By David Bayne-Jardine
In search of a weekend break from the stuffy heat of Bologna, my Erasmus friends and I find ourselves in salt-cured, sun-bleached Monopoli – a small coastal town in one of Italy’s southern and less-travelled regions, Apulia. That morning, mindful of our student budget (and less considerate of our body clocks), we caught a 6 am flight to Bari – the capital of the region – before heading down to Monopoli on a 30-minute train journey.
Perched on a boulder on a rocky beach, I dig my fingers into a fresh ciabatta roll, pulling the top and bottom apart to reveal the soft, moss-like interior. Tearing open a packet of mozzarella with my teeth, the milky brine spilling out onto the rock below, I arrange the fresh cheese on the bread. I space out chunks of a bright, fleshy tomato on top before smothering it all in fresh pesto. As I tuck into my beach sandwich, its freshness reminds me of the unequivocal vividness of life in southern Italy; that sensory intensity that makes it feel as if everything is being experienced for the very first time.
If Italy resembles a high-heeled boot, then Apulia runs from the lower calf to the bottom of the boot’s high heel, with Monopoli sitting perfectly where the wearer’s heel would be. In fact, just like a heel, Monopoli itself is something of a bridge between top and bottom – it has the basic tourist infrastructure present in the north of Italy, but nevertheless maintains that distinct southern aesthetic of white-washed buildings and a daringly slow pace of life.
Gone are the frescoes of Florence, the gondolas of Venice, the snow-capped Alps. Places like Monopoli are a reminder of how Italy only recently became the country we know today, having been cobbled together in 1861 from wildly different cultures, each with their own languages, landscapes and lifestyles. Whilst tourist numbers are gradually rising in this gem of a town, it remains relatively untouched – according to recent figures it’s the fifth most visited place in Apulia, which itself registers as only the ninth most tourist-heavy region in the country.
Hungry after swimming in the crystalline waters, we amble down a bright but narrow street in search of a snack, mistakenly timing our perusal with the daily southern siesta. Scouring the shuttered shopfronts, we eventually stumble upon a small window serving panzerotti to take away. These local delicacies are essentially fried pizza turnovers that are stuffed with tomato, mozzarella and other specialties. We devour these whilst sitting on the old fortified walls, trying not to drip hot tomato sauce on our white shirts as we watch sailboats meander lazily across the horizon.
Licking sauce off my fingers, I notice the salt that seems to coat everything in this town, from lips, hair, and forearms to the bleached exteriors of the buildings. With its advantageous position on the Adriatic Sea, the town historically played an important role in trade and commerce. To this day the sea remains fundamental in the daily lives of the Monopolitani, who take any opportunity to bathe in it, roast themselves on rocks, or enjoy some of the freshest seafood Italy has to offer.
Admittedly, there isn’t all that much for a tourist to do in Monopoli, but leaning into the slow pace of life and appreciating what we usually take for granted is a central tenet of southern Italian philosophy. The town is ideal for a weekend break, or to stop off on your way to see the rest of Apulia and the south. A few days is the perfect amount of time to spend uncovering the town’s quaint churches and shops, lounging on its beaches and getting lost in the narrow, lamp-lit alleys.
One evening we set up camp in a local bar, sipping Aperol under low-voltage fairy lights that glistened off our jewellery. A harpist plucks away in a nearby piazza, his music underscoring the locals who sit around us, passionately conversing in the thick local dialect that is so far from the straight-laced northern Italian we are used to. With a glass of wine in one hand, they gesticulate with a cigarette in the other, the hot tip of it darting through the night like a firefly. We share a silent joke among the seven of us, broad smiles tugging at our lips. It can’t get much more Italian than this.
Featured Image – David Bayne-Jardine