Gallipoli, Italy

Italy has a Gallipoli as well, on the west coast of Puglia, and just as many Italians flock there in high season as Aussies do its Turkish namesake on Anzac Day.  Arriving here in summer with no reservation is foolhardy, but I’ve done that everywhere for this entire trip and I’ve always been able to find something. 

The bloke at the tourist information centre (who spoke no English) said it could be a problem when I told him I was looking for a room, but he rang around and after about five minutes a stout bloke with a waddle (who spoke no English) arrived.  He led me through the winding streets to a mini-market selling vegetables and paper towels and cans of tomatoes.  I thought: I’m sleeping among the produce?  He passed me off to his wife behind the cash register (who spoke no English).  She was a friendly lady but rattled off long Italian sentences and looked at me expectantly, even after I answered “no capisco, no parlo Italiano” every time.  She plucked a bottle of water and a package of sheets from the shelf (they sell sheets?) and, smiling, led me out again through the winding streets.

Eventually I was taken to a clean and decent room with its own entrance up a flight of steps.  She made the bed with the new sheets and gave me the bottle of water, all the time persisting with her rambling Italian from which I would recognise a word or two – “Street!  Door!  Key!  Yes!” – and then we would look at each other and say, “uhh….”  This went on until I was exhausted.  “Thank you, shut up and goodbye!” I said and threw her down the stairs.