Manon Lescaut

Today has been one of our favorite days out and about. We took the train to Polignano a Mare, lunch in tow. Since it’s just one stop before Monopoli, we’re pretty familiar with the route.

Stepping off the train, we were surprised by just how much of a tourist hotspot it is. Nearly half the packed train disembarked with us. Outside the station, tuk-tuks lined up, blaring loud music, hoping to whisk visitors away for a tour. Jim joked that he’d consider a ride—if they turned the music off. It’s not that he dislikes music; he just prefers to choose his own soundtrack.

Polignano a Mare is famous for cliff diving championships and for being the birthplace of Domenico Modugno, the singer of Volare—there’s even a statue of him in the piazza. The bracelet hawkers were out in force (okay, just two, but still, being constantly approached is no treat). And of course, this is home to the beach—the one that appears in almost every postcard of Puglia.

Before heading to the waterfront, we stopped for a coffee and pastry. We were in bad form this morning—ordering cappuccinos at 11:20 AM. But the real treat? Our cream-filled croissants were warm, a happy accident at this little bar we stumbled upon.

Despite the crowds, the town is spotless. We wandered, soaking in the sunshine and the sea breeze, lingering along the waterfront. A beautiful old church caught our eye, and to my delight, it was open. A quiet moment inside was perfection.

Heading back to Bari, we realized we’d accidentally purchased train tickets for a specific time—one that had already passed. Hm. A little dilemma. Should we risk using them or just buy new ones? We had plenty of time to get fresh tickets, and in the end, my conscience won. At only €3 each, it wasn’t much of a loss. They don’t always check tickets, but of course, on the ride back, they did. I was relieved we didn’t chance it—definitely not worth the gamble over €6!

We’re not sure what to do when we get back. We wander down what we call Gucci Street. A long pedestrian-only street lined with exclusive shops and upscale restaurants and bars. Afterwards, we choose another busy street. Hm. Somehow we end up in front of the theater where Manon Lescaut is playing. I wanted to see if the opera is sold out. I read online that the box office opens one hour before each performance, but the box office is open now. We head in. There are tickets available, now to wrestle with a decision. How much to spend on an opera that I really don’t know much about. It’s just a treat to see an opera in Italy. We can spend $75 each or $20 each. I ask if we can see from the $20 seats. I’m really torn. She reassures me that it’s not an issue. Okay. We buy those then.

We arrive at the opera, tickets in hand, ready for an evening of culture. The ushers direct us to our seats — on the 6th floor. Up we go. And up. And up. Then, inexplicably, we have to climb a fire escape? Finally, we’ve arrived.

I’m wondering if the lady in the box office has ever been to this floor.

Heat rises, and so does misery. It’s stifling. The seats are not seats at all but long, wooden benches. Our feet dangle, unable to touch the floor. No matter where we sit, the view is awful. We are early, so we have our pick.

Jim stakes out a spot while I wander in search of something—anything—better. There isn’t. At least I can stand when I need to. I pass the time, faintly amused, watching each new group arrive, their expressions cycling through the same emotions we just experienced: confusion, disappointment, reluctant acceptance. Husbands claim a place; wives scout around, hoping in vain for a better option. Spoiler: there isn’t one.

I am kicking myself for not splurging on the $75 seats. Instead, I am wedged between distractions. To my left, a restless family with tweens—up, down, up, down, murmur, murmur, never still. In front of me, a woman repeatedly checks her phone, its screen flashing like a tiny, relentless spotlight. I try, really try, to focus on the performance, but it’s hopeless.

At intermission, I turn to Jim. “I feel like I’ve had $20 worth of enjoyment. Let’s go get a pizza.”

We create a ruckus with security while trying to find our way out. We end up in a stairwell that is not a fire escape, but marble stairs. Down, down we go. Faintly we hear, “Excuse me! excuse me! you cannot go down those stairs.” She guides us back to the fire escape. We head down. It’s obvious folks are expecting us on each level, holding doors, ushering us in the correct direction.

Finally finding the exit, we are relieved to be out in the fresh air. We marvel at the amount of people out and about for passegiata on a Saturday night. We really do need to get out more often after dark 🙂

paleremo presto