Quechua Wedding - Oriente, Ecuador

I was typing at my desk on the 17th floor of a Jersey City high-rise overseeing the Hudson when my cell-phone rang: “Alo! Luminita?” Static interrupted the familiar voice of Alex, the oldest son of the shaman: “My sister Lidia is getting married in December. My father invites you”. Gazing outside the window at the big city lights I accepted the invitation somewhat amused and immediately made travel arrangements to attend my first Quechua wedding in the Ecuadorian rainforest.

Two months later I was on a bus crossing the mighty Andes in rhythms of cumbia and bachata. Bare, round-topped hills rolled by my sweaty window. I was the only tourist among indigenous fellow travelers crowding the aisle and leaning on me at every curve. After reaching 4000 meters, the road started its descent towards the Oriente, the area sank in lush jungles of eastern Ecuador.

While my friends were attending fancy bridal parties in Napa Valley or the Bahamas, I was heading to probably the most peculiar wedding ceremony one could attend. I was lucky to have a high tolerance for ambiguity: besides the date and approximate location, I knew no further party details.

At the end of the bus line, Alex and his younger sister Lilia were waiting for me. Happy to see them, I leaned for a hug, they tried to respond to my western salute and we engaged in a graceless, uncoordinated dodge dance.

We continued our trip on a local bus through intensely green, sweltering tropical countryside, mostly in awkward silence and embarrassed giggles. It always took my friends a while to readjust. The rugged road cut through incredible tall grass and palm trees, and ended on the bank of Napo River.

We crossed Napo in a colorful canoe for only one dollar and hitch-hiked a pickup truck on the other side. We rode in the back along 12 other Quechuas, their babies, bags and banana bunches, jolting and jerking until we all had our bones rearranged. This 30 minutes mini ordeal to ahuano was as close as I got to a limo ride to the wedding location.

Ahuano is a sleepy village with one paved main road bordered by flat-roofed cement houses. In its ‘suburbs,’ with no running water and no paved road, many Quechua families established their home after leaving their communities in the rainforest.

My friend Lilia, 17, already married and expecting her first child, was living here with her 19 year old husband and his family. By now, my friends overcame their shyness.

While we cooked dinner, they brought me up to date with who was pregnant, who got married, who left the community to work outside. We ate on the floor, under a pale light-bulb swarmed by exotic bugs, sitting around a huge banana leaf that served as table. The rice with vegetables and plantains was delicious. I had a comfortable, strange feeling of being so close to my friends yet belonging to such a remote world.

Over dinner, I received my tutorial on Quechua marriage. The novios live together first, and if they get along, they marry, if not, the pair separates and goes back to live with the parents. The older sister, Lidia, 20 years old, had been living with her fianc?
Pablo, 21, for 2 years and already had two babies. Now it was time to tie the knot.

The next morning, I was awakened by chatter coming from outside. I took a trip to the bathroom, among the banana trees behind the hut, washed thoroughly with tepid water springing out of a rubber tube and dressed up in festive clothes - white peasant cotton shirt and cargo pants.

Alex assessed my looks then pulled out a bottle of Johnson Baby Oil and thoroughly greased my hair: “Better. This is how our women make their hair beautiful and shiny”. Maybe their thick, gorgeous hair. My hair became thinner, definitely shinier, with the kind of luster you get from not bathing for a month. Thus dressed and oiled, I was ready to go. We grabbed the presents for the bride and groom and started walking towards Pablo’s house following a dusty road. It was fairly early, but the sizzling sun was beaming down our heads, heating up the aluminum bowls we were carrying.

Pablo’s hut, a thatched roof home erected on pillars, was located in a green meadow surrounded by rainforest and yucca gardens. We passed by a patch of cement big as half a basketball court covered with a zinc roof, the wedding salon.

A few serious looking women were carrying logs under the roof, making two concentric rectangles of benches where the guests would sit. At one end of the enclosing, four shirtless lads were testing a sound system that could embarrass even a New York DJ, spinning cumbias and jumpy Quechua songs, even some salsa, a good mix for all tastes.

Nothing else moved in the scorching heat. A white pillar of smoke stretched deep in the spotless sky, the only clue to human presence around Pablo’s house. As I got closer, I heard voices coming from the yard. Twenty women, all from the groom’s family, were peeling chicken, stirring in huge aluminum pots, or cutting yucca. I felt hungry, it all looked so good. Some men were bringing wood for fire, others were smoking and chatting. I greeted everybody and sat around to observe the wedding preparations.

Around 11am, Lidia’s family arrived loaded with bags, babies, and boxes. First came the shaman and his wife, the parents of the bride. We greeted joyfully, it had been a year since I last saw them. Within seconds, the meadow was crowded with 50 something sweaty, exhausted and sun baked Quechuas.

They were coming straight from their community, a three hours walk through rough and dense jungle. As everybody settled down on the benches, two of Pablo’s aunts brought a huge cauldron filled with a much needed thirst quencher and energy booster, chicha, a fermented yucca drink. The ladies scooped the chicha with a small bowl and fed it directly into the mouth of each person. To me, this serving process broke all sanitary rules: not only the chicha contained water from the river, but the same bowl went in everybody’s mouth.

Although I like chicha and its sweet-and-sour refreshing taste, I could not stop a shiver of nausea when I saw the lady sink her cracked hand into the bowl, swirl the liquid thoroughly before pushing the metal rim into my mouth. She locked it between my wisdom teeth with a naughty smile, sending all the chicha directly into my stomach.

According to local good manners, I had to empty the bowl. I complied slurping the liquid to the last drop and my stomach extended close to its bursting limit. I leaned half conscious against a pole, with a bulging stomach, almost as big as Lilia’s 8 months belly. I was calculating my chances of getting diarrhea while my friends were praising my drinking skills.

The wooden benches were now occupied by more than 100 people and their voices filled the air with a pleasant hum. I was the only outsider, lost in a crowd of indigenous faces, but felt bizarrely at home. I was sitting in the second row with my friends, until one of the aunties made space for me next to her, in the first row. She would help translate the ceremony in Spanish, which I badly needed as I spoke no Quechua.

All chatter stopped when Pablo, tall, bony and serious, with his enormously shy fianc?e at his side appeared on the floor. I was surprised to see they both were wearing just t-shirt and jeans like everybody else. The couple was flanked by two pairs of godparents dressed in white cloaks with a red cross sewn on the back, bearing a strange resemblance to Spanish conquistadores.

The men and women faced each other silently while all eyes were on them. The master of ceremony, a chubby middle aged man from Pablo’s family, took the microphone, and, accompanied by a violin and a drum, started singing the song of pedida in a high pitched voice, ceremonially asking for the bride’s hand. The bridal ensemble started trotting languidly back and forth with small rhythmic steps and expressionless faces.

The song, repetitive and slow, became hypnotic after thirty minutes and I felt I was witnessing a mystical pre-Incan ritual. When the music stopped, the women sprung up, creating chaos and clamor, and took Lidia outside, near the brim of the forest. I followed the crowd, hand in hand with three kids that would not let go of me. Surrounded by all the women, the bride started stripping down to her undergarments with slow movements. Subdued, eyes in the ground, she was not speaking a word.

A cascade of yells and shouts in Quechua was pouring out of the godmothers’ mouths, adding a dizzying soundtrack to the whole scene. I did not get the words, but I understood they were marriage advice. Delivered in loud shrieking voices it sounded scary. I realized that even in the rainforest married life was extremely complicated.

The tallest of the godmothers started combing Lidia’s long hair, adding oil drops to make it sleek and smooth. The other one hang a pair of golden earrings on her lobes and adorned her head with red ribbons and shiny hair pins. The bride, a new woman now, was freed to go back to the wedding court. The newlyweds sat on chairs in the middle of the room.

One by one, each person deposited gifts in front of the couple and congratulated them. Soon the two disappeared behind a pile of pots, cauldrons, mattresses, blankets, and machetes, everything one needs to start a life in Oriente. I headed to the big stack of gifts, found the bride and handed her a pocketbook with $60. I had no idea what the etiquette required from me, but when I saw the pile of one dollar bills next to the groom I knew I did ok. Later on, the bride’s aunt eating next to me expressed her awe: “They made $96, you never make that much money at a wedding”. I smiled, happy that I made this event unusual in my own little way.

It was finally time to eat. The food was distributed extremely fast, following a disciplined, well rehearsed process. A handful of young men formed a line from the women who put food on plates to the guests, and passed each dish from hand to hand. The line moved around like a clock’s arms and everybody was served. I received my plastic bowl filled with a creamy soup in which I found big pieces of chicken, beef ribs, potatoes, and a whole boiled yucca root. One of the boys pulled my arm: “You have to eat like us, with your hands”, and so I did. It was surprisingly tasty. The main course was a huge plate of rice and pasta, topped with half a braised chicken and a humongous piece of smoked beef the size of a small coffee table. Needless to say the chicha ladies kept making their tour, filling our stomachs with the yoghourty drink and making us tipsy.

Music was blasting from huge boxes, everybody was dancing and drinking up a storm. As we advanced cheerfully in the wee hours of the night, nobody seemed to get tired, only drunk, but this was overcome with a catnap under a bench or under a nearby tree. A thirty-something round faced lady, dragged me in the middle of the floor laughing and dancing around, her baby hammock bouncing pretty hard off her hips.

I looked at the baby bag worriedly and she opened it up: “Look, my baby, I gave birth 2 days ago”. I glanced at the tiny creature sleeping with his clenched fists over his face. I stared at her in slight disbelief then thought of all the post partum drama new moms deal with in my world. Two days after giving birth, this woman walked three hours through the jungle, drank, danced the whole night away, and had to return to her community the next day. My hat off to you, sister!

I spent the night skipping and spinning along everybody else. I could not tell if I had a buzz from the alcohol or from my dance moves. All the men, women, and children invited me to dance. I have never been so popular on the dance floor in my whole life. “Vamos a amanecer”, they were telling me, we will party until the sun rises. And so we did: one foreigner, pregnant ladies, new moms, toddlers and children, grandmas, newlyweds, did not close an eye until the sun was shining up on the sky.

Another round of soup with yucca was served at 11 am to whoever was sober and still standing, accompanied by the ubiquitous chicha. The 24 hour wedding was officially over. Everybody was getting ready to walk back home. Only my home was much farther than a 3 hours walk through the jungle.

Photo by gaborbasch on Flickr

Iceland’s Natural Wonders in Photos

Iceland is roughly the size of Ohio, but for a small country, it packs a really big punch. Waterfalls thunder over cliffs, glaciers cover the land in ice, lava creates endless caves and black sand beaches, volcanoes threaten to erupt, geysers shoot water into the sky, earthquakes happen every day, and in the middle of the country, the earth is literally being torn apart.

It’s a land full to bursting with natural beauty and stunning landscapes, which, for most people, are the main reason for visiting Iceland. Here are some of Iceland’s most unique features.

Waterfalls

As glacier water and melting snow accumulate, they create waterfalls all over the country. It’s nearly impossible to drive for more than an hour without spotting several trickling in the distance. The big ones are impossible to miss.

Gulfoss, one of the country’s most beautiful, plunges over 100 feet and can be viewed from above or from the bottom of the canyon, after a steep unpaved descent. It spans quite a distance across, is much wider than it is tall and (while not as large) calls to mind the raw power of Niagara Falls.

Seljalandsfoss drops even farther, with a single plunge of 200 feet over a precipice. While not as wide and powerful-looking as Gulfoss, Seljalandsfoss is special because you can actually walk behind it, standing along the rock walls as the powerful water creates a liquid curtain before your eyes.

Dettifoss, which earns the official title of Europe’s largest waterfall, drops over 150 feet and spans over 300. It’s located in the north of country, near Myvatn.

Glaciers

Glaciers cover a staggering 11% of Iceland’s landscape. The largest, Vatnaj?kull, covers 8% all on its own. The ice averages 1300 feet thick and covers several volcanoes. It lies in the southeast corner of Iceland’s rugged interior, making it largely inaccessible during winter months.

Other smaller glaciers can be visited year round with, but it’s important to go with an experienced guide who will outfit you with the proper gear. They’ll help you strap on crampons and lead you on a hike over the glacier, explaining the unique ecosystems that exist around glaciers, and will keep you safe on the treacherous ice. Some companies will also set up dog-sledding adventures on the glaciers.

The Rift

The American and Eurasian continental plates meet in Iceland and where the plates collide and push off of each other, a rift has formed in the earth. The best place to see it is in Thingvellir National Park, where you can actually walk between the two plates at Almannagj? Canyon.

Impressive from the ground, the rift is even more stunning to see underwater. Several dive companies will outfit you with gear and take you under at Silfra Lake. Divers can actually descend into the crack, while snorkelers in buoyant dry suits can hover over it.

Because of the friction caused by the plates, the park experiences multiple earthquakes each day, one every 3-4 hours. Most are under a magnitude 3 and go unnoticed. The Iceland Meteorological Office tracks the quakes on its website, so you may be surprised to later find out that the very spot you were standing on had experienced an earthquake and you didn’t even feel it.

Northern Lights

Solar activity creates dancing curtains and waves of brightly colored lights in Iceland’s night sky. Called the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, they can be elusive. While many tour companies will arrange excursions to go see them, a sighting is never guaranteed.

The Iceland Meteorological Office tracks activity on their website and rates your chances of seeing them, so if you have a night of good probability, head away from the city and get ready for one of the most breathtaking shows of your life. On the best nights, you may be able to see the lights from Reykjavik, but they are much more impressive when viewed shining over Iceland’s barren landscape than with the distraction of civilization.

Black Sand Beaches

Two hours south of Reykjavik, the black sand beaches of Vik, which stretch several desolate miles from the Ring Road to the Atlantic Ocean, look like the literal end of the world. They’re formed of volcanic rock and ash, swept by the wind into small hills and valleys, and fringed by sculpted black basalt columns in the sea.

The town of Vik is the wettest place in Iceland, and chances are that if it’s not actually raining, the beach will be covered in fog when you visit. But that only adds to its air of mystery and rugged beauty. You don’t come here to enjoy a relaxing beach day in the sun, but rather to experience the raw power of nature and its impact on the landscape.

Caves

When a volcano erupts, some of the lava spills down its surface while some is pushed out through cracks under the ground. These underground lava rivers have formed an extensive network of caves (over 2000 and counting) in Iceland, which tour guides are happy to help you explore.

Come prepared though, caving in Iceland is serious business and you’ll end up crouching, climbing and scrambling over icy rocks and through narrow tunnels as you check out the unusual rock formations and icy stalagmites caused by glacier water dripping in from above. Some of the more strenuous excursions will also include long stretches of crawling on your belly through tiny openings where just a few decades ago, hot molten lava rushed through, obliterating anything unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

Volcanoes

Iceland contains 30-40 active (meaning they have erupted in the last 100 years) volcanoes and hundreds more that are dormant. The last destructive eruption was in 1973, when Eldfell on the island of Heimaey erupted and wiped out nearly one third of the town of Vestmannaeyjar.

Hekla, in southern Iceland, is one of the most active volcanoes in the world, with recent eruptions 1991 and 2000. You’ll find several tour operators in Iceland who can transport you to both active and dormant volcanoes and show you the effects that volcanic eruptions have on the local ecosystem.

You’ll see underground lava rivers still flowing, hardened lava and volcanic ash, and former lava field that have now been covered over with spongy moss to form an otherworldly bright green landscape of craggy peaks and crevices.

Horses

Riding horses in Iceland is an unforgettable experience. The landscape you ride over is stunning, but what really makes it so special are the horses themselves. Short, stocky and sturdy, they can carry around three times their weight. While many people mistake them for ponies, these are actual horses who just happen to be smaller, and who have a special fourth gait called the t?lt – a fast pace similar to the trot but so smooth you’ll barely feel like you’re moving.

If you don’t want to make arrangements to go riding, just pull over near any field in the countryside and chances are, you’ll soon by making some new friends. Icelandic horses are known for their gentle curiosity and friendliness and with their shaggy winter coats and docile nature, they almost resemble a four-legged teddy bear.

It seems everywhere you turn in Iceland there’s another sight that catches your breath and makes you wonder “how can that be real?” From the explosive spurts of water coming from Stokkur (the geyser near Geysir, the namesake geyser which no longer erupts) to the steaming neon blue waters of the Blue Lagoon (which is man-made though the water is natural), Iceland is place full of wonder and some of the most unforgettable landscapes on Earth.

Photo credits:
Waterfall by cfwee on Flickr, Glaciers by Martin Hapl on Flickr, Rift by Sarcasmette on Flickr, Aurora by ?lfhei?ur ….. on Flickr, Black Sand Beach by Rod the Rabid Rodent on Flickr, Caves by Katie Hammel, Volcanoes by Joe Hatfield on Flickr, Horses by jasperwiet on Flickr

Going Solo in Otranto, Italy

There I was, brochures spread out on the floor before me, propped up on elbows, poring over trips to Puglia, Italy. “When should we go?” I asked my favorite traveling companion, my husband, Steve. Then came his reply: “I’m not sure I can get away this year.”

Here’s the thing. For years I was the one who couldn’t travel - big corporate job, lots of stress, daunting workload - so as soon as I was eligible, I took early retirement. Then Steve, in a move that was completely counter-intuitive, went from a great nine-month contract as a professor to a twelve-month contract as an academic dean. Now I was the one longing to heed the call of ports unknown.

“But Steve, at my back, I hear Time’s winged-chariot. In other words, it’s time to suck the marrow, gather ye rosebuds.” Then, sheepishly, I added, “Maybe it’s time for me to go it alone.”

And that’s how it all began. In September, I was on my way to Otranto, Italy, to study at Porta d’Oriente, an Italian language school recognized by the universities for foreigners in Siena and Perugia, institutes of repute further north.

Ask any baby boomer what’s on her retirement checklist and she will tell you, travel and language acquisition. I was no different. I had been in love with la bella lingua for years and had taken adult education courses for just as long, but I needed total immersion.

After surfing the web for about thirty minutes I was sold on Otranto - as soon as I saw pictures of the charming lungomare along the Adriatic, the water that amazing cerulean blue, the sight of which suggesting ancient gods must have resided along this coast. A few emails later, I was enrolled in the school, assured an apartment would be waiting for me when I arrived, and that someone named Angelo would pick me up at the airport, drive me to Otranto, and hand over the keys to an apartment I would call home for two weeks. Dream or soon-to-be-reality?

Sure enough, after a not terrible flight to Rome (aisle seat, center section - could be worse), I connect to Brindisi and am passing through customs where I see the Porta d’Oriente sign.

“Ciao, Jean.”

“Ciao, Angelo.”

It’s working; I’m speaking Italian.

As we head out for Otranto, I try striking up a conversation with Angelo. No dice. It seems our ability to communicate hit its peak when we said hello. His English is matched by my Italian. I look outside my window and see the famed olive trees of Puglia and ancient abandoned trulli, the oddly-shaped, conical structures, once humble homes to farming families and their animals. I admire the view in silence.
When we arrive an hour later, I am relieved to see the town, as lovely as the pictures on the internet, the Castle of Otranto, standing like a barrel-chested sentry in the golden light of this September afternoon.

Angelo parks the car near the footbridge by the castle (no cars are allowed in the old town), and, hauling my bags, leads me through the meandering streets to my apartment on the Piazza del Popolo. He opens the shutters, and as I look out on the town below, I can see how well situated I will be here. The “apartment” is only a bedroom with a small kitchenette and a bathroom, but the real attraction is the roof-top terrace, with its panoramic sea view.

After Angelo leaves, I take a leisurely stroll around town. The height of the tourist season is over, but the busiest thoroughfare, Corso Garibaldi, is still bustling with people eating what appears to be sinfully creamy gelati and wandering in and out of the many shops and restaurants.

By Sunday night, I am like a kid before the first day of school. I even carefully arrange the clothes I will wear on a chair before I go to bed.

On Monday morning classes begin. Even in a total immersion environment, I know I can’t expect miracles, but the teachers appear professional and energetic, so I’m eager to start. The students this week come from Holland, Germany, Switzerland, and Poland. There is only one American, a flight attendant who speaks Southern Californian, but her Italian is pretty good.

I am in the basic class, which is small. There are Elizabeth from Switzerland, Manuella from Germany (both near my age), and Valery from Holland, a recent college graduate who will begin her advanced degree in the fall. My teacher this first week is Stephania, who speaks slowly and clearly, a blessing for me. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Near the end of the week, I decide that language acquisition travel is the way to go. Not only am I learning to speak Italian more confidently, I am learning the history of a culture little known to Americans. I have Barbara Dimitri, the young founder of the school, to thank for this. Wearing many hats, she also leads the tours, sharing her knowledge of the region, which, it turns out, is encyclopedic.

The tours, offered two or three times a week, take place in the afternoons after class. Some are free and last a few hours, others are five or six hours and cost 35 Euros, transportation and guide included. During my stay, the longer tours include an olive mill and winery; Greek Salento; Lecce, the “Florence of the South”; and the South Coast. In addition, there are tours of Otranto’s historical center and Barbara’s seminar on Tarantismo, about the “pinch” (pizzica) or bite of the tarantula, related to the traditional dance of the South, the Tarantella. I go to everything.

One of my favorite tours is to Greek Salento. On the way, I learn the old Greek dialect is still spoken in these nine towns where the heritage goes back to the 8th century, BC. Barbara explains (in Italian - I have to ask for clarification at times) that Salento has long been the door to the East in this most southeastern of Italy’s regions. Another tour not to be missed is to the South Coast, where, leaving Otranto, the shoreline turns to high cliffs. The Adriatic here is a deep dark blue, often erupting into frothy white caps, sending waves slamming onto the craggy rocks above.

At the end of the first week, I am tan and wearing a constant smile. In the evenings I spend hours on roof tops with classmates, eating, drinking, and laughing. On clear mornings, eating breakfast on the terrace, I can see the mountains of Albania in the distance.

All too soon, my last day of class arrives. I say a tearful good-bye to Stephania and to Barbara, who tells me she expects me to be in the advanced class one day. I give her another hug.

Saturday morning I spend shopping for gifts, finding AnimaMundi on a side street, where, seeing a book on yoga, I ask Giuseppe Conoci, the owner, if he knows where I can find a studio. I miss my regular yoga class, and as luck would have it, he is going tomorrow evening and will take me.

He picks me up with Francesca, the teacher. On the way, I learn that we are going to her family villa, where she teaches and holds retreats. The yoga studio looks like it might once have been a chapel, with its large interior and high-domed ceiling. One other student joins us for an intense practice of Ashtanga yoga. Francesca, an accomplished teacher, leads the class in Italian - I follow as best I can. She easily switches to English when she sees I need help.

After class, I am starving, so I invite Francesca and Giussepe to dinner at La Botte, a popular pizzeria. Finishing our wine, we are not quite ready for the evening to end. Francesca asks us to her place for amaro, the bittersweet after dinner drink. It turns out her “place” is the new five-star hotel, the Palazzo Papaleo, she and her husband, Mark, run. The palazzo has been in Francesca’s family for centuries. Several amari later, I realize it is getting late and that I must say good-night.

Walking home, I stop to look at the late night sky, stars still bright, but a distinct light beginning to emerge in the east. I take it all in one last time.

In the morning Angelo picks me up where he left me off two weeks earlier. On the way we have a lively conversation - in Italian. At the airport we say arrivederci. I only know the past and present tenses, so I cannot tell him in Italian that I will come back, but he knows. And so do I.

GETTING THERE: Best bet, connect through Rome. Flights generally start at $1,000. There are one hour flights on Alitalia to Bari or Brindisi ranging from $250 to $350. Trains to Otranto depart from both airports regularly. Check www.tranitalia.com for schedule and fares.

WHERE TO STUDY ITALIAN: Several Italian language schools in Otranto are recognized by the universities for foreigners in Siena and Perugia, such as Scuola Porta d’Oriente (www.porta-doriente.com/) and Italian Language School, ILS (www.ilsonline.it/).

SEEING THE SIGHTS: The language schools provide numerous excursions; tours of the area can also be arranged through independent groups, such as Salento Viaggi or Salentotime.

Don’t Miss:
Cattedrale dell’Annunziata for the mosaic tree of life covering the cathedral’s floor, open June-September, from 7 a.m.-12 p.m. and from 3 p.m.-8 p.m., Via Duomo, admission free.

Basicila di S. Pietro, a tiny 9th century Greek style church with colorful frescoes of
various biblical scenes. Open July 15th-September 15th, 10 a.m.-12p.m. and from 3:30 p.m.-8 p.m., Via S. Pietro, admission free.

The Alimini Lakes National Park, north of Otranto on the SS611, is perfect for a day trip. A venue for fishing, bathing in hot springs, and picnicking, there is the added plus of beautiful forests. Buses run daily during the summer.

WHERE TO STAY: The language schools provide apartments that are less expensive than most hotels or B&Bs.

Palazzo de Mori: A moderately priced B&B, in town and on the sea, with understated but elegant accommodations and a lovely breakfast. Daily rates from $117, higher in July and August. Tel: 39 0836 801088; www.palazzodemori.it.

Palazzo Papaleo: The new and only 5-star hotel in the center of Otranto, a gracious family-owned palace retaining its old world charm amid tasteful modern renovations. From $375. Tel: 39 0836 802108; www.hotelpalazzopapaleo.com.

Hotel Miramare: A 3-star hotel, well located across the street from one of the in town beaches, with comfortable accommodations. From $117. Tel: 39 0836 801023; www.miramareotranto.com.

WHERE TO EAT

La Botte, Via Guglielmotto d’Otranto, 39 0836 804293. A busy pizzeria/trattoria near the port where the locals eat. Great for pizza and pasta dishes. Dinner with house wine about $20 a person.

La Pignata, Corso Garibaldi, 39 0836 801284. Best for local seafood, prepared simply but well. Dinner with house wine about $50 per person.

Zia Fernanda, Via XXV Aprile, 39 0836 801884. Family-owned, casual restaurant, specializing in typical pasta and seafood dishes, frequented by locals and tourists alike. Dinner with house wine about $45 per person.

WHEN TO GO: April-mid June or September-mid October for good weather and lower prices. Months to avoid are July and August when temperatures soar and the city swells with tourists.

SPECIAL EVENTS OF INTEREST:
Festival of lamps, June 21-22, Calimera, in Greek Salento, marking the beginning of summer with fanciful and colorful paper lamps hung on overhead wires and lighting the night sky.

Festival of Saints, Peter and Paul, June 28-30, Galatina, in Greek Salento, a great opportunity to see the frantic dancing of the Tarantella to the beat of tambourines.

Festival of the Holy Martyrs, Otranto, commemorating the massacre of the venerated 800 who gave their lives during the Turkish invasion of 1480.

For additional information, go to www.comune.otranto.le.it/ to find the latest tourist information. Tip: Google Comune di Otranto and hit “translate this page” for English.

About the author:
Jean is a freelance writer with articles appearing in newspapers, magazines, and literary journals, including The Hartford Journal, Skirt!, Long Island Woman, upstreet, and The Distillery. A recent short story appears in the Spring,’09 issue of Slow Trains, on online literary journal. She lives with her husband, Steve, and black Lab, Sylvester in Greenwich CT. They spend their summers in Tyringham, MA, where Jean teaches yoga in her studio, the YogaBarn.

Photo by Paolo M?rgari on Flickr

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The Redneck Riviera: 7 Unexpected Reasons it Beats St. Tropez

The Gulf Coast of Alabama and Florida get a bad rap. Known as The Redneck Riviera some travelers turn and run instead of giving it a try. It certainly isn’t St.Tropez but it’s not all mullet tossing either.

1 - Luxury boats vs. Fishing boats

Boating in the French Rivera is expensive. Luxury yachts and beautiful sailboats cost a lot of money. Fishing charters or Jet Ski rental is downright cheap in comparison.

The Gulf Coast is home to a vast fleet of fishing boats and almost any waterfront view will include at least one or two in your field of vision.

It’s not as sexy as a sailboat skimming over the water but it makes for some great deals on fresh, local seafood in restaurants and fish markets.

2 - Beaches full of beautiful people vs. Your own private beach

Beaches full of beautiful people in tiny swimwear might be the norm on the French Riviera but on the
Redneck Riviera things are a bit different. There are fewer hot bodies and almost no celebrity sightings.

Some of the tiny swimwear choices seem questionable and you’re likely to see people covered up in garish tourist T-shirts but if you go off the beaten path, you can find yourself on a beautiful beach with no one else.

Head towards Fort Morgan – the actual Fort, not the town – in Alabama, and just before you enter the gates, make a left turn. Down the very bumpy road there is a great beach that almost no one goes to. Just don’t get all four wheels off the pavement or you will get stuck in the soft sand – not good when no one is around to help you out.

3 - Finely tuned motorcars vs. Hot, loud go-karts

Want to see an Aston Martin or a Bugatti? Go to the French Riviera. If you want to drive on the track yourself, go to Gulf Shores, Alabama.

One of the most popular evening activities is buckling up in a go-kart at The Track. This is no kiddie ride either. There are 4 different tracks including one for adults only. There’s a mini-track for little ones, a standard go-kart track, a slick track with faster karts for adults and then, there’s the Woody; a three-story wooden go-kart track that you have to drive to believe.

You spiral up the levels then whoosh down, teeth chattering from the constant fact of wheels on wood. Before you know it, your turn is over and you want to get back in line. Anyone can ride double, even two adults, or there are plenty of karts for those going it alone. You’ll have more fun than you ever expected.

4 - Fine dining vs. Throwing food

While on the French Riviera you might find restaurants with linen tablecloths and crystal glasses or cutting edge cuisine. The Redneck Riviera offers ice cream shops, fast food, an amazing variety of fresh seafood – all fried and throwed rolls.

If you go to Lambert’s in Foley, Alabama expect a roll of paper towels on the table in place of napkins, servers with big bowls of fried okra, fried potatoes and other side dishes walking amongst the tables dishing them out and giant yeasty dinner rolls flying through the air. That’s right, as you eat the hot roll cart comes through.

At the call of “Hot, fresh rolls” hands go up and a guy wearing oven mitts starts tossing them out. Diners close by get an underhand lob; those across the room get more of a baseball pitch. Portions are huge and sides and rolls are unlimited.

5 - Designer style vs. Surf Style

Souvenirs of the French Riviera might include designer handbags, stylish sunglasses or some stunning jewelry. The Redneck Riviera offers T-shirts, boogie boards, bikinis and tacky souvenirs at dozens of Surf Style stores. Of course you can get several T-shirts for under $10 if you need to bring home something for your friends.

And if you’re looking to expand your surf wear or beach attire, you’ll find some great bargains. If you get off the main drag you can find some unique places to shop too.

Fairhope, Alabama is known as an artist’s haven and offers a wide variety of unique art at affordable prices if T-shirts aren’t your thing.

6 - Elite Hotels vs. Options for Every Budget

Luxury hotels with impeccable service are to be expected on the French Riviera. You won’t find a Motel 6 in St. Tropez.

The Redneck Riviera offers lodging at just about any price point you could want. Primitive camping, budget motels, RV Resorts and mid-range hotels and beach house rentals are all possible. You should be able to find a place that fits your budget without too much work.

One thing to keep in mind though – if you aren’t staying on the beach, you’re going to want to find out where the best beach access is. In Gulf Shores the waterfront is packed with hotels and there is one little sliver of public beach. If you’re not in those waterfront hotels, ask around where you are staying for advice on the best beaches to visit.

7 - Unique and Fabulously Trendy vs. Unique and Fabulously Tacky

Along the French Riviera you might spot some great new trends you want to try out back home or a great outfit by a new designer. On the Redneck Riviera you’re going to see a lot of tacky. T-shirts with a bikini-clad silhouette in size 3XL, souvenir shops that you have to enter through the jaws of a giant fiberglass shark and beer cozies in an amazing array of designs are just a few sights along the way.

There are two options if tacky isn’t your thing. Go to the beach, eat fresh seafood, charter a boat and just ignore all the shops. Or have a little fun and embrace the weirdness. Take a silly photo in the shark’s mouth, but some off-the-wall souvenir that will always remind you of the Gulf Cost, albeit in a weird way and just give in a little. C’mon, you know you want a water globe full of glittery crabs to take home.

Photo credits:
Fishing boat photo by LA Lassie on flickr, surf style store by argusfoto on flickr, giant shark at Souvenir City by argusfoto on flickr, all others by Robert Clark