Pootling in Puglia

Have gone to Puglia for a break, a tan, some food and to find oneself. The big worry is already that might turn out to be a bigger twat than already anticipated. It’s a risk I’m taking.

On the subject of risk, driving out of Bari airport at night in a hire car to get to Polignano a Mare 40k down the coast could be described as a another big one. I specifically requested a Fiat 500 for style reasons. ‘Renault-Clio-man’ is not the look I was planning, and was so upset neglected to ask for a map any bigger than a postcard. My trusty dongle failed me, so without guidance I drove south (vaguely south) toward Brindisi listening to pony Italian radio by way of atmosphere. Stopping at deserted industrial estate turnings to read the post card only added to the excitement/angst. Miraculously (more of religion later) I found Polignano a Mare, and my weird, large smart hotel that had hosted a wedding that day. The bride looked quite knackered in the foyer, and her groom's suit more shiny than my Cleo. Weddings is what they do down here, apparently non stop. English is not what they do down here. I discovered my pitiful Italian I deploy in Milan does not work in the South. I have become a phrase book devotee. On the quest to find myself, I have discovered that am too affected by happenings around me. Score so far: one all. Bad car/lucky navigation. I accept the score draw.

Most useful phrase from book thus far:

Sono qui con la famiglia (I am with my family). Makes me look less like a lone loser.

Or perhaps Debbo partire domain (I have to leave tomorrow)

There is a lot more to come.

Stubbs out.

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