The taxi ride to my accommodation in Gallipoli, Puglia filled me with inspiration. Towns, pastures, cattle, remnants of castles and churches in the far distance. Fresh spring air through the window. The radio playing songs I didn’t understand. I smiled lightly to myself. I was here. I had done it.
I had barely touched down and my phone had lit up with Google Maps directions to every historic sight near where I was staying (Castello di Gallipoli, Cattedrale di Sant’Agata, Frantoio Ipogeo di Palazzo Granafei, Fontana Greca) — courtesy of my sister.
I’d suddenly found myself single, jobless, and itching to get out of my skin being at home day after day, with solely my thoughts for company.
My heart had urged me to go for the extremes: move country, book a month alone in the Philippines — but my logical brain knew I struggled even going shopping on my own. So, after a quick browse on the AirBnb map, I landed on Gallipoli, Puglia. Gallipoli is the kind of place that looks like a film set — pale stone buildings crowded onto a small island, the sea unreasonably clear.
However, as soon as I’d settled into where I was staying — a gorgeous apartment in the Old Town of Gallipoli with a rooftop view of the whole island — and resolved to go outside and explore, a familiar panic crept into my chest.
A short walk should do the trick, I told myself. Yet as I walked, I was confronted with the sight of families, couples, neighbours, all grouped together. Shop owners catching up with their customers, passers-by stopping each other on the street to have conversation. Not one person was out alone. And I was hit with my reality. I was living proof that you can’t run away from your problems. Granted, I did choose one of the most close-knit communities for my spontaneous solo trip, in the off tourist season. So I really did feel like the odd one out.
One night, I tried to order food. I had an instant gut feeling that it wouldn’t arrive. I was right. My sister told me to call the restaurant, but I didn’t speak Italian, and they didn’t speak English. I ended up ordering something to pick up from across the road, after everything opened up again hours later. I never did sort out the first order. So I’d paid twice. Late that night, eating my dinner in bed, the real reason I’d come here crept back in. I was uncertain about everything — what came next, who I was becoming, whether any of it would work out. Going outside felt like a bigger challenge than I felt up to, even though it probably would have made me feel better.
Most of my trip, I regret to say, was spent in my Airbnb watching movies and Facetiming friends, feeling guilty about what I was actively missing. The universe took some pity on me, however, and sent a downpour to alleviate my guilt.
Regardless, where I could, I dined out alone. Enticed by the smokiness of freshly baked pizza escaping a restaurant in the Old Town, I indulged in a Pizza alla Diavola, taking in the merry scenes of families and friends laughing and telling stories. I marvelled at the beauty of the narrow stone streets, and watched as the waves of the Ionian Sea crashed against the island.
On the days I really didn’t feel like pushing myself, I sat on the rooftop terrace for hours, writing and watching the world move. Even though all of the movement seemed to be happening in front of me, I still felt like a part of it.
