It’s dusk as we enter the old city of Bari, Italy. Built in an era before urban planning, the spaghetti-inspired street design causes the directional arrow on my phone to spin in utter confusion. We turn right, left, backtrack, start over. The two-foot-wide tunnel carved through stone walls seems a poor choice, yet we take it. Magically, it brings us to an enchanted square illuminated by lights strung between whitewashed buildings. In the corner is a double door where I spy the lockbox. We have arrived.

With key in hand, we enter the portal, pass under a stone archway, climb an external stairway, cross a courtyard strewn with both clothing and pasta drying racks, and ascend a second stairway which was clearly built in the time preceding levels or measuring devices. The last four of the can’t-possibly-be-code steps, unencumbered by railing, end at a blue metal door. I grasp the handle and hoist myself up and into an entry-way kitchen that opens to a single room of hand-carved beams and ancient stone. 

For the next week, this will be our perfect home.

We drop our backpacks and set out to wander past 10th century churches, women making and selling pasta on front stoops, and families taking their evening stroll. Incandescent bulbs and whitewashed walls have cast their spell. Within an hour, Pat says, for the first of many times, “I absolutely love it here.”

The next morning shortly after dawn, as we cut across the basilica square, a man stops us. He speaks little to no English, but I understand the gist of his message. I roughly translate it as: The ancient town of Bari is beautiful. You need to see the inside of the two churches on the square. He points to the basilica and the smaller one where he and his friends are perched on the steps. He bids us buongiorno.

This scene plays out repeatedly over the next days. Us being stopped. A stranger pointing out a landmark. An elderly man asking if we are lost and need help. Our neighbor leading us to the door of the best orecchiette maker near our apartment, whistling shrilly, and calling into the open door, “Luciana!” And all of these interactions without a word of English—save for ours.

During our evening stroll, a couple approach us and ask if we would like to taste their fried polenta, extending a white paper bag. “No thank you,” I say, “Good luck. We did the exact same thing last night, but there were no takers.”

“It’s just too much!” they laugh. We chat briefly, united by ten slabs of irresistible fried corn meal that cost 2 euro and attract a small mob. They tell us that they are on holiday from Ankara, Turkey. We wish them good travels and continue our meandering.

We had come to Bari, Italy with the intention that it would be a base to explore the broader north Puglia region, but alas we were wrong. As the days slide by, day trip after day trip are scratched from the agenda. 

• The UNESCO town of Alberobello and its conical houses called truillos. 
• Locorotondo
• Martina Franca
• Lecce
• Ostruni. 

The villages of the heel of the boot of Italy have waited a few thousand years. They can wait a bit longer.

Instead, we walk the old town of Bari thrilled each time we navigate between 2 points without our GPS. We drop into the Teatro Petruzzelli and buy tickets for the Tokyo ballet that same night solely to see the interior of the theater.

We book a food tour and end up the only two people, wandering with our guide and tasting the octopus sandwiches (on “Octopus Alley” no less), focaccia, panzerotto, and a bunch of other foodstuffs all ending in vowels. Our guide warns us of the great orecchiette scandal where local women were caught selling machine-made pasta. “Even Stanley Tucci fell for it!”

He gives us input on where we should—and shouldn’t—visit, both in Bari and the broader region and tells us stories of old Bari 25 years ago when crime was rampant. He recounts how he, as a five year old, would sprint with his grandmother into old town to buy a special bread and then dash out as fast as they could run.

I understand this death-defying obsession with bread. The focaccia is a story onto itself. So perfectly crisp and delicious yet nothing more than semolina flour, salt and yeast ladened with fresh tomatoes and olive oil. And yes, I could envision taking a non-fatal bullet for this bread. It’s the only bakery I’ve ever seen with a bouncer at the door.

After the tour, I send the guide a photo of my orecchiette. He confirms it’s handmade and sends me his grandmother’s recipe. I make it that same night. It’s Italian cooking at its best—another marvel of the simplicity of a handful of ingredients.

Each night over dinner, Pat and I talk about how much time we want to spend in Bari, or in Italy in general, in the future. We speculate if it could supplant Paris as our base (answers: more and maybe respectively). Yet we both realize that there are some exciting changes on the horizon which will influence next year. We need to see how things materialize before making any final decisions. (And one day I will write about it all.)

It’s been a week that harkens back to our nomadic days when we arrived in a new place with no greater agenda than to live our lives. It feels good. Good enough that an idea is percolating. Would we ever try that life once again?

As I look at what I want from the next decade, I’m focusing on finding the positives. Staying grounded in the here and now. Embracing the magic. Remaining open to the come what may. I’m finishing this post while I wait for the focaccia bar to open. It reminds me that life—like the world’s best focaccia—must be savored. 

More from Bari:

Breaking news: After I finished this yesterday, we took a half-day trip to the one place our food tour guide told us we must see. It’s Polignano a Mare—a 30 minute train ride down the coast.

Here are the four photos I took:

It was spectacular. But as our last day dawns, the Italian train workers have announced a one-day strike. We’ll happily spend our final day in Bari.

Categories: Western Europe

Tags: Bari Italy, nomadic life, nomadic retirement, the world in between, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options