November 2009. Italy with The Blonde. Much anticipated trip. Was it going to live up to our expectations?
It did. And beyond.
Things I learned in Italy:
1) Italians love white jeans. Mostly the men.
2) They also like to wear orange and purple coloured clothes. Sometimes together.
3) The people of Ostuni don't speak English.
4) They've apparently never seen bleached hair before.
5) If you say "hokaaay" in a vaguely Continental accent, and use International Inappropriate Touching, you can generally communicate.
6) I attract 52 year old bodybuilders called Luigi.
7) It is possible to eat one's own bodyweight in cheese, prosciutto and bread and not get sick of it.
The trip began with a dubious cab ride to Stansted at stupid o'clock in the morning last Friday, ("errrrm, I think the road markings are for your guidance?") We survived this, but I got the inevitable violation at airport security. I don't know what is is about me that sets off the alarms but it resulted in a particularly thorough frisking. Question for airport security: did you have to frisk me so much that you felt along the entirety of both my bra wires? I felt thoroughly defiled and was in need of a drink at this point.
Drinking in airports is not only acceptable, but there's a law to say you ought to. With so many people travelling internationally in and out of time zones; drinking a vodka tonic at 6am is totally fine. We were delighted to see spirits in pouches on the plane, ("Capri Sun for adults!" I cried excitedly), but not even this could drown out the most annoying passenger in the world who was sat opposite us.
She was very shrill and resembled a Spitting Image puppet and decided to spend almost THREE HOURS listing where she had and hadn't been in the world.
"Crete.. Santorini... Paphos"...yawn.
The poor man she was talking at looked like he might hurt himself for something else to do. The Blonde and I cracked up for the whole flight.
When we arrived at Bari airport, we'd arranged to be picked up by a man called Angelo to drive us to Ostuni. We'd discussed before hand that he'd resemble a member of the Mafia and be a big, gesticulating Italian man. We couldn't have been more wrong. Our greeting was a simple "Buongiorno", and he was of jockey proportions. We spent the drive in silence not knowing whether we should attempt an English conversation with him, but we were quite happy looking out at the wonderful Italian landscape.
At one point I was giggling silently, as the unedited version of Lily Allen's "Fuck You" came on the local radio, very loud. This randomly became the soundtrack to our entire holiday. The Italians love this track, it's on MTV Italia every 5 minutes and every single bar played it at least once an evening.
We pulled up to the pallazzo after winding dangerously through ancient, steep, narrow little streets in the rain - Angelo parked up and got out of the car, testing front doors to locate our apartment. The Blonde and I didn't know whether to ask if all was ok, or what was going on. He would get back in muttering to himself in Italian, then drive a little further and repeat. He left his mobile in the car at one point and it began to ring, we debated answering it but decided to pretend we hadn't noticed and just hoped he'd get back in the car soon, or find our apartment.
Finally - we got into the place which would be our home for the next 6 days. And what a home. Up narrow, ancient stone steps to our internal door which opened into a cosy, but high-vaulted-ceilinged appartemente. Named L'Alcova after the stone alcove which housed the double bed, it was really stunning -slightly ramshackle but chic. Our balcony faced over the narrow street to the other pallazzos, where the local Ostunians lived - not a tourist in sight.
We happily opened the prosecco kindly left in our fridge and spent our first afternoon sheltering from what had turned into a storm, watching Elf (a long running joke between The Blonde and I) and contentedly relaxing on the sofa.
We decided to venture out later on to the shops to find a place to stock up on supplies. Walking down through the stone archway into the white city, the first thing we noticed that sleepy little Ostuni had a Durex machine in the street. Just there, on the main junction. Disturbingly, the biggest demographic we saw out round the main square was elderly men. Later on in the holiday though, we would see the reason why this machine was a necessity - the Italians just ooze sex. Their language, passion, food, wine, exquisite good looks and utter self confidence that allows them to pull off various garish shades of puffa jackets; means that being shacked up indoors is apparently the national hobby. We came to the conclusion that this is what everyone in Ostuni must do all afternoon since we barely saw anyone out in the days.
Every building we entered in Ostuni was in a cave. Vaulted stone ceilings everywhere, even in our local grocery shop. Despite the proprietor not speaking English, we managed well enough with some well-placed "Ciao!"s and some wild gesticulating to get bags full of excellent local cheese, salami, cheap wine and limoncello. You know, the essentials.
That evening, we stumbled upon Il Gatto Rosso, a pub/pizzeria which was recommended by our apartment owner, and famous for it's very cheap and lovely pizzas, and the fact it showed Italian football matches every evening. We made it famous for language barriers and the amount of food we thought was reasonable to order, while the waiter/barman looked on bemusedly. We had amazing air dried beef carpaccio with parmesan and rocket; antipasti selection, olives stuffed with meat and some spicy potatoes. This was way, way too much.
One of Il Gatto Rosso's main attractions was the waiter. He was very, very hot. The Blonde developed quite a fixation with him, he became known as Fitty McDirty due to my iPhone predictive text, when I was taking notes for my blog, and the cause of much hilarity throughout the week. ("Fitty" becomes "dirty" on the iPhone.)
While we were eating, we noticed how much attention we were drawing with the locals. Me with my clearly-not-natural red hair and bluey green eyes; and The Blonde with her white blonde locks and green eyes. The men on the next table began talking to us after a bit of pointing and staring, and despite them not speaking English; and us not speaking Italian, with the help of a dictionary and some sign language, we got by and had a very pleasant evening with Christiano from Roma and Augusto from Napoli. They taught us some Italian, and we taught them "Same again?"
When we made to leave, the boys tried to indicate they wanted to drive us somewhere. We hastily refused and left, "Grazie! Buono Notte!", and scooted back to the apartment up the extremely steep hills, which after a meal of that proportion, and the day of drinking, was an absolute killer. Once we'd got over the hyperventilating; we spent the rest of the evening drunkenly dancing to Calvin Harris and Jay-Z, and somehow managed to polish off almost an entire litre of Limoncello. Quite possibly one of the best days ever, topped off by flopping out on my bed in an ancient Italian alcove. Brilliant.
