Postcard from Monopoli

This afternoon—a quiet, sun-dappled Sunday in Monopoli—I had planned to take the train to Lecce, that ancient Baroque city about an hour away. I walked to the bus stop, waiting patiently for the bus that would take me to the station. One bus should have come, then another—yet none appeared. It was only after more than half an hour that I realized my mistake: there was no bus service on Sundays.

Italy, being a deeply Catholic country, observes Sunday as Il Giorno del Signore—the Lord’s Day—a time for rest, reflection, and togetherness. It was the first time I’d spent a Sunday in such a place, where time itself seems to slow. The gas stations stood empty, their pumps glinting in the sunlight. Shops were shuttered, restaurants closed, and even the ever-lively piazzas lay still—as if the whole town had agreed to pause and breathe.

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Unable to find an open trattoria, I wandered into a small coffee bar that was buzzing with life. It seemed the entire neighborhood had gathered there after mass. The men in black or navy suits and the women in dark dresses had clearly come straight from Sunday mass. Their somber attire contrasted with the warmth of their laughter that now filled the café. It was close to two in the afternoon, so there were no cappuccinos in sight.

Instead, the tables were filled with glasses of wine, beer, champagne, and small cups of coffee. Plates of cornetti, focaccias, slices of pizza, and cakes were being shared among friends and families. Laughter mingled with the aroma of baked dough and espresso, creating a warm hum of life inside the café that contrasted with the stillness outside.

Outside, however, Monopoli looked drained of color, as though the silence itself had washed the city bare. The narrow streets, often filled with the hum of scooters and cars and the chatter of passersby, lay quiet. Yet in that stillness, something beautiful emerged—a quiet serenity I rarely find on busy weekday afternoons.

Every so often, the church bells rang, their echoes rising through the still air like a hymn to the universe—a reminder that even silence has its own sacred music. I don’t know why, but I felt an ineffable joy listening to the bells ringing in such harmonious symphony, reassuring me that peace and harmony will never be lost.

As the bells faded, the city seemed to fall back into slumber, wrapped once again in its Sunday silence. And standing there, in that hush between sound and stillness, I felt an immense calm—as if the universe itself had whispered, “Be still”.

(The writer is Professor Emeritus, Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles)