It is pouring rain and dark skies when we wake up. We are not motivated to get moving. An important lesson learned, our clothing sits safely under the sun shade on the terrace, damp and slow to dry, but at least not getting any wetter!
We lounge around, sipping coffee as Jim does his PT and we debate what to do in the pouring rain. I come across an indoor tour of the opera house—perfect! But, drats, it’s not offered today. What else? While browsing the opera website, I noticed there’s a production happening, and last-minute tickets go on sale an hour before the performance. I decide to show up and try my luck for Saturday or Sunday.
Jim, I’m sure, is groaning inwardly. He’s not exactly an opera fan, and while we can manage smart casual with our limited travel wardrobe, he’s convinced the impeccably dressed Italians will make us look like country bumpkins. But hey, even bumpkins deserve a little culture in their lives!
Eventually, we decided to take the train to Monopoli and head out into the pouring rain. Having lingered too long this morning, we end up with an hour-and-a-half wait time. To pass the time, we enjoy a pastry with our coffee before wandering over to Despar for some sandwiches and oranges. With time still to spare, we cross over to the small orange train station, where the snack selection is better, and pick up some chips. Tickets cost less than 4€ each, and since they’re paper, we make sure to validate them. Finally, we find a bench to wait out the last half hour. When the train arrives, we board and set off.
It takes 40 minutes to reach Monopoli, with our train making every stop along the way—a relaxing slow tour. For the first half-hour, we barely gain momentum, pausing every five minutes or less to let passengers on and off. But as we leave the sprawl of suburban Bari behind, the spaces between stations stretch out, and at last, we gather speed for our destination.
We reach Monopoli’s historic center and find a quiet park, drying off a bench with our ever-handy travel towel—proof that some packing choices are truly worthwhile. As we munch our sandwiches, taking in the surroundings, a familiar disruption intrudes. Oh no, not here too! A man approaches, interrupting our lunch, offering bracelets, then a battery-operated travel light, which he shines directly into my eyes as a sales pitch. Hah. No thanks.
And then, the war within flares up again. The constant tug-of-war between my faith, the call to charity, my ingrained Midwestern kindness—and the wary traveler in me who has learned, sometimes the hard way, not to be an easy mark. I’ve wrestled with this before. Where is the line between generosity and being taken advantage of? Between kindness and self-preservation? I still haven’t found a perfect answer. Let me always err towards kindness, Lord.
We can see the towers in the distance. We don’t even really need to follow Google Maps, there are direction signs for tourists. Drats. The church is closed and doesn’t open back up until 4 pm.
There are photos of the stunning interior and a description that is absolute gibberish. This translation demonstrates the sentence structures that are so different from our own and why Italian is so challenging. The photos though make me want to come back when it is open. We aren’t doing anything tomorrow, so we decide to repeat our trip, but start out much earlier.
We wend our way through the narrow alleys. We find our way to the water. The seas are angry today. We bask in the breeze and drink it in. Sated, we find our way back to the station, shop for dinner groceries and aperitivo.
For an impromptu day, it ends up being perfect.
paleremo presto