The Magical Toy Maker of Monopoli, Italy
Colorful “gozzo” boats—and their tiny replicas—are just as Instagram-worthy as anything in Puglia.
It was early May, and every day for the past three weeks, I'd passed a nondescript shed on my morning walk to the beach. Potted shrubs disguised most of its stone structure, but through the bars of an iron gate, I could sometimes catch a glimpse of a man hunched over a workbench. The rhythmic scraping of wood was the only sound to break the morning calm, apart from the clink of espresso cups from the cafe next door.
This was in a charming but overlooked town of 50,000 souls on Italy’s heel. Puglia is home to its fair share of picturesque, Instagram-worthy backdrops, like the whimsical trulli houses of Alberobello, or the postcard-perfect town of Polignano a Mare. But where I was, the red and blue gozzo boats were the main attraction. And it wasn’t until I finally mustered up the courage to approach the shed that I met the toy boat maker of Monopoli.
“Buongiorno, prego, prego," he said, waving me inside.
Ignazio Amodio had a broad smile etched with lines deeper than the Adriatic itself, as well as bronzed and leathery skin. And like most of the people who call Monopoli home, the sea is his muse. Before dawn, its fishermen swerve down the windy road on Vespas and board rusty, chipped fishing boats. They return an hour before sunset to set up boxes of fresh fish, octopus, squid, and scampi. Their customers are locals, who have a saying: Monopoli is a town built both on and by the sea.
Amodio ushered me into his sanctuary, where the air hung heavy with the scent of sawdust and saltwater. Boating ropes coiled like fat nautical serpents, framed photographs peeked out from cluttered shelves, and pieces of wood were scattered everywhere. Once inside, he pointed to a frame on the wall crammed with faded photographs, including one of a man clutching the oars of a colorful boat. Amodio followed my gaze, then tapped his chest with a proud smile.
Just as I fumbled for my translator app, a woman with loose, wavy dark hair and a vintage film camera slung over her shoulder stepped inside. She tested out languages to see how we might communicate—a burst of Italian, followed by a smattering of French, then finally a crisp “hello.”
Suddenly, Amodio's story unfolded: He was one of six boys, but the only son to follow his grandfather into boatbuilding at the age of 15. His brothers had all become fishermen. "The gozzo in the port," she said. "He built some of those.”
According to local journalist Eustachio Cazzorla, whom I’d met at the port a few weeks prior, the gozzo design originated in Albania, which is visible across the Adriatic on a clear day. Cazzorla told me that the Albanians once used these very boats to launch sneak attacks. But over time, many of them settled in Monopoli, bringing their traditional boats with them.
Unlike the other ports in Italy that are full of sleek yachts, Monopoli's Porto Antico spills open like a toy chest, filled with the town's iconic gozzo boats, which bob in the water like painted corks. Despite the dwindling number of fishermen in Monopoli, their boats are truly everywhere: on fridge magnets, postcards, and the town's edition of Monopoly, which can be bought from the information center inside the old fish market. Just as the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty symbolize Paris and New York, these colorful vessels are synonymous with the town’s identity. Sure, similar boats exist in nearby cities of Bari and Trani, but not in the distinctive color palette of chipped blues and sun-bleached reds.
Meanwhile, Amodio's artistry not only created the charming toy gozzos in his workshop, but also decorative versions for local restaurants that display seafood and fruits. While a larger, decorative gozzo takes two months to build, some smaller ones can be completed in only a day or two. For weeks, I’d been captivated by both the palm-sized and two-hander gozzos on display at the shop. These replicas each came complete with tiny oars and a stand—their intricate detailing the mark of Amodio's craftsmanship. And they were a steal at €25 for the larger size and €20 for the smaller version.
"Un piccolo gozzo, per favore," I said, pointing at the miniature masterpiece. Amodio smiled. He swaddled the gozzo in plastic as sunlight streamed through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.