A Brindisi Thanksgiving

As Tom and Jim left Venice in that late autumn of 1977, the canals and Gothic palaces receded from view, replaced by fields of reeds and marsh at first, then rolling farmland, vineyards, and orchards as the train clattered south. The original plan had been to head south to Rome, but they heard about a cheap ferry to Greece leaving from Brindisi, way down in the heel of Italy.

That was all it took. Plans changed. Eurail passes out. Off they went.

Outside, the scenery shifted endlessly during the long, ten-hour ride through Ferrara, Bologna, Rimini, Ancona, and Bari. The train traced the edge of the Adriatic, offering occasional glimpses of  fishing boats and picturesque ports.

As the afternoon approached evening, Tom and Jim saw hills in the distance, olive groves and gnarled trees breaking up the horizon. Somewhere past Bari, the landscape featured stone walls, small farms, and terraces cut into shallow hillsides.

The air smelled drier and warmer, even on the train. You could sense the sea first by the smell, then by the salty taste of mist in a broken window, then by the widening harbor lights as the train approached Brindisi.

In 1977, Brindisi was not yet a polished tourist destination. The buildings near the waterfront were functional — stores, warehouses, offices — and many of them looked a bit weather-beaten. Streets were narrow in places, winding away from the port into old quarters where walls were whitewashed but faded; peeling paint; windows bearing shutters that weren’t quite aligned.

Many of the shops were basic: grocers, bakeries, cafés, small bars. No luxury boutiques; the everyday items, the simple things, dominated. Sidewalks were uneven. The smell of diesel from the port mingled with salt. Brindisi felt more like a place to depart, to move onward rather than settle in. The boys found an apartment for the night, one they would share with several other backpackers from three other countries.

And that’s when it hit them: It was Thanksgiving Day. Or, night, actually, by the time the group shrugged off  their backpacks and gathered in the kitchen.

A Thanksgiving to Remember

All the food stores had closed for the night, so the late Thanksgiving dinner consisted solely of some bread and wine they were able to snag at a small shop along the way.

As the wine flowed, Tom tried explaining the meaning of Thanksgiving to their new international friends: food, family, football. The non-Americans listened politely, probably wondering why anyone would dedicate an entire day to overeating. And several argued that American football—with all its starts and stops and time-outs and substitutions—was inferior to the much more free-flowing action of European fútbol (soccer).

As the night (and early morning) went on, the laughter grew louder, and that little apartment helped the boys forget about the turkey and trimmings they would have been enjoying back in Ohio. Then, the mishap.

While using his trusty Swiss army knife to open yet another bottle of red wine that probably should have been left for another night, Tom’s hand slipped. The result was a deep cut that required several dish towels to stanch the bleeding. Later, while attempting to remove his contact lenses with one hand, he tore one of them, leaving him half-blind in addition to half-handed.

Despite this catastrophe, the next day—after they both recovered from the bacchanal—Tom and Jim agreed  that while Brindisi didn’t offer grand sights or famous restaurants, it offered something better: connection.

That Thanksgiving reminded them what travel was really all about. For them, it wasn’t about picture-perfect sights or jam-packed itineraries. It was about long train rides, the strangers who shared their stories, and the way laughter can be the fastest route to friendships across borders.

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Click on the video below for the boys' additional reflections on their memorable Thanksgiving in Brindisi, Italy.

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