Originally, my plan called for this to be a single stage, following a day off in Bari. Once I adjusted the days leading into Bari, though, allowing me to reach the city by midday on Sunday, it made more sense to split this over two stages, since accommodation seemed viable and I’ll have plenty of longer days coming up soon enough.
In hindsight, maybe it should have been a single stage. The walk, it has to be said, was probably my least favorite of the walk thus far. That was particularly true of the first section, running from Bari to Molfetta. As previously noted, getting in and out of cities is often a slog, and so it’s easy to excuse the first 5-10km out of Bari as an unfortunate inevitability. It didn’t get better after that, though, not for the better part of those first 30km. It’s fair to consider whether this is one of those classic “it’s not you, it’s me” scenarios; I’ve been in Puglia long enough now, and spent enough days along the Adriatic in particular, that it runs the risk of losing some of its sheen. That said, there have been some lovely stretches along the Adriatic (north of Tricase, for one), and most of this section isn’t even in the same ballpark. Those issues are compounded by an awful lot of kilometers spent on busy road. Fortunately, they’ve established bike/pedestrian tracks parallel to the highway, so there’s some breathing room in many parts of that, but still.
I probably should have seen this coming. The main branch of the Via Francigena Sud veered inland north of Bari, perhaps for good reason. I’m following a coastal variant that exists for a strictly utilitarian reason–to connect the shrine of Monte Sant’Angelo to the VFS. If the walking were great, I imagine this would have become the main route! Regardless, I’m confident that the choice will prove to be the right one for me, as Monte Sant’Angelo is among the most important pilgrimage sites in Europe; it would be a shame to miss it.
There are three silver linings to the last two days. First, the walking did improve in the second stage, with much less time on highways and far more appealing sections of the coast. Here’s hoping that continues. Second, while the walking wasn’t great, the cities encountered along the way were fantastic. Giovinazzo might win the prize for the most elegant arched passageways through its old town. The competition is steep, for sure, but I took five shots almost in a row of arches. Molfetta has the most pristine old town; it looked like each slab of cut rock was freshly quarried in the last month. It also has a marvelously situated duomo, with its front door opening right up to the Adriatic. Bisceglie has my favorite port of the walk thus far, and again, there have been some stunners. What I loved about it was how seamlessly the fisheries work transitioned into the seaside cafes, making it a perfect place for a break. Finally, Trani’s duomo nearly surpassed Molfetta for curb appeal. What stands out the most in Trani’s case, and so many others of late, is the bell tower, which skyrockets high above the main structure. These are also all Romanesque masterpieces. Most striking on that front is how different Molfetta and Trani feel within; the former is heavy, dark, robust, while the latter is light and airy.
Trani’s duomo, it should be noted, is referred to locally as San Nicola Pellegrino, named after a young Greek pilgrim (not to be confused with Nicolas of Bari) who arrived here only to die. The story goes that Jesus appeared to him at the age of eight, teaching the boy to repeatedly say the phrase “Kyrie Eleison,” or “Lord, have mercy.” He said it everywhere, sometimes shouting it. (I apologize, sincerely, for initially reacting to my discovery of this story with laughter.) His mother, not surprisingly, thought her son had gone mad, so she had him locked away in a monastery where the monks interrogated and beat him, trying to get to the truth of the matter. Eventually, he was allowed to pursue the life of a hermit, and eventually he was inspired to make a pilgrimage to Rome. His shipmates grew weary of his constant Kyrie-ing and tossed him overboard, but he made it ashore. As he worked his way across Salento, some towns welcomed him, while the bishops of Lecce and Taranto had him brutalized. Trani, however, welcomed him most warmly, offering him food and shelter for as long as he should wish to remain. Alas, the rigors of travel had taken their toll; he fell ill, and despite the constant support of all the children of Trani, he died a little over a week later. And then, the miracles began…
Anyway, that’s the second silver lining–the towns, not Nicolas’s death. Third, as always seems to be the case, the days have been profitable learning experiences, forcing me to reflect on, if not new lessons, then certainly reminders of salient insights that I too often neglect.
Lesson 1: Ask for help, you idiot. On the US walk, I wrote at multiple points about how deeply the “rugged individual” sentimentality is ingrained within me, even as I’m fully cognizant of its limitations and hazards. I can’t help it; I prepare assiduously in part to ensure that I can manage with near-complete independence. Or, at least, with the perception that I’m doing so. It’s a weird thing to have a character trait that you value highly about yourself, from which you derive significant self-esteem, and also feel limited by the very same thing.
In any case, the walk from Bari was shaping up to be a complete downer. My modified plan had been to stay in Giovinazzo, where the Casa di Accoglienza Frate Camillo Campanella is listed. The place was shut down completely; I couldn’t even get past the exterior gate. OK, no bother. I pushed onto Molfetta. It wasn’t that much farther, and I hadn’t walked that far. I had more luck with the Seminario Vescovile; a human responded to the doorbell, came out to see me, and shook my hand. Then he informed me that they had no room.
I have the tent, of course, and I’m sure I could have found an empty patch of coastline after Molfetta. But rain showers were in the forecast, the skies were dark gray overhead, and conditions were becoming blustery. I wasn’t thrilled about having to camp in that kind of weather. Moping, I paced into Molfetta’s old town, where I saw the familiar “I” signaling the tourism information office. At least I could get a stamp. Once there, though, I realized that they actually existed for a very different reason–to assist someone like me in exactly this kind of situation! The woman at the counter was initially doubtful, noting that pilgrim lodging was shut down this time of year, but she made some calls. And she delivered, finding a willing host at the Basilica Madonna. They wouldn’t be able to offer more than a floor on which I could roll out my sleeping bag, but I was happy to have it.
Lesson 2: The simplest accommodations are often the most memorable. I didn’t really know what I was getting into. The woman handed me a map, circling the basilica, and I immediately hustled onward, not wanting to let the opportunity slip through my grasp. It was a full kilometer outside of town, which I wasn’t prepared for, but beggars certainly can’t be choosers. And besides, the basilica proved to be lovely, sitting on its own corner of the coast, well outside of the urban area, and Fr. Nicolai immediately got me situated. While I wouldn’t see him again, he delegated me to Domenico, who worked diligently on my behalf. First, he showed me that the cushioned chair in my room–a small work room, just off the cloister–could actually, miracle of miracles, be converted into a cot. Then, he unlocked an unmarked door in the bathroom, which happened to be a shower. After that, he delivered me some snacks, along with a bottle of water.
Now, look, nothing is perfect. A couple hours later, the children’s percussion class began next door to my room. I won’t get that hour of my life back. But once that concluded, the basilica shut down for the night, the front gate was locked shut, and I was left alone in the cloister. I couldn’t leave before 7am even if I wanted to. I’ve certainly stayed in nicer places on this walk, accommodations with superior amenities. I’m not sure how many of them will actually live on in my memory, though, with greater tenacity than this one (aside from Beach Paradise, of course).
Lesson 3: Don’t let an opportunity slip by, just to sit on your butt. As noted, I hustled from the tourism office in Molfetta in order to reach the basilica. At that point, it was a little after 4pm, and those clouds were beginning to transition from gray to black. Somewhere between ominous, threatening, and overtly hostile. But because of that rush, and the fact that I had been a little out of sorts after getting shut down at both accommodations, I hadn’t taken any time to actually look around Molfetta. I didn’t need to return; I had all of my food for dinner, plus there was a large supermarket a block away from the basilica regardless. Making the trek would be at least 2km round-trip, and might entail a soaking.
But I’m–probably–only in Molfetta once. So I grabbed my poncho and hustled. What a loss it would have been to never see that sight of the duomo up close, or to not experience its cavernous interior firsthand! I still had more than enough time to accomplish everything needed that evening–too much, really.
Lesson 4: Let some moments breathe. I enjoy walking longer distances, and I confess that I’m excited to dial up some longer stages over the next ten days. My body feels satisfied after 50km in a way that’s fundamentally different than after 25km. And I value the habit I’ve cultivated of writing every day; there’s a level of lasting permanence to these walks as a consequence of that practice, so it’s of inestimable value for me individually, before one even gets to the benefits of having something that others can read.
It has to be acknowledged, though, that there are days when I’ve recreated the hectic, non-stop nature of my working life on the pilgrim road, in which I’m looking for ways to optimize different parts of the day, strategically mapping out how best to work around siesta and other complicating factors. I’ve never been good at savoring; it’s one of the big findings from the field of positive psychology, along with gratitude, that I fail at miserably. More often than not, I think the trade-off works for me; I might not mine every bit of shiny ore from an experience as I could, but over the course of a day I pass so many overstuffed mines that I emerge wealthy. Nonetheless, I recognize that I’m missing out on somethings, inevitably, that can’t be replicated.
Sometimes, I’m forced structurally to linger. Leaving Bari, and anticipating that I would only walk 20km to Giovinazzo, I committed to a 9:30am check-out. This meant that I could stroll around in the morning, have a leisurely coffee in a cafe, and get a taste for Monday morning in the city. Arriving in Trani around mid-day, I had four hours to fill before I could finally check in to my hostel. That meant, among other things, that I sat in the port, watching the fishermen process their harvest, during which time a couple of Canadians spotted me and engaged me in conversation. I realized how little talking I’ve been doing, especially given that nearly all of it is the same kind of limited conversation in Italian. I’m typing this sitting in a piazza, as pigeons feast on a mound of stale bread just deposited beneath the tree to my right, while a young woman navigates past with five poodles on leashes. None of that is life-changing, of course, but there’s a distinction to be drawn, I think, between living in Italy and passing through it, and I can be guilty of doing too much of the latter. There has to be room for both.
Again, I recognize that none of those lessons are revelatory or novel. They’re difficult for me to adhere to, though, and maybe this will give them a little more stickiness.
