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As it was a restaurant in Europe, we did not expect any tips, and when we did divide up the euro or two left on the tables at the end of the night, it added up to four or five Euros each, tops. I didn’t care, I wasn’t there for the money, but rather to immerse myself that much further into the culture, and also, of course, for the free food.
Odissea, the cook, was Greek himself and could put together the most delicious Gyros in under two minutes flat. There was tiny window attached to the kitchen where people could order `food to go`, and when the restaurant was full, Odissea was slammed with orders from all sides, his tiny bald head producing fat beads of sweat which he wiped off constantly with a huge roll of paper towels. He was forever yelling out table numbers in Italian, and I would drop whatever I was doing to take as many plates as I could to the hungry diners seated outside.
I became more comfortable with the Italian and eventually was able to take tables on my own, answering questions about my origins after the locals saw that I was not a native speaker. “Sono della California”, I would say and suddenly we were best friends and joked about our lagging economy.
Overall, it was one of the more challenging experiences, but with many rewards. I learned how hard Italians work, and how little they are paid for it, and also that they are always happy to accommodate you, no matter what time you come in to eat, whether it be five in the afternoon or midnight. It is just the Italian way.

It was a bittersweet meal, as I was planning on leaving Lecce soon and heading to New York, my tourist visa was almost expired, and I was also out of funds. We picked this place because their outside seating area was always filled with beautiful locals, dining on lobster and sipping on their third bottle of Salento wine.

After ordering a bottle for ourselves, and an appetizer of grilled portabello, on top of buffalo mozzarella, on top of vine tomatoes, and finished off with a balsamic reduction. We began to relax into our evening, talking of people we had met, people we missed, and the incredible memories we had collected over the summer.

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There was one spot that I found was always open, and no matter what time of day it was, I could always count on this small bar tucked behind Piazza Sant’Oronzo to serve delicious iced espresso, or caffé in ghiaccio (a southern specialty), along with a cup of fresh fragola (strawberry) gelato, my summer favorite. When I found myself wandering the streets during these quiet afternoon hours, I would always sit here and read whichever book I had brought with me, for I always had a book in my bag. I ordered a caffé and sat for an hour reading, watching the locals jabber on in dialect, not understanding a word.

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This historic event has been a staple during the summer months for over 700 years, stopping only during the era of the Plague when three fourths of Siena’s population passed away from the disease, the rest simply fled the city. For the past thirty years, the city has been thriving, and the Palio fever is stronger than ever. Each Contrada has been like an extremely close family that you have to be born into or could join later, only if you were baptized into the community. There have been songs, bitter rivalries and alliances that have stemmed from centuries of bad blood and family ties between ancient members.

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We made a game plan over a cappuccino, for myself, and a pot of hot water for Katie. She has her quirks. After we dragged my bag over the cobblestone streets to her house and stuffed it under her bed, we went in search of a hotel room where I could stay for a night or two while I looked for an apartment.

The first place we came across was a bed and breakfast near Piazza Sant’Oronzo. It was a bit more expensive than I would have liked, at 50 euro a night, but I was desperate, and tired, and also in need of a shower. We accepted the room from a sweet woman who was incredibly pregnant. As I was looking through the place, Katie and I told her in broken Italian my situation, and how I came to be here in Lecce, with no job, money or place to stay. Well, this lovely Italian woman felt for me and said she had a friend who may be able to help me out. On a tiny scrap of paper she wrote down his name, Stefano, and where to find him, across from P.zza Duomo. I thanked her profusely and, after showering, headed straight for his office.

She had let him know I would be coming so when I arrived we sat down together and had a long talk, in English and Italian, about what he could do for me. This man that I had never met before, offered me a room in one of the apartments where he collected the rent, and a job leasing four wheel bikes in Piazza Sant’Oronzo during the summer to tourists, with a monthly stipend that would allow me to stay in Italy for as long as I wanted.
I felt like crying, and when I made it back to my bed and breakfast , after a celebratory gelato from Natale, my preferred gelateria, I did. Happy tears, that is, and I felt my worries slide away from me as I drifted off into a mid-afternoon nap, very European of me.

We had both heard of a small area to the northwest called Cinque Terre, or five lands, which was really five small cities situated along a breathtaking coastline with a hiking path connecting them. It was the perfect two day vacation we needed and on Saturday morning we took an early train out to the first city, Riomaggiore, and were immediately drawn to the startling view of calm, turquoise waters, which flickered specks of sunlight into our eyes as we stared down at the small city below, dazed by its beauty. We started along the path, which proved an easy and enjoyable walk that took all of 15 minutes.

The next city, Manarola, was more stunning than the first, with brightly colored buildings built one on top of the other, where happy Italians live their lives in the midst of all the tourists that coat their cities during the warm summer months. Here we treated ourselves to a mid-morning gelato and headed straight for the next city on the coast, Corniglia, where we planned to find a hotel and spend the night before attempting the two notoriously more difficult hikes the next day. We wandered around the city, inquiring at small inns at first, but found that they were all completely booked. After an hour we became a bit frantic and began going into restaurants and bars, asking if rooms were available upstairs. At one point a sweet Italian waiter guided us to his local bar where he said there were always rooms, but even this little unknown spot was taken. We began to freak out. We decided to hike to the fourth city, Vernazza, hoping to find a room there for the night.

This hike proved to be incredibly strenuous, and we practically ran it since the sun was setting and we didn’t want to be hiking in the dark. We arrived in Vernazza, sweaty and exhausted, and watched the sun set over the sparkling water, alternating between gold and black, and then we rushed down to the city below, in search of accommodation.

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Ciao
Marco

Ciao a tutti!