Trulli Madly Deeply

No matter where we are, long drives in the car find us playing the ABC game, in which occupants take turns finding signs or locations or things that begin with the letters of the alphabet. There are always some sticking points; H is a toughie in Italy. Also K. But not in Puglia; Greeks have been packing their Kappas in their luggage and visiting the heel of Italy's boot for for thousands of years. Along with ancient pottery and the occasional temple, they left a few Ks behind. They show up here in the names of bakeries, bars, and beach resorts.

We came to Puglia for several reasons: we'd never been; the food is wonderful and a little different; and  we felt it would be unhealthy to spend all three weeks in Florence, driving around from former haunt to former haunt, hoping everyone remembered us.

The countryside in this part of Puglia (that's "Pool-ya," not "P-ugly-a" for you dumb Americans) is littered with ancient dwellings called Trulli. They all look like something Shrek would live in, and are found nowhere else in the world. There are entire towns of these excruciatingly cute piles of stone with little balls on top, in which toothless women knit shawls and sell fine linen and crappy souvenirs.

We feel pretty comfortable in Florence, but we don't have to go far before things start feeling foreign. Every region has its customs and attitudes, and we've managed to offend both here in Puglia.

I went out to the Saturday market in Ostuni wearing a shortish skirt and converse sneakers. I am traveling; I have about 5 outfits from which to choose, and most of them are dirty anyway or hanging on a line outside the villa hoping to dry before the next rainstorm. I haven't owned a pair of panty hose since they stopped selling them in big plastic eggs. And I refused to pack thick tights because it's springtime in Italy, damnit, and I was hoping for some sun. So I wore my skirt and shoved on my sneakers and walked out the door feeling quite put-together.

I didn't notice at first that women and men, old and young, were looking at my legs and pointing and nudging each other. But it wasn't long until I could no longer pretend that they were admiring my tan (don't have one). Some laughed outright. Men in purple pants and yellow sweaters with green shirts beneath were laughing at ME. Women poured into cheap Dolce & Gabbana leopard-print knockoffs were craning their necks to get a backward glance at ME.

I told Paul about it and he didn't believe me until the evening passeggiata in Martina Franca, a nearby hill town. The residents all emerge for an evening stroll at 8-ish before they settle down to dinner at 10-ish. Paul walked behind me and watched the reactions of passers-by, giving me a play-by-play and getting a big kick out of my public humiliation. It's not like the skirt is up at crotch level. It's not as if my shoes are glow-in-the-dark. Just a black skirt and dark, flat shoes. But I may as well have been dressed as Lady Gaga, because the reaction was the same.

Turns out, you just don't bare your legs before July in these parts. Clearly we need to spend another year or so mining the depths of Italy's varied cultures.

Italian phrase of the day:  "Ora, tengo i miei gamberi sicuramente sotto i pantaloni." (I keep my legs safely under pants now).