It’s been about a month since being in Puglia (Apulia, in English), but
the magic of the land, the light, the air stirs within me still. That is saying
something, given the month of tragic headline news we've had back in America.
M and I never fully grew accustomed to where we were living: a masseria,
or fortress farm, built in the early 1700s and renovated three centuries later.
(In the vein of receiving a phone call from the Pulitzer committee – My
response: Are you sure you have the right Larry O’Connor? Chances are …)
No, our two-week masseria, with a late eighteenth-century fresco in the
farm’s former chapel (now drawing room) was not meant for someone more
deserving. It was for us. Two writers who didn’t know how much we could take
advantage of a sanctuary retreat like this one.
Inside the fortress farm: courtyard piazza, converted cow barn (with
feeding station plaques and birthdates for three cows who lived there – Contessa,
Principessa and Bianchina) to game room, where M spread out her latest novel
manuscript on the netless ping pong table; a cheese room with vintage
fireplace; second story sleeping quarters, with back deck for night sky
watching. The door leading upstairs has a lock on it so old that it has to be
turned with a metal key the size and weight of a small dog.
Puglia, in southern Italy, is not on the tourist trail. In the hills
where we stayed, it is a place of sunny days and cool nights. Lemon and orange
trees. Olives and capers and cherries and almonds. Primitivo red wine made with
the grape that when it migrated to Napa Valley put Zinfandel on the map. But
Primitivo in the terroir that is Puglia Puglia tastes nothing like the food
clobberer that is California Zinfandel.
Looking for an Italy that is not Venice, not Florence, not Rome, not
Tuscany, not Umbria? Consider Puglia Puglia. It will stay in your blood long
after you leave it.
Next: Running for Your Life: Puglia
Poetry
