As you’ll remember from my previous post, my heart slipped into a whirl of mounting dread as we approached Torre Chianca (note: there are two locations called Torre Chianca, this one is on the Adriatic side, unlike the one close to Porto Cesareo on the Ionian side which seems to be more popular), where we’d booked five nights in an Airbnb. The post-apocalyptic olive trees, the lonesome landscape, the slinking dogs, the forbidding concrete walls, the cracked roads, all conspired to make me doubt our decision to go off the beaten track. Maybe there’s a reason touristed places are touristed?

We stepped out of the car into the gloomy glare of a streetlight, reluctantly nudging the dark away from the gate. I shifted my weight, waiting, as the sound of the bell echoed somewhere behind the tall concrete wall.

Soon enough, footsteps and a voice, warm in the gathering chill, “Arrivo!’ And the gate was thrown open, revealing what can only be described as a Moroccan fairy land. The house rose, stark and white against the inky night sky, with light twinkling around the garden—rock walls topped with flowers and succulents, loungers waiting here on this level or there below, for wherever the urge might strike to lower yourself and just breathe in the salty fragrance of the waves, beating now just beyond the garden gate.

Colorful tiles, no two the same, covered the ground, leading to a covered patio, lined with built in couches and the same tile covering the surfaces. Inside, the table was laid for four, in cheerful Moroccan themed plates and even the glasses were not immune, with raised bumps in evocative patterns. Throw pillows winked in the alcove, tiled steps led us upstairs to bedrooms like ship’s cabins, but with swirling teal and blue bedding, and our room, with a tall bed, perfect for blinking while watching the waves rustle over the rocks.

This would do.

We could spend five days here.

Domenico told us where we could grab a pizza and it being late and us too tired to evaluate whether or not this was a good suggestion, we just took it and hopped back in the car to drive the few minutes down the road to the commercial center of Torre Chianca, which may just be Bar Simone (our destination), and a sign for a macelleria that never opened in our five days there. Ostensibly, another kilometer or two would take us to a restaurant, but none of us had the energy for anything more than a pizza.

The pizza proved to be phenomenal. The chef featured as a cartoon on the sign makes it right there in the wood burning oven and Siena and I split one with wild greens and sausage that fairly took my breath away. The restaurant soon became packed, and everyone seemed to know each other and everyone also seemed to notice that they did not know us. Nonetheless, we were made to feel at home, especially when the chef came over to notice that Gabe hadn’t finished his pizza, to my son’s terrible chagrin. The pizzaiolo chuckled and moved back to his stove, elbow bumping people on the way. 

We noticed Domenico, our Airbnb host and he came over to say hello and smile in delight that we’d enjoyed the pizza. He advised us with all seriousness to get the spumoni, which is made in house. Thus began our love affair with spumoni which would linger long after we slipped back over the border from Puglia. For those spumoni neophytes like myself, spumoni is a specialty of Salento (the heel of the boot, so the southern part of Puglia) consisting of two (or more, apparently, but I only ever saw two) gelato flavors layered together with something delicious between them. This one had some sort of chocolatey nuts with a little bit of an amaretto flavor going on. Wonderful. 

I sat back, satisfied. Great and non-fussy pizza, surrounded by locals just doing their thing. My eyes drifted to the display cases in the rest of the bar, lined with intriguing pastries that we’d no doubt be taking home for tomorrow’s breakfast. Yes, a successful recommendation.

Then and there, I decided to continue as we began. Being spontaneous and led by our Airbnb host’s recommendations. I remembered the list we’d been sent when we booked, it was time to thumb through that again with a sharper eye. 

That’s exactly what we did—we took each day as it came and didn’t bother looking anything up, we just trusted Domenico. 

Day one: We walked to the sandy part of the beach and swam. Our host said that the water was usually flat like a bathtub, which makes the water clear, but a cyclone somewhere had pitched it up, so it was rougher. To the delight of our children who bounded with the waves in absolute ecstasy. It was exactly what they craved, after the months bound into our Charlottesville house and then 2 weeks in quarantine in our Spello house—to experience wide horizons and liberty of movement.

After floating and leaping waves and singing “Baby Beluga” for reasons I can’t remember probably because there was no good reason, we cleaned up and drove to San Cataldo for lunch, where our host said we would find “the irrepressible Domenica” at La Rizzara. I like irrepressible people, and I also love seafood, so we drove to this ramshackle series of tents thrown over the sidewalk, a half a block from the beach.

Domenica, I’m happy to report, is indeed irrepressible. Throwing in little jokes in her gruff voice, as her husband cleaned mussels, and her adult kids took orders, calling “mamma!” over their shoulder.

I will not be able to tell you how amazing this lunch was, so I’ll show you a photo of my lunch and tell you it was even better than it looked and leave it at that. 

After dining, we strolled to the water, and discovered an ancient Roman port. Ho-hum. Ancient Roman port. We leaped from rock to rock, looked for the holes where the beams once anchored Roman ships carrying olive oil, and inhaled the warm sea breezes, and patted our stomachs from time to time.

After a refreshing pausa, we walked along the beach to the tower in Torre Chianca, finding ourselves fascinated as we studied one of the towers lining this part of the Salento coast, an attempt by Spain to keep Saracen pirates at bay hundreds of years ago. A tumble-down building stands (I use this word loosely) beside the tower, we were never able to get that story. We did discover that we’re not fans of rock beaches for swimming, so we walked (this time wise enough to carry a bag for treasures) back to our morning sandy beach to jump like porpoises among the waves as the sun slipped behind the clouds, spilling purple streaks of light like new wine across the sky. 

Day Two: After a leisurely breakfast and a mid-morning swim, we drove to a masseria. Like the towers lining the Salento coast, these masserie were fortresses built to protect the locals from Saracen pirates and also local bandits. Bandits! We should really have more stories about bandits. They were abandoned and left to decay until enterprising people turned them into agriturismos, agricultural centers where you can rent a room or have a meal featuring whatever’s growing.

On Domenico’s recommendation, we went to Masseria Melcarne and arrived more quickly than I would have liked. The landscape has grown on me, and the neighborhood too, once I learned from our host that it was originally settled by squatters working in the nearby fields, and has become a place where “regular Italians” have a beach house. No discos, no trinket shops, no grandiose McMansions. Just houses.

Unlike in American beach destinations, there is not the drive to build higher to see the water over your neighbor’s house. No, these are just little houses, with a lot hardscaping since the houses are empty much of the year. All this means the vibe is the kind of casual I didn’t think existed outside of playing hooky in Santa Cruz. And by the way, those dogs slinking around? There are three of them and they seem to be drinking buddies. Weaving through the streets at night, lounging in the middle of the intersection at pausa, nudging each other toward home at mealtimes. Adorable. Amazing what sunlight and a good meal can do. And also, adjusting expectations. 

Sitting down at Masseria Melcarne we already knew we’d be ordering the antipasti. We have found that ordering the antipasti platter anywhere gives you an intense and fantastic insight into what ingredients and preparations are characteristic of a place (see this post for more Italian restaurant tips). This antipasti platter was definitely the highlight of our meal for me. I won’t remember even a tenth of them, but I do remember a dish of what they called zucchini béchamel, which had a layer of potatoes, béchamel (that white, creamy sauce usually with a hint of nutmeg, that forms the base of all kinds of casseroles, fancy and plain, including lasagna), zucchini, and a little bit of ground meat for texture and balance. I could not get enough of this. Also there were red and yellow peppers in a sweet and vinegary sauce. Grilled zucchini with lemon and olive oil and mint. A roll of pastry with caramelized red onions. An airy spin on eggplant parmesan. A platter of salumi and cheeses. A bunch of other little plates and then a basket of fried goodies, including potato croquettes which we found on almost every antipasti platter after this, panzarotti (mini fried calzones) which proved to be equally ubiquitous, and… a revelation… pittule. Pittule are fried dough balls that, if you’ve ever had mochi, you’ll know what I mean when I say they had the chewiness of rice flour. There were both plain ones (Siena’s favorite of the whole antipasti spread), and ones with house-cured capers and a tiny bit of anchovy. Astounding.

Around the time we’d polished off the last of the antipasti, other diners began to arrive. As Americans we are always always early for mealtimes even when we try not to be! We watched family after family arriving, all dressed up for Sunday lunch, with children and grandparents.

For lunch, Gabe had a black olive pasta that the waiter tried to caution him against, saying it was very strong. Gabe beamed. He loved that pasta, black as darkest night from the olives, though he could do without the fava puree they rested on. Keith had taglioni with small tomatoes, eggplant, and smoked burrata cheese. He loved it so much he almost forgot to offer tastes. Luckily I was on hand to remind him. And Siena ordered the ravioli with wild herbs in a creamy cheese sauce, which she loved but claimed to prefer Umbrian fonduta. You can take the girl out of Umbrian pecorino land, but… 

As for me, I leaped with reckless abandon into the arms of fate and ordered what I knew to be the bedrock of Pugliese cuisine, fave e cicoria. Turns out, cicoria in Puglia is much more bitter than the Umbrian variety (or it happened to be so given Puglia’s weather in that period) and though I love fava beans, when they are pureed they wind up tasting like mashed peas. I hate peas. Gabe and I both pushed our fava puree around. Remembering Gabe’s “dressing down” from the chef at Bar Simone, I hid some puree under a piece of toast on Siena’s plate, and offed as much as I could to Keith. Gabe will eat cicoria even if it’s paired with shoelaces, so he proved helpful.

After all those antipasti, I didn’t want my secondo anymore, even with hiding more fava than I ate. But they came anyway. That’s what happens when you order things. They arrive. I liked it in Abruzzo when they wouldn’t take our secondo order until after primi to make sure. And boy was that clever, Abruzzo goes completely nutty with antipasti and I could hardly eat half of my wonderful spicy pasta.

So here came the secondo. Keith had a steak with reduced Primitivo (a Pugliese red wine), which I thought needed salt. And I had another Pugliese specialty, bombette, which are flattened pork filets rolled around cheese, with a wrap of pancetta, and then grilled or fried. These were, as Mary Berry would say, quite scrummy. 

I most definitely did not want dessert, but the waiter pointed out one that he declared to be marvelous and really it would just be rude to refuse, right? So I had the quince tarte with walnuts, which was, as promised, marvelous. A little lighter than the crostata alla marmellata we’re used to in Umbria and the quince had a wonderful floral quality that worked well with the walnuts. Siena, who seems to know her limits—I have no idea where she gets that from—politely declined any dessert. Gabe had an almond-chocolate cake with cream which hit all his spots, warm and nutty and chocolatey with a dreamy dollop of vanilla gelato. Keith after eating all his food and hoovering up everyone’s extras, could only consent to a lemon granita which was light and delicious and the right move. Nonetheless, he was positively delirious with satiation and never wanted to move again. He did finally agree that moving had to happen, but he made us promise to never mention food again.

Even as the sun set later that afternoon during our walk to the fresh-water lagoon (which we mispronounced, “Legumi” just to watch Keith clutch his stomach and moan) that spills into the sea, as we watched naked children run around, careless and free, while parents leaned toward each other to speak earnestly or call to friends across the dunes, he glared as we wondered about dinner.

We had salad. 

Day Three: Keith still groaned on waking. But, warrior that he is, he perked at the thought of pasticcioti. Pasticcioti, you see, are our new pastry love. They are a Pugliese specialty—an oval-shaped hand-pie filled with pastry cream or custard, but with all sorts of variations. Keith likes them with cherries added in. The kids enjoy the chocolate ones. I had a delicious one with slivered almonds on top filled with lemon-scented pastry cream. They make a wonderful breakfast. The kids enjoy them—Siena more than Gabe who declares himself “not a cream guy”—but what they both prefer are their new pastry obsession, fruttone, which are similarly shaped, but filled with marzipan cream and cherries, and shined up on top with a nice slide of melted chocolate. They really are delicious, but given the choice, I’ll always choose the pasticcioti for the shatter of crust against the unctuous bare sweetness of cream.

Did I just spend a whole paragraph talking about pastries?

Moving right along.

We headed toward Lecce for the morning, just 20 minutes away from Torre Chianca. We pulled in and found a parking spot, happily around the corner from a pasticceria. I was disappointed to not see any pasticcioti, especially since at this point, I’d only had one, purchased at Bar Simone on our first night and eaten with pleasure the next morning, even though it must have been 24 hours old at this point, and therefore, past its prime. Just when we were debating leaving the pasticceria, a baker carried a tray to the display case, piled high with a gleaming pyramid of fresh pasticcioti. Yes, please.

This is how pasticcioti are meant to be eaten. Warm, wrapped in a napkin, as you follow signs to the centro of the city hailed as “the Florence of the South.”

I wasn’t in Lecce for two minutes when I decided this was a stupid, stupid moniker. Florence and Lecce have as much in common as Paris and San Francisco. Okay, yes, they speak the same language, but Lecce has its own brand of beauty totally distinct and glorious. Calling it the Florence of the South makes it seem like somebody’s ugly little sister that people try to throw a bone. Like, “well, I can see they have the cute family nose.”

No.

Lecce is a baroque gem, hitting its heyday after the Renaissance that influenced Florentine architecture and it’s small (we circuited the centro multiple times in one morning). I’d heard about the baroqueness, of course. And the manageable size. I’d even heard about what ended up striking me most about Lecce, the yellow stone. But like knowing about the porticos in Bologna, I had no idea how the yellow tufa of Lecce would translate into the experience of being there.

Lecce glows.

It glows like found joy. Like the first taste of an exceptional gelato on a warm and breezy day, or seeing someone you love get off an airplane, or the first sight of the beach after traveling under the shade of pine trees.

It glows like those baroque paintings of light dispelling shadow.

It glows with a resonance I’ve never seen before.

It glows.

I could tell you about the Roman amphitheater, or tucked away piazzas, or the churches we went into, or Siena’s explanations of how baroque art departs from the previous styles. But none of that really sticks with me. It’s the glow that lingers in my memory, how turning every corner felt like a revelation. Those tufa walls capture and redouble the light. I’m convinced that people in Lecce must be happier people in general.

I could easily have spent a month there and suddenly wished we had more time in Puglia.

Not being tourist season (really people, I recommend September as a travel month), we easily got a reservation at Alle due Corti, the restaurant Domenico recommended. The menu was in dialect, so somewhat tricky to make out, but luckily included English translations. To note, this restaurant takes COVID seriously. We had our temperature taken on arrival, and there was a QPC code to scan to access the menu on our phones.

Pop quiz!

Do you order the house antipasti platter whenever possible?

Answer: Yes. Yes, you do.

This one included grilled eggplant with oil and mint, peppers in this preparation we’ve discovered popular here, with breadcrumbs that have been softened until they almost resemble curds of polenta, mushrooms caps with ground meat in béchamel.

My family is currently in stitches because that’s all we can remember, but we know there were like 20 amazing things. It was one of our favorite antipasti platters, mostly because there were so many preparations of vegetables. Now they’re lamenting that I didn’t take more photos to help us remember, and I have to remind them that a) my pictures are blurred because of their hands in them so I have to hurry and take the photo and get my share before they take the choice things, and b) they get cross when I’m taking photos of the food they want to eat. They are chuckling now. Too true, that.

Oh, and I haven’t mentioned the bread yet! The bread in Puglia…well, we do love our Umbrian bread now that we’ve discovered how it makes an excellent vehicle for olive oil, but the bread in Puglia is soft and stretchy, almost like a cross between sourdough and challah.

It wasn’t we were in the middle of eating our primi that I realized how thoroughly local this particular restaurant was. Not only was the menu in dialect, but many of the dishes I realized are unique to Lecce. The noodles in Keith’s pasta are twirled around a dowel to make long spirals that echo that baroque ornateness of Lecce’s churches. Gabe’s dish of roasted mussels topped with riced potatoes under a gratin of potatoes layered with good Leccese olive oil and oregano? Classic Lecce. My lasagna was a typical Lecce preparation that included smoked scamorza for a subtle smokiness, yellow pepper, and hard boiled egg. How do I know the ingredients? No, it’s not because of my rocking palate, it’s because this lasagna is in a cookbook, and the link to that book was on my digital menu! Woot!

After our fabulous lunch, with fabulous wine (loving the wines in Puglia, especially Negroamaro which I very much enjoyed as a white, rose, and red), we walked to a bakery we’d spied earlier to pick up Leccese savory pastries for our dinner. Of special note was the pizzo (kind of like a savory tomato scone), the fried calzone, and the rustico (my fave, a round of puff pastry with fillings such as sausage and mushroom and—why is there so much of this here? I’m loving it!—Béchamel).

Since Keith has been working in the afternoons and evenings (tough in Torre Chianca as the internet was indifferent at best, and we declined our host’s very kind offer to use another property with better wifi as an office space), it was nice for me to join the kids in the sea that has gentled to whispering levels with the knowledge that we’d be able to spice up our dinner salads with a tray of treats.

What was not nice, what was awful and nightmarish, was that, after days of not one mosquito bite, where our Umbrian welts finally had a chance to fade, there was a veritable mosquito bloom outside our house. Torre Chianca sits on an aquifer which spills out to the lagoon we visited earlier. Our Airbnb host said on a becalmed day, you can watch the fresh water bubble up right through the sea. You can even catch the fresh water with your mouth, while surrounded by salt water!

My suspicion, based on the amount of tall grasses that grow in front of our rental, as opposed to the rest of the area, is that the aquifer water sits close to the surface in front of our Airbnb. Or maybe the grass just collects rain water and it had rained the right amount of days before. All I know is, as we returned from a blissful swimming excursion, relaxed and ready for our warm outdoor showers and then our nightly gathering on the covered patio, we suddenly found ourselves running, almost without recognition or awareness of what we were doing, as we became literally covered, head to toe, with mosquitoes. Shrieking and flapping our arms wildly, we threw open the gate and slammed it behind us—like that would stop them—and raced to the outdoor shower. We sluiced wet mosquitos off of our bodies, shouting like extras in a zombie movie.

With the enormous citronella candles and the spray we’d brought with us, the bastards didn’t bother us as much as I would have expected in the patio, and almost not at all in the house, which was a blessing. But I did start to feel okay about leaving what had started to feel like our beloved beach hideaway. That and the fact that the floor now felt crusted with sand, always my cue that I’m done with a beach vacation.

Day Four: This was probably my favorite day at Torre Chianca. It condensed all that I loved about our Salento adventure and intensified it for one glorious day of discovery and spontaneity and a constant feeling of being caught off guard by wonder.

The day began though, by trying to figure out our next move. In the relaxation groove, I didn’t really want to overthink it. I didn’t want expectations to cloud the experience, I didn’t want to research. Plus, with limited wifi, we had to choose quickly.

Sometimes trips like this make it clear what we want, who we are. And I realized that as much as I enjoyed Torre Chianca, I’m just not a country person. I like the peace and the relaxation, but I don’t like having to get into a car anytime I want to go anywhere. Maybe this would be different if we stayed somewhere with unending views and brought in all our food so we could just lounge around a lot and gesture to the prettiness. Then again, that was our 2-week quarantine in Spello. No, when I’m traveling, I want to engage. And to do that in the sticks, you need wheels.

In a moment of searing clarity, I announced that for our next stop, I wanted to be able to stroll to seafood. Given the weather forecast, which looked better on the Ionian side of Salento, we decided to drive the 45 minutes across the heel of Italy’s boot. Brenda had mentioned she liked Gallipoli so we found an Airbnb that looked to have availability and we booked it. Just like that.

That done in all of 20 minutes, we piled in the car and drove to another Domenico recommended spot—an off-the-beaten track bakery. It wasn’t far, but it was so off-the-beaten track that even with the sign, I doubted we were in the right place. A masseria, but much more tumble down than Masseria Melcarne, this one seemed to have chickens playing chase in an abandoned bedroom on the ground floor. Across the country road, we watched people file up to what looked like somebody’s yard, but then we noticed the crates of produce and the fire dancing behind a glass wall.

I looked for bread labeled as made with grano arso, as Brenda had told me that the grain is almost burnt before grinding, which produces a particular flavor of bread, but I didn’t see it. Instead we bought taralli, several kinds of pizzo (that kind of pizza flavored cross between a scone and a roll), two kinds of biscotti, and a literal bag of black olives. The whole thing felt out of a TV sitcom, like we were roaming some person’s living room at a purse party, only it was bags of baked and farm goods.

Windows down, our hair blew every which way as we scarfed down our funny breakfast on the way to Acaya. Or is it Acaja? Or Akaia? Literally, every map spelled it differently, so I was glad Domenico recommended a restaurant there so I could find the directions based on that. He had described Acaya as a fun meal-time destination that hadn’t yet been discovered by tourists. That was good enough for me. Plus, it was on the list.

Acaya is a postage stamp of a town presided over by an imposing castle. On a whim, because it was that kind of day, we bought tickets to roam the castle and were treated to a monologue by a very proud ticket-seller that might have gone on for hours if another family hadn’t approached. So many facts she wanted to relay! I was so busy trying to look like I understood, I didn’t think I understood much, but comparing notes with Keith and Siena afterwards (Gabe had already wandered into the castle courtyard), I think I caught most of it. What meant the most to me, though, were the map that showed how the castle contained the town with a schematic that showed the walkable walls, the diminutive olive orchard at the opposite end of Acaya, and the regularly laid out streets. The other aspect I leaned into was the impact of COVID on the castle. With everyone shut indoors, apparently the pigeons took over the castle and the workers had quite the job trying to prepare for visitors again. It’s one of those miniature impacts one doesn’t consider…without tourists, places close. When places close, their upkeep suffers. When their upkeep suffers, they degrade.

Given that the castle was built in 1500 (ish, I’m not great with numbers), it has no doubt suffered insults greater than a dusting of pigeon poop and an extended lack of Windex. Nonetheless, being there, now, at this time, creates a thread to past times of suffering, known and unknown.

I remember when I gave birth the first time, and I all of a sudden felt a kinship with women through time immemorial, those who squatted in a field to birth their child and those that labored in a velvet canopied four poster bed attended by sixteen ladies-in-waiting. We, all of us, get it.

Being in this pandemic brought me closer to the ghosts that once huddled in this castle away from invaders or even pandemics of old.

That’s the pulse that quickened in my chest as I wandered into the kitchen. Like the open and gracious piazza in Acaya, the castle’s kitchen floor held vast pits that stored water or grain. I imagine the holes were once covered with wooden lids to access the contents, but now, they are just deep caverns. 

From the kitchens we wandered into a room with a lofted, domed room. The stony stillness settled around us. After a breath, Siena began to sing, open and full the way she only does she she’s alone. The notes shivered, and then we realized that even though she stood in front of us, singing to the archways, the music sounded like it came from behind us. Yelping we began a game of running around and hearing where voices emanated. Quite fun, except Siena never was able to hear the distortion. For a moment I panicked thinking maybe she’s been deaf in one ear all this time, so can’t localize sound. Until I realized that I myself am deaf in one ear, and the room’s acoustic tangles shot through me. We decided that Siena must be too smart to fall for the room’s trickster sound moves.

The castle also contained a chapel and rooms devoted to archaeological finds from the area, but my favorite was the rooftop, where I admired how the castle walls enclose the village of Acaya like a hug. 

Perhaps because it’s September, but the town was very still and no place was open for lunch. Nonetheless, I enjoyed imagining children racing up the streets, and into colorful houses with miniature courtyards, their voices hushing as they passed the monastery.

We hopped back in the car and nibbled on a pizzo with olives and thyme as we headed to the coast, where we drove until we found a cove, presided over by another tower, that seemed a likely spot for a dip. I delighted in the walk from the car, along the tops of the scruffy cliffs, until we reached an incline down to the sand.

I think most of our Pugliese swims must have been in the morning or at sunset, because I noticed a whole different kind of light fell around us as we floated in the swelling Adriatic at midday, tossing sea sponges at each other like basketballs. As ever, I squinted to see if I could see Greece, which I’ve heard is possible on a clear day (I’ve even heard sometimes the radio station will static out and be replaced with Greek music), but the arms of the cove stretched out only to shining blue water.

And that was enough. More than enough, as I lay back and watched the birds swoop above me and listened the cadence of people on the sand talking and felt the buoyancy, the deep embrace, of the sea, holding me safe.

I literally couldn’t stop smiling.

We brushed the sand off before hoping in the car to perch on damp towels for the drive to San Cataldo. We’d only been here for five days, but already our drive into Puglia, when the landscape felt brutal and the neighborhood seemed bleak, felt like a distant memory. Now, I’m in love with the wildness of it, the tangle of eucalyptus and paddle cactus and yes, even the struggling olive trees. It’s a story of hidden strength, of obfuscated history, and I’m smitten. 

And that wasn’t just the expectation of La Rizzara talking. Our day of spontaneous adventure translated into a day that read like overflowing bounty, a spilling over of joy. 

But, okay, if I’m honest, La Rizzara was part of it. We pulled up, brushed off the last of the sand (well, off our bodies anyway, there’s still quite the load in the car), and strolled to “our” table. Yes, we’d only been there once before. It was ours anyway. We couldn’t stop cracking up, everything seemed a cosmic joke, but the good kind, where everybody laughs. Domenica dropped off our menus and said, “Buongiorno, o ‘bonjour’ if you’re feeling French.” High hilarity.

Every item on the menu tempted us, the wine glistened with promise.

And after we’d polished off all our food from the saute of clams and mussels to the perfectly fried seafood which none of us could resist getting for our last meal here (though we all got different kinds of fried seafood—octopus, calamari, paranza, a mix) we overheard someone at another table ordering sorbetto affogato can amaro. My ears perked.

When Domenica’s daughter came by, I offered her the little request I’d been rehearsing: a sorbetto affogato con amaro. She cocked her head to the side and then burst out laughing like I was an adorable puppy tumbling in the grass trying to chase butterflies. She slapped me on the back and called out to the others to tell them how brava I am and I sat up straighter, feeling pretty brava, to own the truth.

When Gabe ordered his sorbetto, she asked if maybe he wanted his with whiskey and then we all burst out laughing together. Every time she passed us after that, she gave me an affectionate pat on the shoulder. 

To be honest, I’m not sure what I did. I may or may not have ordered correctly, but I don’t even think that’s the point. I think she enjoyed my heart in my eyes as I sheepishly asked for something not on the menu. And, as it turns out, a little bit of bitter digestive on top of refreshing lemon sorbetto—sublime.

We left, a little saddened at the thought that we wouldn’t be returning. One more sleep, and we were off to Gallipoli.

Day Five: Does this count as a day? We cleaned up the Airbnb, finished packing, loaded the car, and headed to Bar Simone for one last breakfast. On the way, we stopped at a fruttivendolo I’d admired, but we always seemed to pass it on our way somewhere where we’d be long enough that we didn’t like the idea of keeping produce in a stuffy car. And when we passed on the way home, it was closed. But this time, we could pick up some fruit for the journey ahead.

Yes, that journey was less than an hour, but journeys are journeys, you know?

A cart of those Italian melons that are a hard yellow on the outside, almost like a winter squash, but then icy green on the inside announced the fruttivendolo’s presence in this little beach hamlet. We ducked into the courtyard, and the proprietor walked out of his house to greet us, his eyes widening at our clear American-ness. We got a kilo of grapes, and I asked about a jar of what looked like chopped peppers in oil. I understood enough (dialect and his lack of teeth complicated the dialogue) to request what was indeed spicy sliced peppers and garlic in olive oil, and he nodded solemnly white cutting his eyes towards me as he added it to the bag. I examined the shelves, on the look out for a Pugliese speciality I’d yet to find, finocchio marino. This translates to sea fennel, but I’d been intrigued by its description, as the fennel has a salinity similar to the sea thanks to growing in proximity, and it’s soaked in vinegar for months before being used in salads and panini. I didn’t see any, but I asked about the the plastic jugs, wondering if they were vinegar. He softly answered that they were wine. I nodded, we paid, he handed me the bag of grapes and peppers with a shy smile, which I returned with warmth.

One last wave at the three dogs in the intersection, and we were off. Was it my imagination, or did their tails thunk in goodbyes? Those three dogs, all different sizes and breeds, always together. So adorable.

At Bar Simone’s we found new treats, including an enormous bomba, a donut filled with pastry cream, as big as my head. The guy behind the counter laughed that it’s known for its lightness, and we laughed along, but then ordered it. Along with a selection of pasticcioti and fruttone. How nice to bookend our trip to Torre Chianca with trips to this quirky bar/pasticceria/pizzeria that somehow does all these things not only well, but with a good-spirited grin.

I walked out of Bar Simone and turned around in the intersection, taking in my last moments in Torre Chianca, a town I’d never heard of, now seared in my memory.

Would you have liked a vacation in a place like Torre Chianca without plans or expectations? Have you had a vacation like this? Tell us all about it! And don’t forget to share this post with your friends.