Lucera in the rain

A wet postcard from the sidelines.

The castle towers over the city like a rusted crown. Castel Lucera, built by Frederick II, the falcon emperor with a penchant for stone and delusions of grandeur. Once a bulwark against Saracens, popes, and boredom, today it stands alone in the open countryside, swirling with wind and school classes that look as if they're here as punishment. The rain slaps against the walls as if the weather itself were saying, "Leave it alone." Inside: nothing. No pomp, no drama. Just wet grass, deaf silence, and the faint suspicion that even the echo feels more at home elsewhere.

The cathedral stretches its damp facade into the leaden sky. Gothic meets Baroque, both irritated. Damp inside, wetter outside.

And then, like an act of defiance against the meteorological depression: a gelateria. Open. Empty. A cold tiramisu gelato in your fist, while the chocolate ice cream slowly runs down your hand. It tastes of defiance. And of the feeling that it must be summer somewhere. Just not in Lucera.