Crossing the Boot

My week in Positano felt about as good as the month I'd planned to stay. By the end I was ready to move on, as was the hostel owner. My breakfast-making skills were crap. It was good to be on the road again, this time in a car heading south with two Dutch girls and a New Yorker.

Italy's wild, rugged south breezed by us in just a few hours. At a few points along the sole of the boot we paused to enjoy the scenery. At one stop, just outside a little ghost village somewhere in Puglia, an old whispy-haired WWII vet approached us resting on a bench. Hunched over his wooden cane and speaking to himself in some strange dialect, he was a man with much to say and no one to listen. Were he all there, he might have been disappointed that we could only offer smiles and nods in response to his ramblings. But he wasn't. Pretending to get about half of what he said, we understood a tenth of that: something about us being lost, a visit to the Netherlands and then Germans, in general, but mostly in 1972. He did point us a shortcut to the highway just before we took off for Brindisi.

No comments: