 For the last month I have made it a point to write something concerning my most recent travels. The last four weekends have been filled with flights, train rides, and walking. While I had the best intentions in my ambitious schedule, I have to lay back and think about where I was last weekend.
Understandably this is a good problem to have, a blessed one actually. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some trendsetter, far from it, as my trips are budget friendly at best. Watch some of my videos, it’s not like we are eating at five star restaurants or staying at the best hotels. These trips are more of where I can walk and explore within reason. After many years of staying close to home (at least within driving range) and living the Dave Ramsey dream of “beans and rice” I haven’t had the opportunity to see and do what my soul has been craving. These last few months have been wonderful and ones that I will be forever grateful for. This was a major reason why I took my current teaching job in central Europe, to have this opportunity to see all these places. I snicker a little knowing that my recent travels have brought a slew of new memories and some have nothing to do with the actual location and planned touring areas I visited. Thankfully, I have caught much of it on camera and put it out there for all those that find their way to my channel. Some highlights worth mentioning - my return trip to Warsaw after more than five years away was a dud but running in the rain for that last forty minutes in Lazienki Park was phenomenal. I loved seeing the palace and running through the gardens and forest. I laughed so much at the pro Ukrainian protest paint job across the street from the Russian embassy. You had to be there to see what it was. I might not have even noticed it in those dark wet hours of my morning run had that nut job on the scooter not screamed and raced down the sidewalk, forcing me to jump out of the way and take a breather. Częstochowa was overwhelming with crowds fighting to get into the monastery. I read about the quiet rules for visiting the place, truly, the thousands of pilgrims had other plans. I thought I would have some respite, but the place was nonstop. Thankfully, there was some foresight in booking a hotel room at a castle in nearby Lubliniec for the night. If only I had known there would be a wedding scheduled that very evening. Polish weddings are not for the meek and their love for dance music across all genres is extraordinary. I should know as I found myself sitting in the courtyard after a long evening walk, listening to those familiar lyrics of Mr. Vain transform into a Kenny G medley. My favorite moment in Lubliniec was finding a forest trail on the outskirts of town. Running in this forest of birches was serene and a welcomed surprise. Katowice - the search for Spodek the spaceship was fun for a variety of reasons. It was my first time really testing out the new video camera and realizing that sometimes the best things happen on the train. The walk through Katowice went well enough, but truly meeting up with the group of moms from Szczecin who were on their way to a Backstreet Boys concert was classic. It was something out of a movie or book. I had no clue I would be singing “I Want It That Way” and other songs for the next hour with this dynamic group of women. Riga was a complete culture shock for me. When I felt like I was getting used to things, another trigger would cause me to be overwhelmed again. My favorite moment was actually leaving the city, sitting in the old bus station with the pink walks and the grandmother manning the bathroom kiosk. The second best moment was seeing the beauty around me on the bus ride towards Estonia. Truly, I wanted to get out and venture into the forests, the lakes, and the Baltic Sea. I know at some point I will return to that country for that sole purpose. Estonia was what I needed after feeling shell shocked in Riga. The place wasn’t complicated, the beaches were therapeutic, and the running was perfect for those moments. As a whole my time there was pleasant, and my favorite moment would be minor to some. The accordion statue and his accompanying music was a delight to hear on my walks. When I was struggling one night, hearing the music put me at ease. Next on deck was Ireland no less. I wish I had more time there and that I had worked out whatever residual mess had impacted me on my Baltic Sea tour. Nevertheless, the trip itself was a major success and that day hiking in Bray will be forevermore a highlight. I’m stoked the normal trail was closed and I got to scale the mountain to the cross, and of course onto the farmer’s land. Talk about living out a dream. That’s what that journey was for me. Without my Airbnb hostess mentioning Bray, I would have missed this entire episode. After a weekend in Krakow, I hit the road again to Gdansk and Sopot. Both were familiar to me, so much so I felt like I was visiting a childhood home. Seeing Wojtek the Polish war hero was a highlight. I felt like an idiot, realizing that I had run by his namesake at my favorite park in Krakow days earlier, let alone the night before. What stood out the most though was a missed opportunity on my end. A lesson learned perhaps, but I dropped the ball on what could have been a great time and meeting, and for that I have much regret. With that written though, as I rode the train back to Sopot and then walked along the molo, reconnecting with one of my students made the entire trip. There are some students you pull for more than others, that you want nothing but the best for. This was one of those conversations. Five days later, I was back on a plane looking for Kerfus and getting to check off Germany for real this time. This was a weird trip with a ride of emotions. Even my runs were clusters because I kept getting turned around on their winding trails and the lack of distinguishable landmarks in the dark. I managed well enough though but the palace I wanted to visit was no Peterhof. I took more interest in the Mandarin duck I spotted along the water’s edge and a heron or stork that stood in the cold chattering away. The grazing goats or sheep, I can’t seem to tell the difference at this point for whatever reason, were a delight. Even the Christmas markets were failures for me, but the Anglican church market was a delight even though I didn’t have any cash on me and was far too tired to stay more than twenty minutes. Nevertheless, the drum and bugle corps was awesome and made me smile beyond comparison. And yet even with several cool moments on the streets of Berlin, exploring summer homes, and finding places of solitude within a bustling metropolis, running into the same fox two nights in a row was tied with an escalator ride at the airport for top traveling moments. This just proves that we can plan our trips, but we can’t truly know what will define them or what events will stand out the most. It is far more important we remain present, and take what we can from the experience bad or good. Being able to see other places and get glimpses into the lives of residents from the past and present is a gift unto itself, and one that we can carry with us in the days to come.
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 In a few days I will be returning to Italy for the first time in over four and a half years. During the pandemic I dictated an entire book about my stay in Puglia, but the file was corrupted. After several attempts at rewriting the text, I put the manuscript aside and decided those words were not meant to be shared. And yet with my new assignment in Europe, I have the chance to return, to stay for three weeks and to embrace those parts of me I left behind. In the spirit of this return, I wanted to share this introduction, the same one I intended to publish in Brindisi and Me. As the book will likely never be released, this should be a good starting part for our adventures in the weeks ahead. ___________________________________________________________________________ One might be hard pressed to find an American that is not eager or willing to travel to Italy or live-in country. Whether it is our obsession with the cuisine, the culture, or the fact half of us appear to have Italian blood or have a friend that does, makes it that much more appealing. Granted, our perspective is skewed on what real Italian life is, constrained to Hollywood movies, Olive Garden, and to our relatives that went on that two-week-long trip to Tuscany or to Roma. There is this love affair, one that I will admit I did not feel prior to being offered a teaching position on the heel of the boot. I remember asking my future employer whether they felt it would be a good fit. I was pushing for a former Soviet Union republic and instead I’m going Under the Tuscan Sun, well significantly farther south, but still the same sun. To say I was surprised that I would be undertaking a two-year teaching assignment in southern Italy would be an understatement. I will be the first to share that I wasn’t some timid traveler either having studied overseas on two previous occasions and traveled to multiple countries outside the United States. Knowing that I had lived up and down the east coast and in the central USA made me feel confident that anything Italy would throw my way would be easy to manage. In some ways that couldn’t have been any farther from the truth. Even though after World War 2 the United States would be central to helping Italy rebuild, something got lost in translation. Between American soldiers “rescuing,” I mean falling in love with Sicilian and Italian women who they would quickly bring back stateside to create a nuclear family with, any and all money that was sent back to help rebuild, didn’t find a direct path to the impoverished southern part of the country. I’m confident you could look up Garibaldi’s unification of Italy, but the short version is that on paper the long one-legged land mass with a few islands to spare is one country, but in truth you have Rome and all that it represents as well as Milan, Florence, and the rest of the north to Venice, as one “cultured” state. That’s where the financial districts are located, where most Italians that remained after World War 2 work and are able to make a life for themselves. Travel south of Rome and things start to get shady — shifty might be a better word. Yes, we can whisper such things like the mafia if you really want to, but it might not be necessary. It’s not so much that, but more like how the southern United States was treated after the Civil War. Industry versus agriculture is the bottom line. I’m sure some money has been sent to the southern part of the country, but my goodness if you talk to any northern Italians, they are quick to point out the money disappeared or was wasted because of those “barbarians, pirates, anarchists, and thieves,” concerning their beloved kin to the south. Knowing there is an undertone within the country and in some circles outspoken critics ready to cut off Puglia, Calabria and the other southern regions, I find the irony in where the northerners flock when summer comes. Even in this time of COVID, where were northerners driving and flying, but to the southern part they criticized so much, hoping to get a reprieve from the virus. The country is mind boggling. The average American wouldn’t know this since so many hit only Rome, Naples, and Florence. Very few head to the heel, to where you can look out at the bluish green water and know that across the narrow sea is Albania and Greece — only a reasonable ferry ride away. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I should have had an idea when a colleague sent me a book by Chris Harrison titled Head over Heel: Seduced by Southern Italy. He said I needed to read the book prior to my flight so I could prepare myself. Southern Italy is not a Diane Lane movie or George Clooney’s villa life. I wasn’t going on some Roman holiday but to physically live there. I think that’s vital to understand. Before we get into the grit of this memoir, let’s be clear that being a tourist and being a resident of a country are different things. Tourists are treated as a cash cow where a resident is expected to fall in line with the locals and embrace the mores and the accepted values of those around them. In most of Italy the tourists are at least entertained and tolerated knowing how vital they are to local businesses — but not Brindisi. There’s a reason why my Italian home only allowed the cruise ships in port one day a week. The locals agreed the tourists could help the economy but by the same token, their shops remained closed in the afternoon because of the long honored tradition of siesta. Those rich fat Americans on vacation, my kin folk, had nowhere to spend their money. Instead, let’s take this duck tour ride around the city, look at the old ruins of the air force base, the palm trees, the locals going about their busy days, and boom everything is closed, back to the ship. Change is not in the regional dialect. At least I don’t think it is. That’s where this book focuses. You either embrace the Puglia lifestyle or leave. There is no halfway. For Americans, especially if you are there for a short trip you don’t see these nuances. You see the passion and the zest for life that these people have, and you fall deeper in love for the food and the energy around you. What you miss is a community focused on finding ways to live life by working less and resting more. I know that sounds ideal. Get a little closer to how that happens, and you see a hodgepodge, a harmonious dysfunction for those that reside here. That’s what I want to talk about and share. By the time we’re done, you’ll find that even in this chaos, the pull is too great to truly leave. Even now almost five years since my departure, I can say that part of me remains in Puglia, along the rocky shores of Brindisi and at the masseria. I see the stray dog gangs lurking along the roadside, the piles of trash waiting to be picked up for the two months of summer tourism, and the speeding cars passing one another on single lane roads. I feel the warmth of the sun and the soft breeze blowing sands from Africa along my path. I hear the laughter of two old men catching up, taking a cigarette break, as they wait to drive a school bus full of kids, while a shopkeeper blares his television set to hear the football results he already knows by heart. In the early morning hours, before the sun begins to rise, and only after most of the residents have truly gone to bed; in this silence with the melody of the crashing water, I find a piece of me I had never known. Then it goes away just as quickly from the sound of a bottle crashing on the floor in the apartment above, followed by a fury of yelling and then a creaking bed to serenade those desiring sleep. How I miss you dear Italy, how I miss you.     |
Meet Mr. Jon- a traveler at heart who loves a good story and walk. Jonathan has over twenty years experience in independent publishing. While he prides himself on crafting a good story, nothing truly beats an adventure and a camera. Archives
July 2024
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