The Difference Of A Day

We weren’t too keen on Taranto that first night, for reasons previously shared. But in the morning we thought we’d better give it a chance. Considering its seaside location,

and its history dating back to the ancient Spartans, it must surely be worth two days.

Heading out, I was reminded that we were staying in somewhat of a depressed area,

and wondered if it might get better.

Walking toward the water front,

and then along it,

I had doubts.

But then Pa turned our attention to the little things, those unaffected by human conflict and independent of economic circumstances.

”Look around young man,” he said. “There is always beauty, if you’re open to it.”

Sure enough, Pa was right.

“Mystery too,” he added.

“The oddities of nature inform us,“ he instructed.

“As does its regenerative capacity.”

Oh Pa, Dutch that he is, he’s actually quite the optimist.

“Look at that fellow,” he said, pointing to a gentleman just ahead.

“Where would we be without the kindness of strangers?”

Right again. My whole outlook had changed in the brief time we’d been walking.

Then I pointed ahead for Pa’s benefit. “Look at that. A young artist just getting started.”

Our focus shifted to the creative impulse of humans in its many forms.

And the efforts of some to attend to community needs through public improvement.

We continued our walk, arriving at the entrance of the Old Town, and an inviting little place still serving lunch. The menu wasn’t exhaustive, but a delicious meal could be pieced together.

Steamed shrimp, caught off shore. Fried mussels, raised locally. Olives grown nearby. Bread dipped in the local oil.

If that wasn’t sufficient, meeting Pierre Francesco and his boss, Mattia, made our day.

As we were their only customers, they devoted their complete attention to us.

We first talked about Taranto, and the many good things happening. Then travel. Mattia recently completed a motorcycle trip starting in Lisbon, then southern Portugal, southern Spain, Barcelona, finally returning home the full length of Italy. We shared stories.

Pierre is about to leave for Los Angeles where he’ll visit his best friend from elementary school. The two of them plan to spend a long weekend in Las Vegas. I told him it’s like an adult Disney Land. He smiled, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Mattia needed to tend to other business, but before leaving offered me a glass of the House Red, on the house. We shook hands and I told him we’d be back, having already mentioned Pa. He liked that. “Ancestors are very important to us Italians.”

Alone with Pierre, we visited a while longer. I asked if he considered himself Greek or Roman, or both. He shook his head. “We’re Spartans.” I asked if he’d seen the movie The 300 Spartans.

Big smile. “That’s us.”

We talked about school. He’s just about finished with his studies in Maritime Trade at the local university.

We then talked about family. “Are you married?” “We Spartans don’t marry,” he said. “At least not early. But I have a girlfriend.” I asked what she thought about his position. “She’s a Spartan too.” Big smile again. He then showed me photos of Maria. Oh my. I told him that she’s very beautiful. “Of course,” he said with the biggest smile yet. “She’s a Spartan.”

New customers arrived, so we shook hands, promising to visit the nearby Archeological Museum and learn all about the Spartans.

Taking a different route back, we passed through a seaside park, stopping to pay homage to an Old Master.

From there, down a recently revitalized stretch of shops and businesses.

Turning the corner and a couple of blocks later, we were back on “Nonna’s street”

and then ours, still deserted,

but much less menacing than the evening before.