Our train was scheduled to leave at 8:05, and so we rose early, had our breakfast, and said goodbye to Bruno, our host. As always, the television was on in the small dining area, and, as everywhere in Italy, the only thing anybody was watching on television was news of the World Cup.
Bruno called us a cab, and we were at Termine, Rome’s train station, in no time. John had been been swarmed by gypsies here 30 years ago, so he was quite vigilant this time. But it seemed fairly safe, and it was certainly modern and clean. Trenitalia referred to this as a high speed train. It certainly was as fast as the Amtrak Accela trains, but it was hardly going the speed of the Japanese bullet train we rode to Kyoto. We had purchased tickets in first class, and while this was not particularly luxurious it was uncrowded and comfortable.
Our destination was the Puglian town of Lecce. This is pronounced “Leh chay,” the same as the Spanish word for milk, but I am not sure if it has the same meaning in Italian. Our bike tour will both begin and end here. I had heard so much about how beautiful Lecce was that I confess on our cab ride over to our accommodations I was more than disappointed. The town did seem to have a few older buildings, but it was mostly ugly, post-war, and covered in graffiti. It looked more like the Tijuana of Italy than the “Florence of the South.”
Our bed and breakfast here, grandly called “Il Palazzo dei Dondoli,” looked nice enough from the outside when we arrived. It was a late eighteenth or early nineteenth century house dominated by two massive wooden doors. We paid the cab driver and tried to open the doors. They were locked. We rang the bell marked “Reception” several times. No answer. We tried calling the hotel. No answer again. Meanwhile, we began looking nervously at a sky that was starting to turn nearly black. It was going to rain soon, and it was not going to be a gentle rain.
At this point, an older couple came down the street and pulled out keys to the door. They asked us if we spoke Italian, but I nodded no. “¿Español?” I asked since many Italians can speak Spanish. They nodded sadly no. “Do you speak English?” they asked. Yes, indeed I could do that. It turned out that they were Swiss and they also guests at the hotel, and they had been in our same situation yesterday. The explained that the hotel, like everything in Lecce, closes for the afternoon and would not be open until about 4:30. They assured us if we just left our luggage inside it would be safe and dry and we could just go into the town and have a bite of lunch until it was time to check-in. That sounded like a great idea.
We walked in the direction the Swiss couple had indicated and soon we were looking at the city walls and a grandly baroque city gate. We had no sooner entered than the sky almost exploded with thunder and lightning and rain poured down as hard as I have ever seen it in my life. We went inside the first open door we saw thinking it was a museum. It turned out to be an old monastery that had been converted into an art school.
We stayed there for about 30 minutes, maybe more, until the torrential downpour had given way to mere showers. At that point, we decided to explore. The town is all built out of a handsome honey-colored stone. It looks like sandstone, but on closer inspection you realize that it is a kind of limestone. While Lecce is famous for its exuberant baroque architecture, the cathedral seemed fairly subdued.
We walked by the ancient Roman theater. It is obviously still in use.
We found a restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet for lunch, but the kitchen had closed. There was a wine bar open nearby, and they were serving antipasto, so we had a light but quite pleasant meal there. When we came back to the Palazzo dei Donaldi, it was open. This is the interior courtyard.
We did not unpack much as we will only be here one night. We did nap and check our email. In the evening we strolled back into town. We stopped outside one of the gates to the city where an allée of oleanders in bloom seemed to stretch to the setting sun.
The wet paving stones of the many plazas looked cinematic.
We did not feel like having a full dinner, so we stopped at an ice cream shop. I ordered “spaghetti”. Those are not noodles! They are made of frozen custard and they were delicious!
Tomorrow the bike ride begins!
