Monopoli, suton

We arrive in Monopoli by train from Bari. Have I written anywhere how much I love trains? How much I prefer train stations – those cathedrals of travel – to sterile airports?

This is probably because I spent the eighties in the carriages of the Yugoslav Railways. The world that then passed by behind the compartment windows was more interesting to me than a movie. A vanished world, a defunct railway.

This time we cruised through Italy by train. So stepping off the train onto the platform at the Monopoli train station once again brought those tingles of joy that a traveler feels upon encountering an unknown, yet dreamt-of, destination.

LIZARD ON THE STONE

The streets leading to the center descend gently towards the Adriatic. At the first corner behind Željeznička we stop to listen to the gentle plucking of someone's fingers on a piano. An open window on the beautiful building of the music school. Later we will realize that music is an important part of the lives of the locals.

We cross the main square of the new part of the city, which in southern Italy was most often built during Napoleon's rule. This point gathers all the important directions in the city in an octagonal shape.

The rented apartment was located close to the coast and the old city walls. We entered the apartment on the first floor to see for ourselves that we had received one of the best accommodations in the Mediterranean for a modest price.

Not even a ten-minute walk separated us from the heart of this human hive of stone – we found ourselves on Garibaldi Square. Every local or guest passes through this place at least once a day, on business, for leisure, for a walk or in a hurry.

In the ten days we will stay in the town on the Adriatic, we will sit on this square several times with a coffee or ice cream. The art of leisure, which the younger people call bleja in slang, has no more meaning than in Mediterranean squares. I remember moments like these on the coast on the other side of the Adriatic Channel – in Split, on Voćni trg, for example. It is the same experience of the world. The same handwriting – stone, sea, sky.

Here, surrounded by a labyrinth of cobblestone streets lined with white houses, dotted like strawberries on the grass with small squares, churches, and flower-filled balconies, one can reflect on history – a collection of events that inevitably led to luxurious moments of leisure. Life all around flourishes, seethes, rustles, smells, and speaks countless languages.

It's always hard to break away from a place that slows you down to your natural speed – to the happy stillness of a lizard on a rock.

PETRIFIED MUSIC

But Monopoli has so much to offer. A few steps further and the admiration increases. In the historic town harbor, boats of the type goiter. Many fishermen's songs have been sung in his honor. The city also hosts a festival of songs about the Goco boat. The fortress walls and building facades seem to be there just to frame the scene. One facade reveals a historical layer in the city's petrified memory - Venice once ruled here. The palace says so Martinelli with neo-Gothic windows.

From the port we dive back into the tangle of old town alleys. The surprises never cease. A shady side street ends with a facade that is almost invisible because of the flowers. To the left, above the old cannons, through a small window in the walls the blue of the Adriatic appears. A tavern without a single guest, chairs in the hot sun during the afternoon break. Italians talk in the street as if they are singing.

First the Balkan settlers, the Messapi, set foot here, then the Romans. When the Ostrogoths destroyed Egnatia in the 6th century, the surviving inhabitants settled in Monopoli. One of the roots of this city is refugee. And the name of the city contains a Greek expression Monos Polis, which means "Unique City".

Yes, it is truly unique. On the other hand, it is impossible to overlook the similarity with the Apulian Adriatic cities such as Polignano or Bari. But also with those on the other coast, from Poreč to Trogir and Kotor.

A mighty church looms before us. Its facade speaks of the religious fervor and deep pockets of its former residents. But behind the Baroque facade lies the most important story of the city.

The monopoly was ruled by Byzantium, then by the Normans. At the beginning of their rule, a story took place that later turned into this cathedral.

The night of December 16, 1117. A shortage of building materials has halted the construction of the roof of the main city church. Waves wash a wooden raft into the harbor. On it is an icon of the Virgin Mary. Our Lady of Madia – Our Lady of the Rafters. The wooden rafters – there were thirty-one of them – became the rafters for the church roof. This event is still celebrated every year today and is deeply embedded in the identity of the local population.

The cathedral was renovated and expanded in the 18th century. I went inside once. The interior is richly decorated with colorful marble, and it houses an icon of the Virgin Mary – Our Lady of the Raft.

On the square in front of the church we attended a concert by students from the local music academy. Needless to say, the space was too small for the number of people who wanted to hear the young people play. Schelling wrote more than two centuries ago that architecture is frozen music. That evening, the living, flowing music and the petrified music of the cathedral were in a loving embrace.

PALM TREES FROM PALESTINE

Every city has several families that have left a deep mark on it. In Monopoli, it is primarily the Palmieri family. Therefore, it is natural that one of the main squares in the old town bears their name. There is a palace on it that testifies to the former power of this family. This noble lineage is of French origin. They moved to the Kingdom of Naples in the 16th century. The meaning of the name Palmieri is connected to the Holy Land. In the Middle Ages, it was the name for pilgrims who returned from Jerusalem, carrying with them a palm branch as proof of their pilgrimage. The Palmieri of Monopoli have in their coat of arms a knight's helmet and a shield on which three palm branches and two stars are crossed.

The palace that the family left behind shows the late Baroque influence that Lecce had on southern Italy. It is recorded that Francesco Paolo Palmieri built a palace with more than 100 rooms in the late 18th century, many of which are decorated with frescoes. There is also a private chapel and a gallery where the owners exhibited their rich art collections and antiques. During the Napoleonic era, the kings of Naples themselves stayed here – Napoleon’s brother Joseph Bonaparte, and after him Joachim Mira in 1813. There is a story that Mira engraved his name with his diamond on a mirror in one of the salons.

The powerful family owned a vast number of properties, palaces and large fortified country estates. But biology is inexorable. In 1921, the last scion of the line, Marquis Francesco Saverio Palmieri, died alone. Having no descendants, he bequeathed all his wealth to a local charity, on the condition that a kindergarten and a school of arts and crafts be opened in the palace.

Historical melancholy is best overcome with a good meal in a lively tavern. We didn’t hesitate to try this remedy either. We decided to try the local specialty – “Il coccio del Vicoletto” at the Al Vicoletto restaurant. Spaghetti with seafood is prepared in an earthenware pot – a coccio – and a dough lid is baked on top, which retains the aroma and steam in the pot until the waiter opens it with scissors on the table. With white Apulian wine and “pots from the alley” as I aptly translated the name of this dish, we forgot the historical shadows in the warm Apulian night.

MELANCHOLY AS DESTINY

Byzantine mysticism, Venetian playfulness in architecture, Norman synthesis of Orient and Occident, all these are sediments in the local soul. But the most visible traces were left by the Spanish Neapolitan kings. They repaired the existing fortifications and additionally fortified the city to secure it from Ottoman pirate incursions.

Now the ramparts in the moonlight are a pure tourist postcard. I stopped in disbelief in front of a tower in front of which a poster announced that it was hosting an exhibition of two painters – Đorđo de Kirko and Marino Marini.

I had to go in. The interior of the fortress, transformed into a representative exhibition space, was deserted. Just like the paintings created between 1909 and 1919 by De Kirko, the founder of metaphysical painting. Until now, I had admired reproductions of his works. Now, in front of me are melancholic, completely empty Mediterranean squares, unrealistic sharp shadows, ancient statues, arcades and trains in the distance. Faceless tailor's dummies sit in closed spaces. Without him, neither Dali nor Magritte would be possible. Nor Milena Pavlović-Barili.

This painter combined his Greek childhood among ancient ruins, his study of painting in Athens, and his reading of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche in Munich – both worlds are close to me, the ancient Mediterranean and German philosophy – in such a way that, here in Monopoli, it shook me to the core again. But the exhibition venue itself – the stone vaults, the paintings, the window overlooking the Adriatic Sea – carried almost the same message that the world is unbearably beautiful in its transience.

Another painter, better known as a sculptor, also one of the leading Italian and European names, Marino Marini, almost pleased me more than my favorite artist. His color scheme did not increase melancholy, but rather healed it with cheerfulness.

I leave the gallery into the mild night. I think about how it's not just what you see that matters, but also where you are while you're looking. Miró in Barcelona. Max Ernst in Brill. Munch in Oslo. Käthe Kollwitz in Cologne. Otto Dix in Berlin. Sava Šumanović in Leskovac.

MONOPOLY REJUVENATES

Sometimes in Monopoli we would go to one of the town beaches, actually to a cove where the sea had eroded the limestone rocks to the point of sand. It was the closest beach to us. Porto BiankoWe went there early. There are no sun loungers, everything is left to the citizens.

Until after ten, swimming was a pleasure. Then Italian pensioners would start pouring in from all sides, obviously drinking coffee and having breakfast first. They would set up their canvas chairs in a semicircle. Then there would be a non-stop verbal crossfire.

It's fun for a while, but when it starts to cause resentment, then it's time to go.

At those times, we would walk to a large supermarket. Family to buy wine and appetizers. There I learned a new meaning of the Italian word stracciatella. It is neither ice cream nor soup. There is a third meaning. Apulian cheese. It is made from young mozzarella, torn into strips and covered with fresh cream. The filling of burrata cheese is made from it.

These were our evening rituals. On the balcony we listened to the night sounds of the streets of Monopoli, music from nearby cafes, the shouts of young men on mopeds. White wine, olives and stracatella.

We knew how to drink coffee even in the evening. If we felt like it. Because the price of an excellent cappuccino in the center of Monopoli was under two euros. On our last evening in town, we went back to the place where we knew how to talk as if we were seeing each other for the first time, as if we hadn't known each other for over four decades. Monopoli is rejuvenating.

I haven't been able to sleep for a long time lately. Maybe to steal a few more waking moments here. In a quiet way, this town has become a dear part of my life. It doesn't flaunt its beauty, but it is beautiful. It doesn't boast, but it is spiritual. It doesn't beat its chest, but it has more than two millennia of heritage.

In the surrounding fortified country estates that the world's wealthy have been converting into residences over the past decade, it is already clear that Puglia will sooner or later become another Amalfi.

That's why it's not just what you look at, where you do it, but perhaps most importantly – when your eyes meet the landscape.

If you're late to some places, she'll never show the pearl from her shell again.

The next day, we set off with our suitcases towards the square named after the first king of a united Italy, Vittorio Emanuele II. This is the border between the old and new city.

Here in the evenings, people sit on benches and chat. Children run around. Tourists in their turbans pour through the gates on the walls, looking for their piece of traveler's happiness.

But this morning, as we head back towards Naples, there is hardly any life in the square. I would like to tell someone arivederciEven if it was that unfortunate girl from the 17th century, who local fishermen claim still uses her spirit to summon her lover who never returned from sailing. She's gone too.

A striped cat crosses our path and meows. I guess that means "good luck" in cat Italian.