Italy Day 6: Falling in love on the plane

A stunning morning in Ostuni. I was sad to wake up in my luxurious bed for the last time and contemplate heading back to London. Last days of holidays suck.

Angelo came to collect us as agreed, The Blonde decided to leave behind her dubious bottle of cactus liquer for the next holidaymakers. It was with a genuinely heavy heart that I walked down the perilous stone steps for the last time with my case bursting with biscotti and trullo-shaped novelty limoncello bottles.

In the car, while watching the landscape under the bright sunshine and admiring the crimson soil and gnarled olive groves; I began to formulate the life plan of how to actually move to Ostuni. First thing, learn Italian.

In a wonderfully cyclical bit of fate, Lily Allen's Fuck You came on as were pulling up to the airport, the bizarre soundtrack to our trip; and a rainbow curved down from underneath a fluffy cloud. Goodbye Apulia!

I almost had a bit of a strop in the airport when faced with a) Ryanair's ridiculous luggage allowances; coupled with not being able to bring back any cheap Italian cigarettes. Boo. This was swiftly put aside however, when we began to queue for boarding. I actually fell in love about three times in that queue, there really are some extradordinarily beautiful men in that country.

I kept saying "Seriously, look at him!" to the The Blonde about one tall handsome man. Sculpted cheekbones, stubbly and D&G model-esque mouth, wearing a scruffy Who T-shirt and listening intently to his earphones. Sigh. Casually gawping at him took my mind of the queueing boredom for a good 45 minutes.

On the plane, it was literally a bunfight, scrambling for seats and wedging luggage into any available crevice. Ryanair flights are not a pleasant experience. Until now.

The Blonde sat by the window, I sat next to her and we watched people filter past us and the empty seat next to me. Suddenly, Beautiful Man walked past and OH MY GOD sat down next to me. The Blonde laughed out loud at my face as I whipped round to face her with wide eyes; half a look of alarm and half giddy excitement. I looked uber cool at this point, obviously.

He waited until everyone had packed their luggage in the overhead compartments before carefully placing his pristine Temptations vinyl on top of everything. He was listening to soul on his iPod. Taste as well as beauty. Some people just have everything.

I spent the entire flight not quite knowing what to do with myself.

The Blonde, whispering "Talk to him!"

Me: "I can't! He's Italian. And beautiful. Oh...and asleep."

Italians are funny on planes. It was by no means a rough or turbulent flight, but yet still the whole plane clapped upon touchdown. I've never seen this before. Why? The pilot did not heroically guide us to safety through a storm. He did not fight off a terrorist in the cockpit. He just did his job. Yes, I couldn't do it; but he's trained to do what he did. I don't clap the waiter when he brings me a good coffee. I don't give the bus driver a standing ovation when he delivers me to the correct bus stop outside work of a morning. Curious.

The plane's wheel had literally just touched the tarmac, when everyone jumped from their seats and began to unpack their hand luggage from the overhead lockers. The Blonde and I looked at each other in disbelief as we taxied down the runway at a still high speed. A man knocked into the sitting Beautiful Man as he yanked his bag out of the locker. Beautiful Man dressed him down in Italian. I melted a bit. Gorgeous, loves music and courteous to others. Oh God.

What a holiday - couldn't have asked for anything more. Loved the place, the people, the food and wine, the light. The Italians know how to do everything better than us. Except, tea. But that can be forgiven.

Back to London. Grey. Wet. Cold. Depressing.

Put the kettle on.

Italy Day 4: Trulli, Chilli Grappa & Shag/Marry/Ditch

The previous day, Rosa had suggested she take us on an excursion to Alberobello, famous for it's hobbit-like houses called trulli which are forbidden to be dismantled; and a entire trulli town exists which is a world heritage site. We eagerly agreed to go and see this, and made our way to Gran Caffe Tito Schipa on the Monday morning.

We arrived and ordered espressos while Rosa busied herself serving the biggest group of people we'd seen the whole time we'd been there, and The Blonde and I started to worry that this might be a coach trip full of people who can't speak English, and that it would be awkward...

We needn't have panicked though, a good 45 minutes after the agreed meeting time (Rosa needed to have a cappuccino and smoke about 6 cigarettes), the three of us got into her convertible Renault and we made our way to Alberobello down remote roads flanked by olive groves and industrial units. The Blonde was cramped up in the back while I was treated to the sight of the road head on as Rosa threw the car around the narrow roads, whilst not wearing a seatbelt and having the odd cigarette out of the window.

After a slightly hair-raising hour, Rosa pulled up in the pretty town of Alberobello and we stiffly got out of the car and enjoyed a potter round in some fresh air.

Alberobello was a really unusual place and exquisitely pretty, with trulli as far as the eye can see. The thing is though, once you've seen one trullo, you've sort of seen them all. The town felt very touristy and every other trullo was a souvenir shop. I took pictures of one such shop, and the owner came out and ushered me in for a look around. He was also kind enough to open up his loft stairs and motion me up them to get a great panoramic view of the whole place.

He also gave us many samples of the Puglian liquers he was selling - in the space of about five minutes we'd had cactus liqeur, almond liquer, limoncello, chilli grappa (extremely strong) and various other potent digestifs from the same cup. We'd had a crispbread each for breakfast so we both staggered out of the trullo with a bagful of dubious liquers and some almond biscotti. Good sales technique.

On the return journey, Rosa took us via the coast to drive through Torre Canne to see the golden beaches. It wasn't really beach weather, but the sun came out despite the grey sky and the landscape was vivid. Then she said something which struck me with pure terror.

"We have restaurants here, sell only fish. Apulian speciality is, how do you say.... urchin?"

The Blonde and I exchange glances.

"I take you to restaurant and we try, ok?"

In my head I am thinking no no NO, since I am squeamish about seafood as it is, so the thought of an exotic sea urchin is actually making me feel a bit queasy. I've only been eating prawns and mussels for the last two years, for God's sake.

Rosa pulled into a restaurant where an old man was smoking around the back, and a well-fed slightly feral-looking dog was scampering round. Rosa asked in Italian if they were open, to my utter relief, it wasn't. No sea urchin for me! It would have been the dilemma of offending our hostess, or quite possibly trauma and vomiting. No one wants that. Especially me. The Blonde and I made disappointed noises and said "Next time! When we comeback in summer, yes!"


We were kindly invited to go and eat after the trip again with Rosa, so we happily accepted for the sake of Italian authenticity. Rosa laid out a spread of foie gras, salami, ham, cheeses, bread and her homemade white wine again, we were very happy. We assumed this was lunch, but this being Italy, there was more to come. As we digested the first course, Rosa whipped out a dish of the Apulian speciality pasta, orichiette ("little ears"). She served it with salty fish (I think it was anchovy) and a vegetable which was like a skinny broccoli. Unusually, you eat it with crispy breadcrumbs sprinkled over the top, and it's totally delicious.

Full and dozy again, Rosa's sister Annamaria popped out this time, with her homemade caramel panna cotta and cherry wine liquer she brewed herself. All completely yummy and moreish but by this time The Blonde and I had to go home and struggle up the hill for a little sleep and a kick back.

What better game to pass the time is there than 'Shag, Marry, Ditch?' (actually there are many, many better ways to pass the time but it seemed a great suggestion at the time) We enjoyed another bottle of the local vino and spent some time in the afternoon sat on our balcony trying to give each other really hard choices, and cracking up at the consequent answers. Which go no further than that balcony in Ostuni.

After such a heavily indulgent afternoon, there was no need to go out for dinner this evening. We spent it listening to a wonderful storm, watching more films and discovering an awesome Italian series called Un Medico In Famiglia which was a long programme and contained plotlines about a chocolatier, a riding school, doctors and bored housewives. Utterly brilliant, my new favourite series. No idea what they were saying for most of the time but somehow the blonde and I knew what was going on.

"Ooo quick, pour that wine and get over here, she's pregnant with his baby!"

"Oh my God, what a cow, can't believe she did that!"

"Why has she built a church out of white chocolate?" (This was a real observation and an example of the stunning plotlines.)

Italy Day 2: Sunshine, Angels & Demons & Free Hairclips

After a wonderfully long and restful sleep in my alcove, I awoke to find sunshine illuminating the stone apartment. A lazy morning included some of the best juice I've ever had (it seems the Italians do everything better, including breakfast juice, Arancia Rossa...mmmm) and laughing at the awful DVD of Angels & Demons. (The apartment came with a great film collection which we worked our way through during the stay.)

My favourite bit of Angels & Demons came from the really obvious dumbing down for the American audience. At one point, an Italian in the film says to Tom Hanks,

"we see you, as, how you say... [with thick Italian accent]... formidable,"

Tom Hanks: "you see me as... formidable?"

Brilliant.

During the film, I get things out for breakfast, including something The Blonde picked up, thinking it was butter. Little packages of something labelled as being useful for panne & pasta - we naturally concluded it was butter.

The Blonde: "Give that butter a squidge love, it will have gone hard in the fridge."

I dutifully squidged the packet then opened it. It was clear that this was not butter, but some grainy, beige yeasty substance for baking bread and cakes.

"Um, Blonde, I think this isn't butter...."

"No, I think it's yeast...." [gag]

Well done us. We hastily learn the Italian for butter for next time we go shopping.

We decide to take advantage of the lack of rain and have a wander round the delightful little city with it's grand but crumbling buildings and marble squares. The Blonde gets beeped at by over-zealous Italian men on a constant basis. By the end of the holiday, it's starting to grate.

Out of season Ostuni is a very quiet place. There's literally no one around and very little open during the afternoons. We managed to locate the internet cafe recommended by the apartment owners and try and get drinks and lunch, Gran Caffe Tito Schipa, run by two friendly Italian sisters Rosa and Annamaria.

It's strange inside - half gelataria, half the living and dining rooms of an old-fashioned Italian house. We ask Rosa if we can have some drinks on the terrace outside (she pours extremely strong G&Ts!) and enquire about lunch - she says in broken English,

"No restaurant, we are cafe - I make sandwich?" We agree that this would be fine, but then after she's run some enquiries with her sister, she announces we can have tortellini - perfect.

The terrace at the back of the cafe overlooks the whole city, down to the valley where a huge white church dominates the background of deep green olive groves, and up to the hill where the Cattedralle sits. One thing that will always remind me now of Ostuni is the smell of wood-burning stoves - the city smelled like bonfires the whole time, and we had a very pleasant break with the intoxicating smell of wood and the sunshine twinkling over the magnificent view.

Soon Rosa comes out and presents us with amazing homecooked tortellini in a creamy sauce with prosciutto, and local white wine which was a straw yellow and tasted more like vermouth. Benissimo!

On the way back to L'Alcova, The Blonde is accosted from across the square by a man who knew Christiano and Augusto the night before. He was also called Angelo. I think most people on Ostuni are called Angelo. We bid a hasty retreat up the hill back to the apartment.

Back in the apartment, I was disproportionately happy to find that the well stocked kitchen included a cat-shaped icecube tray. The Blonde was happy because she had a free hairclip in her packet of Italian kids' crisps. Simple pleasures.

Quote of the day was The Blonde topping her "I love clouds" comment the day before, with apropos of nothing, announcing that she "loved meat" while we enjoyed some more antipasti later that day.

We spent another fun evening in Il Gatto Rosso (we didn't really explore the range of restaurants in Ostuni, we decided to make this one our local as the menu was broad and really inexpensive, and with two euro for a glass of Prosecco, we didn't need to go anywhere else.)

I had a lasagne which I am not sure was completely authentic but still, it was tasty. We were alos delighted by the dolce which was a frozen ball of vanilla ice cream covered in little bits of crisp sugar, with strong coffee ice cream in the middle. Amazing.

We then enjoyed the absolutely brilliant British drama State of Play - possibly one of the best series I've ever seen, and an early night for some more glorious, switched off sleeping.

Italy Day 1: Booze in pouches, Angelo & Il Gatto Rosso

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.