Rolling south past olive groves, some trunks thick as the columns of the Roman Forum, and maybe as old, we are heading south to Lecce. A giant marble quarry opens up next to the tracks, the bottom gleaming, stark white, the color changing yellow to brown higher up the walls. Did the quarry provide the building blocks for the bed and breakfast we stayed in last night, built five hundred years ago? Or something older?
The age is on the ground here, in the trees and dirt and air, things here are not old, they are ancient.
And this is how we arrived in Lecce, cruising on antiquity.
Here is a quote:
“Lecce is considered by many to be the Florence of Southern Italy.”
Another:
“While the art cannot compare to Rome… architecture comparable… to Florence.”
And it goes on and on.
I should know better. I mean, I hate it when some dry, dusty old town in California calls itself the “Switzerland of California” or whatever, so what makes me think it would be different here?
Let me be clear.
Lecce is not Florence.
But, and this is important, they should not allow themselves to be compared to Florence, or Rome or anywhere else. Because Lecce has its own set of hidden charms that you need to dig a little to tease out.
The whole Florence comparison is unfair, and sets you up for disappointment.
We came in before noon on the train, and following the excellent walking directions provided to us by the Centro Storico B&B, promptly entered the gate of the walled city and got lost.
Lecce is old. Like 239BC old. There is even a Roman Amphitheater from 150 BC, right in the middle of town, in what is now Piazza Sant’Oronzo. And this is southern Italy, so it seems slow. Slow, slightly dingy, sandstone-gray and old. Did I mention everything seems old?
You can’t get too lost here, the walls surround pretty much of the old city, and there is the tall tower of the Duomo to serve as a kind of landmark.
There are churches everywhere. A confusing number of churches. So many that when we walk, Gail will say, “Have we been in this one yet?” and I just have no idea at all.
The two that stand out from the crowd are the Duomo, the main cathedral with its huge bell tower, and the Basilica di Santa Croce.
I like Santa Croce, the patron saint of Time In A Bottle.
Here is a quote:
Marchese Grimaldi said the facade of Santa Croce made him think a lunatic was having a nightmare.
It is very cool, with lions, howling dragons, cross-bearing angels, weird undersea creatures, a guy wearing an animal mask, another with a turban. It was completed in 1695 after work by three generations of architects!
It feels very safe to walk around. Lots of nice shops and cafes on mostly cobbled streets. The stores all close down from noon till five, then open again through the evening. We holed up for a while at a small wine bar slash cafe, where Gail had bruschetta and I had a small, thin lasagna.
There are small lane-ways with balconies hanging over everywhere.
Almost every cafe serves about the same pastas and meat plates, including horse meat. Horse stew, grilled horse fillets...
"Hearty peasant fare," they call it.
The red Puglia wines, mostly primitvo, are robust, we haven't had a bad one yet.
For dinner I had the hearty peasant fare... gnocchi. It was good, the wine robust.
The night passagiata just seemed to be starting at 22:00, there were people who are just beginning their pre-dinner drinks.
We circled the square under the soaring stone pillar topped by a statue of the city’s patron saint, St. Oronzo, before heading back to our guesthouse, the Centro Storico, tucked in a passage right up against Chiesa di San Matteo.