest Wikipedia for a summary) but it is a major point in history and feat of architecture. Construction was started in 1240 by Federico II and finished in 1250, the year the king died. The building is octagonal in shape with eight towers, also aligned astrologically and of several influences – including Gothic and Arabic. Left in ruins for centuries, the Italian government started restoration in 1876. To walk through this massive castle with its marble and 3-story vaulted stone ceilings is compelling enough, but to think that it was never really used is overwhelming.


The bus stops frequently for food and espresso. It is a 36 hour non stop eating and chotzsky extravaganza with so much cheerful chit chat that I can't tell if the Italians are talking or singing. We motor into Grotte di Castellana for a tour of the caves. If you've ever been to upstate New York's Howe Caverns, you'll have childhood flashbacks of cheesiness. Although the Grotte at Castellana are considerably larger and more beautiful, there's that same universally bored tour guide with a laser pointer showing you the stalactites that resemble a ballerina leg, a Mexican landscape, a couple of camels, a sheepherders stick and, naturally, 15 Madonnas (the Virgin, not the singer...). They make big money on the Madonna. They don't allow photography since they make money on that too. The caves are impressive without the silly imagery interpretations.


It's been a full day already but still we travel to Alberobello, a small town inland between Bari and Brindisi, the only region known to have trulli – conical ancient houses made of non mortared stone. There is a small preserved village of connected trulli (trullo is a single house) in the heart of a larger town of no historical significance or beauty. Most of the south I've seen so far on this trip is unappealing in both landscape and feel and I'm glad I decided to go for the mini-sampler before actually taking time to visit the area solo. I love the idea of a hobbit house but the southeast just isn't as pretty as the hills of Umbria, or the mountains of Santo Stefano, or the city of Rome. Outside each trullo shop are barkers who will say anything to get you to come in and buy their cheap tourist trinkets which are certainly made in China. Groping at passersby shirtsleeves, “Come in, come in, please come in...” the begging was reminiscent of Laos and annoying rodeo carnies. The merchandise and the vulture culture was not conducive to a pleasant atmosphere and detracted from the historicity of the trulli village. Understandably, the south is quite poor so when a busload of captives pulls up, it's a feeding frenzy. The light was failing for photos as evening dropped and dinner call was at 8 p.m. with a 6 a.m. wake up call for the following day. My inner ultimate tourist was ready for horizontal mode. Rosa and Rita share the big bed with the crucifix hovering over them on the wall. I'm tucked into the little corner single for heathens.


The morning brings the top 40 together for sustenance to start the day and espresso that no one likes because it's not brewed properly – made in one of those instant machines to which the troupe makes scrunchy faces at and murmurs of “It's not made good” circulate with an emphasis only the Italian language could perfectly express. You would know what they were saying even if you had never heard Italian spoken before. On the way to Matera, the final stop, the busload of women make the sign of the cross on their chest every time we pass a cemetery, which I'm sure the dead must find amusing. We are heading to an ancient city built on and into the tufo rock. Cave dwellers, really, and the supposed shame of both the town and region since there was no running water, sewer facilities or heat – other than fireplaces carved into the curving walls. After WWII the dwellers in the grottoes were forcibly moved into new buildings in town, above the valley gorge of caves. Neighborhoods hundreds of years old were displaced and the caves were closed off until several years ago when someone decided that heritage tourism might be a worthy economical boost for the impoverished town. Restoration is in progress and busloads of tourists are stared at by the puzzled locals.


Engorged by dinner, the merry chatters board for home, which takes 8 hours... enough time to watch 3 movies dubbed in Italian and flip through the dictionary on demand so many times that my head is spinning. The journey was wonderful, for the most part the sites were interesting if you looked beyond the obvious tourist aspects... the architecture and the history. But most impressive and interesting was spending time with these warm and incredible people who took me in to share their Italy. It may well be the best time I've had traveling.