Pulling out of Vieste early in the morning began my day of following the winding coastal highway through the hills toward Foggia, where I’d drop off my rental car before catching a train to Pescara. I figured refilling the tank just blocks from the Hertz office would be the easiest option. As usual, Italy had other ideas.
The pump rejected my credit card PIN. Option two: my debit card but the machine didn’t even offer a PIN prompt this time So, cash is king. I fed in a €20 bill. Bingo, right? Pump away. Nope. Not in Italy. Not for me.
I asked the gentleman at the next pump why nothing was happening. He glanced at my pump and gave me the classic Italian shrug and “bah,” meaning “I don’t know and I’m not getting involved.” I chose the refund option, and a credit slip printed out, the kind you’re supposed to bring to the attendant. Except there was no attendant. Time was ticking, my courtesy return buffer shrinking, so I headed to Hertz hoping someone there could help.
After circling the block a couple of times to find a parking space, three men rushed toward me, one inspecting the body, one checking mileage, one asking for the keys. I was told the younger guy spoke English. He did… a little but as they grew agitated with each other and with the pickup office on the phone, his English mysteriously evaporated. No one wanted to read my translator, and no one cared to look at the credit slip. I took the hit and will fight the exorbitant charge with Hertz customer service. After that, the day finally smoothed out.
By now I was a pro at catching trains, and all my tickets were already purchased through my final destination: Roma. Arriving at Pescara Centrale, my flat was only about ten city blocks away. This is where I once again appreciated choosing a suitcase with two large wheels instead of a spinner. The city was a drastic shift from my last cozy little stop, a true working city, smaller than my hometownCharleston, South Carolina, but reminiscent of it in its own way, minus the horse‑and‑carriage tours. Busy thoroughfares, mid‑rise buildings with shops at street level, steady foot traffic, stoplights, and of course the occasional car horn. The beachfront sits at the back of the city, similar to how the Battery skirts the river line in Charleston. This would be a very different visit than I had imagined, but time would tell.
Finding the door to my flat was the usual where is Waldo but there was an actual number this time so that was a bonus. Check‑in was futuristic. I looked into a camera at the main door, was buzzed inside, then buzzed again into the foyer. A WhatsApp message asked me to send a photo of my passport. Once completed, door number 5 buzzed open where I found keys and a fob. The room was newer, with a couch, queen bed, high table, chairs, and a balcony overlooking the Official Pescara Post and Telegraph. Google Maps showed the beach just a few blocks away, so I hit the pavement.
The main streets buzzed, but the side streets mellowed into small neighborhood pockets lined with restaurants and shops. Arriving at the beach, I found mostly lido style setups which are full‑service beach clubs with rentable chairs and umbrellas. Volleyball courts were packed with young adults, and the boardwalk was alive with pedestrians, bikes, and scooters. Beach‑themed restaurants dotted the landscape between lido entrances. Once I got my bearings and found a safe side road for nighttime walks, it was time to knock out some shopping before dinner.
Later that evening, walking the entire left side of the beach, I reached the main pedestrian piazza stretching all the way to the train station. After weeks of pizza, pasta, and general Italian fare, I spotted an Asian restaurant just off the beach. I walked a bit farther, but the sushi photos stuck in my head. I doubled back. A hostess showed me how to order from a tablet attached to a flexible arm, another automated surprise. With a beer, edamame, and two rolls ordered, I finished writing my Vieste piece. The food arrived in no particular logical order, but it was fresh, flavorful, and thankfully not Italian. After a long travel day, I headed back to my room. I didn’t yet have a feel for the city and didn’t want to chance wandering alone at night.
The next morning I woke early, wanting to get ahead of what could be a busy Friday at the beach. I’d bought soft hot‑dog‑style rolls the night before, and around the corner at the local salumeria or delicatessen as we call it in America, the giant frisbee‑sized mortadella was already on the slicer. I ordered ten slices and grabbed some pre‑cut Swiss‑style cheese. I sure do miss mayonnaise, but considering these sandwiches would sit in my pack under the hot sun and mortadella in Italy seems to “age on the slicer” skipping mayo might have been a blessing. With three sandwiches made, a couple of pears, my water bottle, and beach towel, I headed for the beach.
I returned to the same beach front as the night before but walked to the right this time. The landscape was similar: lido entrances, scattered restaurants offering tourist fare. Toward the end, construction crews were working on new buildings along the Pescara River. The walkway opened into a large piazza leading to the Ponte del Mare, a dramatic curved pedestrian and bike bridge connecting the north and south sides of the city. A small public beach sits beside the bridge, so I began my walk along the water’s edge until I reached the public beach I’d found the night before. It sits in line with Pescara’s largest piazza, where the train station anchors the far end several blocks inland.
I staked my claim and ate a sandwich while observing the busy beach. An Italian ice vendor maneuvered his refrigerated cart on tank‑like treads, looking thoroughly unenthused. Three or four men wandered the sand with soccer balls in nets, cheap umbrellas, beach toys, all repeating “Buongiorno, ciao” as if those were the only Italian words they’d learned since immigrating. Two women dressed in African‑style garb walked the shoreline holding posters of braided hairstyles, offering beachside braiding to bikini clad, sun lotioned woman in ninety‑degree heat. There was a lot going on.
Returning from a swim, waterproof dry bag in hand with my valuables because mama didn’t raise no fool, I overheard a couple speaking English. They were from Boston, in town for a family wedding and taking a beach day before driving to Rome. We compared travel notes and ended up back in the water together. I warned a gentleman nearby that his shoulders were burning — “rosa.” I’d seen him arrive, struggling to walk. As he entered the water, he did a double take when he realized I was speaking English. “Oh, I thought you were Italian,” he said, motioning to his arm to point out my tan.
His name was Robert, from Sweden. He’d injured his back in a car accident and had no feeling below his knees. Entering the water without his braces was difficult, but he managed. He’d been a UN peacekeeper in the Middle East for years, and the four of us had a great conversation. After the Boston couple packed up, Robert and I continued talking throughout the afternoon agreeing on U.S. politics, learning about our hometowns, and trading travel tips. He’d recently bought a home in the mountains and had great advice for local day trips. In his 70s, he still rode a bike despite his injury. Later, as he awkwardly entered the water again, I called out, “Here comes graceful!” He got a big kick out of that.
Eventually it was time to say goodbye, though I have a feeling I’ll see him again — his wife was arriving the next day, and he said they always come to the same spot.
After a shower, I spent the rest of the day exploring local neighborhoods and planning a day trip to Ortona, a small town about thirty minutes away by train.
That evening I walked to a local pizza joint, picked up a basic pepperoni pizza “porta via” or to-go and brought it back to my room. I finished off a bottle of wine from the day before and watched the night unfold from my balcony.
Ortona was a good day trip, which I wrote about separately. Arriving back in Pescara having only survived on leftover pizza and oranges, I freshened up and walked to the small neighborhood pocket two blocks down. Saturday night was buzzing as patios were filling fast with hungry crowds filtering into the corridors that had been empty just hours earlier. I found an upscale restaurant named Da Giusti, not nearly as busy as the rest. The menu didn’t dumb down; no pictures, no translations, just an elegantly written, professional menu.
Catching the eye of a server as there seemed to be no maître D present, I was shown to a nice indoor banquette. My server, a young Black woman, arrived quickly and asked my water preference. “Acqua still,” I replied. She didn’t understand. “Bottiglia acqua still, per favore.” Still no capisce. She flagged down who seemed to be the lead server, a handsome, very professional Black man, and I repeated my request. He reiterated it to her, “acqua still,” and suddenly it clicked.
I started with the cream fava beans, a dish I’d seen on several menus but hadn’t yet tried. In my mind I envisioned plump fresh fava beans lightly sautéed and finished with some wonderful cream sauce. Odd, but it appears everywhere, so surely it must be some spectacular preparation. Well… my vision was off. It was as if I’d read “hummus” on a menu and imagined whole chickpeas tossed with tahini, lemon, and garlic instead of the purée we all know. The fava purée arrived topped with sautéed rapini, and instantly it made sense. All preconceived notions aside, it was delicious. The house bread with a soft,airy middle and firm crust helped me devour the entire bowl.
For my main entrée, I chose rigatoni in vodka cream with pancetta and fresh buffalo mozzarella. A side table was placed next to me, and the lead server returned with a tray, pouring the piping‑hot sauce into a copper bowl and gently tossing the pasta. He plated it into a china bowl, then laid a small ball of mozzarella on top. I’d watched him serve fettuccine Alfredo tableside to a large group earlier but didn’t expect it for my dish. It was a nice touch. The flavors were perfect, although I struggled to finish since the fava crème was definitely a two‑person starter.
Watching service unfold, the Da Giusti staff carried themselves with real professionalism. As I worked through my pasta, I noticed desserts being presented to other tables: rectangular boxes with clamps holding the tops. Gelato perhaps? What a unique idea! In the end, it was tiramisu, not in a glass. We have entered a new arena here! With no room for dessert… as I clear my throat as if to interject my last statement, I ordered a caffè and the caramel flan, which also came with a tableside presentation. The young lady from earlier torched some Grand Marnier which was in a copper cup with a handle until it flamed and poured it over the delicate flan. Me being the crème‑brûlée king, it was perfectly cooked. Finishing dinner, I struggled to walk the few blocks back to my flat. One of those meals where you swear you’ll fast the next day because surely you won’t be hungry for at least 36 hours.
Sunday morning I woke up and mostly stayed in bed catching up on writing, editing, and scheduling posts. I went to the beach later in the afternoon to see if I could find Robert and his wife, but it was so hot with no breeze that after a short sit followed by a dip and no sign of Robert, I headed back to my room. The fact that several large women were out in force with no shame, confidently squeezing into their two‑piece bathing suits surely bought half a century ago when they were fifteen years old also helped me decide to leave the beach early. Sundays are true Sundays here in Pescara with all the stores closed and many restaurants as well. I changed and abandoned my plan to fast, but finding an open restaurant was nearly impossible. I ended up back on the strip and found a pizza joint between two lido entrances offering slices. It was early, but it carried me through a lazy night of washing clothes in the sink and talking to friends on the phone.
Monday would be a day of reorganizing the suitcase and getting my travel plans in order. I was told that if I walked further down the coast past the second public beach and the last row of lido cabanas there was a nice beach in Montesilvano. I’ll check it out.
As it turns out, Pescara wasn’t what I thought it would be, as with a few other spots on my journey, but that’s what discovery is all about. I still have seven more stops before I hit Rome, and I’m confident that leaving the south on Tuesday and heading toward the Venice area will bring a positive change from here on out.
fscavullo 