The Ride Through Italy Has Begun

As I write, I’m sitting on the very old, very hard mattress of my room at a bed and breakfast north of the town of Mesagne in southern Italy. Looking out the large window to my right I see that another gray, windy day awaits me. It will be Day 3 of my bicycle journey through Italy, today from Mesagne to Alberobello.

I arrived here at B&B Finestre Tra Gli Ulivi yesterday around 2:00 – a little earlier than I would have anticipated as I prepped for my day that morning, but rain was in the forecast for mid-afternoon and if I had anything to say about it, I was determined to arrive at my destination before getting poured on. Anyway, the blustery, cold, damp day was not conducive for stopping for a picnic, and there was a real shortage of cafes or bars to dive into for a break from the elements. So pedaling on and pushing ahead seemed the better choice.

The previous day, just in time for lunch, I had found a great little thriving coastal, resort village and a lively restaurant with outdoor tables, a seaview, and mussels on the menu. And I’d ended my day in San Foca, an equally buzzing little seaside town with children riding the merry-go-round, couples seated at outdoor bar tables, and young people standing shoulder to shoulder at a club pumping out the bass beats.

Yesterday was different. While pedaling along the Adriatic coast, I passed through village after village, each emptier than the last. It was a little eerie. Seaside ghost towns was the vibe. It’s hard to say how much of this is due to economics or if it’s just a seasonal thing, with the summer beach season still over a month away. But, comparing what I’d seen the day before to these very sleepy villages with many crumbling homes and boarded up hotels did have me assuming that the heyday of some of these southern Italian coastal towns lies in their past.

I was greeted with a warm welcome yesterday upon arriving at my B&B. The place is very unassuming, in the middle of flat farmland, looking more like a simple country house than a place for visitors. Seventy-something Luigi was putting logs on the fire when I entered through the sliding glass door. He stood up and shook my hand, referred to me as “the American,” and called for his wife, Marcella. I quickly realized it’s because Luigi speaks no English. Marcella, bounding into the main room, tried her best. She asked if I’d like a coffee then disappeared back into the kitchen. “Italian coffee?” she shouted. “Si!” Minutes later she returned. She placed the very small coffee and some sugar onto the table then looked me in the eye. “So, Trump,” she said. Straight and to the point. That was it. No question. Just the name. I chuckled. This wasn’t the first time on my trip a local had brought up this subject. A man I shared an elevator with at the Bologna train station. The owner of my hotel in Lecce. Lots of curiosity about our dear leader. I’d anticipated this prior to my trip and had wondered how often I’d be expected to share my thoughts on Mr. Trump. Last summer, in Germany, I’d experienced the same thing, so now, with him back at the helm, I’m not surprised that the subject has come up more than a couple times already.

The rest of my afternoon and evening were spent here, at the house. I could’ve biked back into town for dinner, but I still had a sandwich in my bag along with some other snacks. Plus the weather was crummy, so hunkering down and relaxing for the night seemed the better plan. With the wifi signal in my room being nonexistent, I spent a few hours on my computer in the main house before heading to bed for some Italian TV. “Mission Impossible 1” to be exact. I’ve seen that movie literally dozens of times, so when Ethan Hunt was explaining the “lista de noc” I didn’t need a translation. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

Taking a break from my writing, I just popped down to breakfast. It was a breakfast fit for a king – bread, meat, cheese, homemade pear jam, fresh figs, scrambled eggs swimming in olive oil, and of course, tiny cups of strong Italian coffee. Conversation was difficult with Marcella until I gave Spanish a try. Much better! She could understand most of what I was saying and then the conversation flowed. We talked about Easter and this region of Italy. She said that Mel Brooks filmed “Passion of the Christ” in Matera, one of the cities I’ll be traveling to. When I corrected her and said it was Mel Gibson, we both had a good laugh. The topic turned to soccer. She showed me a picture of the coach for Napoli, Antonio Conte. I noticed he and I are the same age and I pointed that out to her. She said, yes, maybe that is the same, but that Conte has much more hair than I do. Good point, Marcella. We talked about Luigi’s favorite club, Juventus, and I mentioned that one of America’s best players plays for Juventus. “Ah, yes, McKennie!,” she said, referring to midfielder, Weston McKennie. It felt great to finally have a chat with Marcella and I was very happy that my Spanish was coming in handy. I did very little prep, I’m sorry to say, in the Italian language before coming here.

Backtracking just a bit, after my two-day train journey (including a 10-hour ride out of Bologna) I had a pleasant night in the smallish city of Lecce. I picked up a pilgrim passport for the Via Francigena at a local youth hostel before heading to a restaurant recommended to me by the owner of my hotel. The Via Francigena is a pilgrimage route that actually begins in southern England and winds its way through France, Switzerland and eventually Rome, with an extension that leads to the coast. I’ll be riding my bike along part of this route and with my passport I can get stamps from churches I pass by. There’s a possibility that I could stay in a church overnight with my passport, as well, but I did very little research into this and will just be open to the possibility should it present itself.

My dinner was fantastic, on the second level of a little trattoria. I had pasta with chickpeas and bombette, these little nuggets of meat and cheese that are wrapped in bacon. Delish. Of course, a couple glasses of deep, red house wine were also in order.

After my first day of cycling on Sunday, as I said, I ended up in the coastal town of San Foca. I chose a great hotel. Not because it was fancy or posh or anything, but because the owner was this amazing guy named Massimo. He greeted me with a smile, a warm handshake and a coffee. As I sipped, he darted away and returned with a bag of bananas for me. A few minutes later, after another disappearance, he returned with a cream-filled pastry. Wow. Italian hospitality. Before I’d even had a chance to remove my bags from my bike, Massimo was lifting it onto his shoulder and carting it up two flights of stairs to my room. Holy cow. I settled in for the afternoon, enjoying the noise of the city just below my balcony. A stroll, a beer, and some chill time saw the night end with a delicious, hot out of the oven, pizza with ham and artichoke hearts and another Peroni beer. It was an easy first day of cycling and a rewarding night.

Yesterday I encountered my first equipment issue of my ride. A squeak from the back wheel kept getting louder and more pronounced with every mile. As I began anticipating seeking out a bike shop once I arrived in Mesagne, it dawned on me what the problem might be. Earlier I had pulled off the main road for a break. There was a small dirt path I was going to follow to the beach. There were huge potholes, however, filled with water dotting most of the path, so instead I parked my bike on the side of the road and was preparing to walk myself the rest of the way. It was at this point that a man in a horse-drawn wagon pulled onto the same, narrow dirt track. I could tell his horse was spooked, and I’m sure he was cursing out the fact that this stupid American cyclist was in his way. I tried my best to get my bike even further off the path, and when doing so, my bike tipped and crashed to the ground. Remember, fully loaded, my bike is quite heavy. The man and his horse passed gingerly by and I collected my bike from the ground. So later, as I was riding down the highway, my rear wheel squeaking behind me, I began to be hopeful that maybe the squeak was just the rear fender rubbing against the tire, something that was caused by my bike crashing to the ground. Sure enough, when I pulled over for a sandwich, I checked and indeed that’s all it was. I easily repositioned the fender and voila, the squeak was gone. Good thing, too, because that’s basically the extent of my bike repair capabilities.

Alright, with my stomach full and enough rest for the morning, I think it’s time to shove off. The sun is actually peaking through the clouds, so maybe the day won’t be as gloomy as yesterday after all. Time to gear up and hit the road. I have some climbing ahead of me today, and another stiff wind, so let’s hope for the best!