Holiness and Horniness...
*adventures in Southern Italy
Photo credit: David Horgan. Lama Monachile beach Poligano a Mare.
Dear Reader,
hello! I hope you enjoy this summery Travel Sketch as we descend into demure autumn. These are not travel reviews or guides (no Lonely Planet here!) but, as the name suggests, impressions. I was inspired to begin these sketches after reading some of Truman Capote's wonderful ones in A Capote Reader, (great gift, thanks subscriber and dear friend Gerry!). Enjoy y'all!
Love,
Emma
X o x o
Poligano a Mare / Bari / Monpoli
The town teeters on a limestone cliff-edge, aptly as poligano translates as ‘built-up’ and mare ‘sea’. It is all narrow paths that lead to either communal squares full of bars, restaurants, cathedrals, and adolescents singing or doing cartwheels, or else paths that lead to thirty-metre high sea-drops. Poligano a Mare is famous as the home of crooner Dominico Mudugno of international hit Volare (oh!oh!oh! adapted by Dean Martin and The Gypsy Kings) and one street dedicated to the hit has the lyrics strung in white lights above the frenetic restaurants and bars - down at the port a bronze statue of Mudugno himself stands arms spread open, suit-jacket flaring, slightly camp, slightly suave, a sense of flying which is what volare means in Italian.
Photo credit: David Horgan. Note: Mudugno actually moved with his family to Brindisi when he was nine years old.
Below him steps lead to the table-top cliffside - at night it is an eerie walk downwards towards the shimmering Adriatic - a hundred metres from the shore towers an enormous party-yacht, blue lights flashing and pulsating from its underside, an expensive sound system pipes Motown harmonies across to the cliff edge where we stand.
‘Woah! The bunga-bunga boat!’
‘In England this would SO be cordoned off..’
Photo credit: David Horgan. Cliffside view Poligano a Mare.
In the morning the ancient woman sweeps the pavement on the very sleepy street outside our Wonderful Italy apartment, the whole of the day she stands sentinel, only allowing herself a stool in the late afternoon to early evening. She shout-speaks across the street to another elderly woman, says ‘ciao’ to middle-aged business men who pass suited at dusk. I am delighted when on the third morning I receive a ‘ciao’ from her (I have been maniacally smiling in her direction every time we've passed).
We enter the dauntingly named Cathedral of Purgatory. On the flagstone floor is a skull and crossbones remarkably similar in style to the classic pirate symbol and there is a series of boxes behind glass containing skulls, dried flowers, and other macabre relics.
‘Creepy.’
Photo credit: David Horgan. Inside the Purgatory Church, Poligano a Mare.
Later we venture down to the famously picturesque Lama Monachile beach - a horse-shoe cove created by the erosion of a river that flows into the sea. It is visually charming but unfortunately it has been raining and pungent water flows down the cobble-stone path, and creates pond-sized puddles that we have to leap over in flip-flops and sandals, our feet exposed.…I catch the eye of a stranger as I leap from one side and she to the other, we grimace, at that point we both seem to simultaneously realise - - ‘oh is it…..? Oh no.’
‘It's sewage I think.’
‘ - - I don’t think we should swim….’
Another Cathedral. This one is incredibly bling. Gold, red and purple Maximalism. A stubbly, basket-ball shirt wearing Italian man walks into the no-go sacred altar areas and touches various untouchable objects - sepulchre, encased Mother Mary statues, Padre Pio paintings. Late middle-aged Catholic women tut. Security soon appears, (the whole church is covered by CCTV), they escort him out and search his carrier bag - he belligerent touches various Holy objects as he exits.
Photo credit: David Horgan. Another Gothic cathedral, Monopoli, Puglia.
The following day we take a cave and swimming boat tour with eight other tourists - our extrovert skipper blares Pavarotti’s O Sole Mio as we set off into the dark cerulean water. The first cave is the Bishop’s Cave also known as the Blue Cave, Bishop’s because there’s a secret passageway through which the men could escape when threatened, blue because of the crystal waters inside, next is the Love Cave, called as such because of the heart-shaped naturally-formed cutting in the cave-roof that projects a heart of light onto the water - now he plays Ed Sheeran and the American female tour group sing back at him. Sitting next to us is a woman of indeterminate age in a black and gold bikini her cheeks and forhead tight, her lips permanently pouted and plumped, she sits bolt upright next to her pot-bellied, slumped, and slobbishly- dressed partner.
‘Ciao Bella,’ said the Skipper as she boarded and took her by the tanned hand as she stepped onto the deck.
‘Did you notice that couple? Like he'd intentionally made zero effort almost to highlight her extreme work.’
‘That's the deal right?’
‘The Deal. Yes. Woman is Death Becomes Her, man pays.’
Out at sea the Skipper says, ‘jump off then after Prosecco….I’m not joking.’ We leap from the stern.
The sea is swimming-pool warm and appears entirely flat but I seem to be swimming on the spot as I vigorously attempt to return to the boat.
‘I come back for you,’ says the Skipper.
Back on land we drink the following variety of spritzes: Aperol, Limoncello, Campari, Hugo.
‘Let’s start the Spritz Diaries!’ I suggest.
Sitting in a square drinking a Hugo (the elderflower liqueur one) overlooking the sea a stage has been erected, rows of seats, it is unclear what the event will be. We are hoping for live music but soon women of varying ages, vaguely but not overly attractive, wearing a mismatch of semi- fashionable (but not couture) ensembles prep and turn on the paltry catwalk, they are guided by man in T-shirt and jeans, Celine Dion plays at one point, and a middle-aged crowd of men and women gather. I guess that it’s a rehearsal for a low-level fashion show put on maybe by a local boutique.
Photo credit: David Horgan. A Puglian lemon granita not a spritz!
‘What is it for?’ someone else must have asked because we hear the waiter explain that this is the set up for the upcoming ‘Miss Mama competition’.
‘2024. Yes, you’re a mum but most importantly you’re still sexy.’
‘Oh my Gooooood.’
Later we try to visit a beautiful looking medieval Chapel but it is padlocked from the outside, a wooden sign on the door reads: ‘Do Not Enter. Closed for a Wake’. We picture the mourners locked inside.
P.S. Hey, thanks for reading to the bottom! More Travel Sketches can be found here. A little more About Me can be found here. Please do subscribe, share and comment below. Grazie Mille🙏!