Bari Safari and Alberobello

I’ve had two almost identical experiences now, both driving out of Campania and into the neighboring region.

Campania, the region with Naples and the Amalfi Coast, Caserta and Benevento, has embarrassed Italy recently with corruption scandals, mafia misdeeds including the illegal dumping of tons of poisonous waste in the countryside where my local produce grows, and a periodic inability to pick up trash.

So Naples and the surrounding area are dirty. It’s something I’ve gotten used to, like the driving, but a few weeks ago when I was driving up to the resort town of Gaeta, in Lazio (Rome’s) region, Campania was in the middle of another trash strike. Garbage lined the streets, piled high in recycling centers and dumpsters, and spilled out into the road of every town I drove through. Then I came over a hill and the mountains rose in front of me, a small town at the apex of a hill in front of them perfectly nestling beneath the grand peaks above, birds flying through the air and a blue, blue sky like a postcard. We passed a sign saying I was leaving Campania and entering Lazio. I laughed aloud.

Driving to the Bari safari for Aryn’s birthday weekend gives me a similar jolt. Actually, leaving Naples and climbing into the mountains leaves the trash behind (the trash strike is over, so just the roadside litter), and we curve around and around on the mountain freeway and enjoy delicious views of Benevento and the surrounding areas. Then a sign announces we’re leaving Campania, which puts us about in the middle of the ankle of the boot, and green opens up before us. Farmland, lush and green, ordered and divided and thick, spreads as far as the eye can see. A shocking transition from mountains to plains at the border.

We’re on our way to the Bari Zoosafari. It’s in the Puglia region, which stretches from the point of the high heel up to about the Achilles tendon. I’m excited to see the Adriatic. Aryn is singing in the backseat, “we’re going to the zoo, zoo, zoo. How about you, you, you?” Julie wonders if one package of carrots is going to be enough. We didn’t realize the zoo closes at 4 until about 9 today, so a leisurely morning quickly became rushed as we hurried to get on the road in time to feed the giraffes.

We do. The drive is easy and fast, the tollway smooth. The animals live in their pens with a stunning view of the sea. I imagine I can see Albania. We roll down the windows as a herd of goats trots over to say hello and Aryn climbs into the front seat.

How amazing to feed a giraffe! The animals are certainly not shy about sticking their heads in and rooting around for something to eat. We run out of carrots halfway through and a camel, not realizing we have nothing for him, chases us for what seems like a mile. Aryn can’t decide whether to be terrified or ecstatic. It’s incredible. Go, if you’re ever within a few hundred miles of Bari and have children. Or even if you don’t. I could have reached out and touched a tiger, if I’d been crazy enough to roll down my windows in their pen. Julie snaps a photo of the bear cubs playing in a tree and they all look up at her. We almost catch two lionesses brawling on camera. Aryn turns the wheel and giggles with glee. We ride a train through a shrieking bevy of monkeys who swarm our train car like giant tarantulas. One is able to stick his whole hand in the door, and a thousand horror films flash before my eyes.

Still breathless from being so up close and personal with yaks, dromedaries, elephants, zebras, bison and other creatures from diverse climates and continents, we drive to Alberobello.

Alberobello was built to not exist. The distinctive Trulli huts, architecture unique to the area and now a UNESCO World Heritage site, were fashioned using all dry building materials so they could be disassembled before a tax inspection. Taxes were levied based on the number of dwellings, and therefore the entire town would disappear when the inspectors came around. The Trulli huts have domed roofs and were modular in nature, allowing any arrangement from a single-room dwelling to many connect pods forming an elaborate and spacious mansion. Decorations adorn many of the stone roofs, with various crosses, images of the sun or moon, and symbols designed to ward off the evil eye. The reasons for visiting this charming town are numerous, but it’s hard to think of a reason why anyone today would want to deny it exists.

“We have a church here, a museum here,” the bored hotel clerk tells me. “The Trulli huts are here and here. And that’s it.”

“Is there public transportation?”

“You don’t need it. It’s not a large town.” He seems eager to get out of here. Whether to join his friends outside for a cigarette or to head north for a job and a bright future I can’t tell. “Passport, please.”

I give it to him.

“Can I give it back to you later?”

I shrug. We already have our keys and have moved into the room, and he still hasn’t asked for my credit card. I won’t end up producing it until checkout.

He smiles and hurries outside, leaping back into the conversation mid-laugh.

We’re staying in a hotel arranged by my colleague, Teresa Merola, whose husband knows the owner and who hooked us up with the large room on the top floor. We have a fine view of the town from the balcony, which is actually the roof of the hotel. We are above the main piazza, and I think there’s some kind of political rally going on. We can’t quite tell, because travelling with a toddler means turning in early. Aryn goes to bed angry she doesn’t have enough toys and Julie and I retreat to the bathroom before sneaking into our beds and falling into a sleep we hope won’t disturb our little princess. It does. She sleeps light. We wake up lots. I drink coffee in the morning. Julie drinks tea. Aryn eats yogurt and makes friends with an Italian boy. A father and son speak German. Otherwise the hotel breakfast room is empty.

We love this town. Julie spots a café that I could come to twice a day for the rest of my life. They love Aryn. I try to follow the long article they pasted on the wall—a feature on their café for a German travel magazine. My German is bad, but this hot chocolate is what I want to drink before my execution. I’d drive all the way back here for this café.

It is Aryn’s birthday weekend, and she’s tired of walking through the huts. I think it’s the hedgehog that’s supposed to protect you from the evil eye. Or is it the rooster? Not sure. The evil eye crops up a lot in Mediterranean culture. I’ll keep an eye out for it. Ha ha. We don’t buy a rooster or a hedgehog, but we do let her pick out a doll. She’s pretty much potty trained now, but only just, so every time she announces her need for a potty we still drop everything and race to the nearest one. We do that walking up one street (have to buy an acqua naturale so we’d be paying customers), after which we congratulate ourselves that we’ve effectively potty trained our child. Hurrah. Now, doll in hand, Aryn is stopping at every doorstep because her doll has to go potty. We’d like to move on, but it’s just so cute we can’t rush her. She names the doll Emily.

Driving home (that is, back to the hotel we’ll end up spending 71 days in), the beauty of southern Italy washes over us. Windmills, the giant new ones built to harness sustainable energy and free Italy from energy dependence on France, loom on the horizon. They enhance, not detract from, the vista. I think Italy is second in the EU for solar power, behind only Germany. That’s actually really funny, given their respective climates, but one can’t judge too harshly. I smile, but not as sultans smile, because human progress this time is literally in the form of giant windmills waving their giant arms over a wide plain. Relax, Don Quixote. There are other, better quests.

Patches of red-brown clay dot the sea of green fields. Castles atop the hills, some restored but most in ruins, peer out over the plains. I imagine the centuries of forgotten prince Yurtles, lords over all they could see, survived for centuries by moldering heaps of once-grand rock.