Sardinia The Final Days - Blue Skies

                                           9/12/14 - "Sardinia The Final Days - Blue Skies"

     Blogger's Note:  Well, I think it's well-past time that we wrap up this vacation thing.  I wanted to chronicle our journey for my own records as well as possible, and I think I've pretty much done that.  I believe it's beginning to drag a little, and I've already hit most of the key points in both Poland and Italy that I wanted to hit.  I've just one more day that I want to sketch for you.  A magical day that I will never forget for all of my years.
     So, I'm going to get right to it.  I'm going to condense the day before our "magical" day and the days that follow as they were mostly just lying around on the beach anyway.  And wrap up the journal of our vacation...
     Listening to:  Michael Dulin - "Clair de Lune - Timeless"

     On the fourth day, we decided to head south toward Costa Smeralda.  Apparently, Costa Smeralda is a portion of Sardinia, hell, maybe all of Italy, where some of the richest people in the world live.  We're talking about actors and actresses, presidents, athletes, royalty, performers, and more.  We thought we'd find a nice beach somewhere in the area and kick away the day.

Costa Smeralda

     After a few wrong turns, we finally found a town where yachts were parked along a majestic boardwalk filled with elegant restaurants and pricey stores.  I felt rather out of place in this ritzy place as we meandered through a mall that was actually stores that were honeycombed through what appeared to be the natural landscape.  Decorous bridges spanned picturesque brooks as we zigzagged up the slope of aristocratic shoppers.  We took advantage of the scenery for a few photo opportunities, but we didn't stay long.  We weren't comfortable there.
     We did, however, decide to grab a bite to eat at one of the restaurants there.  I have to give credit to the server and the staff there; they treated us just like everyone else.  I went back to ordering pasta with shellfish; Roman stuck, of course, with pizza; and, Joanna ordered some traditional spaghetti.  The food was fine (I still preferred the ocean-front restaurant next to our resort, but it was a close second).
     As we were finishing our meal, paying the tab (and the coperti), and grabbing our gear, Roman informed us that he needed to use the restroom.  Joanna offered to take him, and I took advantage of the short span of time to use the precious WIFI there and get my internet fix.  After a few minutes, my wife and my son returned to the umbrella-covered tables of the patio where we had been eating.  The place was only about half-full as the lunch crowd was just beginning to show up; the peaceful, quiet setting was vibrantly trespassed only by the gentle, hush of quaint conversation and a bubbly lap of the sea brushing against the dock.  Roman made an announcement, "Daddy!  I poop!!!  Daddy!  I poop!!!"  Everyone looked up from the meals.  Any troubles we may have had in the past with finding people that understood English had just been circumvented.  We grabbed our son's hands and our things and quickly left, doing our best to conceal our giggles.
     I really enjoyed the beach at Costa Smeralda.  Let me describe it:

At the beach

     As you approached, you had the option to rent various spots on the beach.  There was, of course, the free section, which was just a span of sand like one might expect.  A large crowd of people had elected to take this spot (as would we).  But, you could if you wanted, rent other spots.  A grass lot had been manicured in one section; for about 20€, you could rent one of the spots for the day.  It came with an umbrella-covered lounge chair and an electric cooler to keep your drinks or food cool.  A server made his or her rounds to make sure you didn't need anything.  You also had a locker and a shower area to use if you wanted.  And, from there, the areas dwindled in price.  For 15€, grass gave way to sand.  For 10€, you had just a chair and a locker.  Until you came to the free area, where we went.  I thought it was nice that you had different options to choose from.  And I didn't think 20€ was out of the realm of affordability.
     So, we spent our fourth day, laying around on the beach, snapping pictures, and playing with Roman.  At one point, I thought it'd be wise for me to burn the image of our setting into my brain.  A sailboat was anchored on the horizon, and the clear water that my son and wife were playing in couldn't possibly be real.  I took a mental snapshot and tucked it away into my heart's photo album.

     And then Thursday arrived.  The day we had booked our sailing adventure...
     On the fifth day, we rambled through the abominable breakfast routine before we loaded up the Panda and headed back to Palau.  The sky was overcast; not a single ray of sunshine could penetrate the dreary, gray canopy.  Occasionally, a jagged lightning bolt would rip through the air to strike something on the horizon.  They had promised a phone call if the trip would be cancelled due to weather, but we hadn't received a phone call.  We had really been looking forward to this day, and a chilly, wet day wasn't what we had in mind.
     In Palau, we parked the car and made our way to the dock-side booth where we had booked the excursion.  We were rather apprehensive and had begun the discussion on possibly insisting on a refund as the day was really shaping up to be rather lousy.  We had learned over the past few days that the weather forecasts in Sardinia weren't reliable.  The tropical-like atmosphere could produce rain or sunshine on a whim and was entirely unpredictable.  As we approached the booth, a couple was already there (German based on their accents).  They were talking to the elderly lady insisting on their money back.  Veronica ran out to intercept us.  She began asking us how our week had been so far:  an obvious ploy to distract us from the engaging dialogue between the Germans and the Italian owner.  Joanna didn't skirt the topic.
     "Should we get a refund?  The weather is bad," she firmly asked Veronica.
     "Yes," the Romanian girl grimaced as she looked at the sky.  "But you must trust me.  We do this everyday.  The wind is blowing strongly from the north," she pointed at an Italian flag that was being whipped around by a spry breeze before continuing.  "We have made a decision based on the radar and our knowledge."
     We looked at her doubtfully.  Her response had sounded rehearsed.
     She looked over her shoulder at her boss and the Germans before resuming our discussion in a hushed tone.  "There is no way to know 100% for certain.  But I think you should go.  The boat is only going to be half-full, so it will not be crowded.  And, by my experience, I will tell you, I do believe that today will be a great day to be sailing."  She looked at us, and I could see in her eyes that she was being honest.  We handed her the remainder of the money due, and she handed us back 50€ with a smile, apparently she was giving us a discount.  Well, we certainly hadn't been overcharged...
     After Joanna and I hesitantly nodded, she encouraged us to have a coffee at the restaurant that overlooked the harbor.  They had WIFI there, and we could meet with the rest of the crew and passengers at 10:30.

     We found a table near the edge and ordered a cappuccino from the waitress.  A very fine mist was drizzling on the awning above us when the German couple that had been arguing their case for cancellation sat at the table next to us.  We recognized each other immediately.

Our sailboat

     "So did you cancel?" I asked him politely.
     "Yes.  They did not make it easy," he answered.
     "I hear ya.  We were strongly considering cancelling as well.  But, I guess we've decided to take our chances," I confessed.
     "You know, maybe you will be lucky.  Who knows?  I really hope you do have a good trip."  A rather bright, jagged bolt of lightning prefixed a loud clap of thunder to punctuate his well-wishes.  Joanna and I exchanged a grimace.  "I just hope we survive," I quipped.
     When 10:30 arrived, we met on the dock with a group of people.  We were instructed to put our shoes and sandals into a box before crossing the plank onto the boat.  Once aboard, the elderly lady spoke to us with acceptable English.  "I will explain the rules in Italian first and then in English."
     We came to learn that we could sit in the front of the boat on the deck or on the horseshoe bench that was inset at the rear.  We were told that the spray of the water could be a bit chilly near the front on a day like today, so we elected to sit in the back.  We were also instructed to always have one point of contact with the boat as we moved about.  We were welcome to go anywhere that we wanted, but the first time that we used the bathroom one of the crew members would show us how the toilet functioned.  For the most part, the rules were to just do what the crew told us to do; and, as I don't recall the names of the two Italian men that served as our crew, I will, for the remainder of this narrative, refer to them as "Mario" and "Luigi".

One of the mansions on the bank

     Sharing the bench in the rear with Joanna, Roman, and myself was a trio of Italians.  An energetic man in his twenties reminded me of an Italian version of Tom Cruise; he had a tattoo of Jimi Hendrix on his left shoulder.  His girlfriend and her mother also joined us in the rear.  I wasn't sure yet whether or not they spoke English.  In the front, I'd learn that another German couple had opted to come, and they were joined by a couple from Belgium:  a friendly-looking bald fellow and his wife.
     The in-board engine revved up, and we took to the cloudy seas.
     I had learned from previous experience (an outing in Florida and a forgettable day on the Red Sea in Egypt) that I was rather prone to sea-sickness.  As the ebb and flow of the tide rocked us this way and that, I became very concerned that the less-than-desirable temperature and the stormy-looking skies might be the least of my worries.  We followed the coastline northward.  In the distance, we could see La Maddalena on one side; Palau was disappearing behind us.  Exotic mansions freckled the bank, and "Mario" began to explain that when the land had first started being sold, people were buying it up for the equivalent of $5 per lot.  Now, they were worth millions.  Some very famous people lived up there.

Leaving the storm clouds; Zodiac in-tow

     Finally, we left the peninsula behind us and were adrift in the sea.  Mario cut the engine; and, in the front, Luigi began cranking up the sails.  I was taken by the silence the now-dead engine had left in its wake.  The lap of salty waves against us and a squawk of distant sea gulls made me aware of ourselves.  And, as if Mother Nature had a sense of humor, just as the wind grabbed the sail and set us into motion, the first ray of sunshine that any of us had seen that day broke through the clouds.  None of us could help but smile, and someone in the front of the boat openly applauded.  Even Roman's lips stretched into a poorly-suppressed grin.  I don't believe there was a person aboard that wasn't smiling.  And, as the boat splashed a spray of salt water into the air, I suddenly understood sailing like I had never before.  With only the sounds of the wind and the water, we had harnessed the good will of our beautiful planet to nurse us into motion.  I was watching and listening to a sect of Mother Nature that I had never before seen or heard.  And we were all just giddy with the experience.

The famous no-longer pink beach

     "We are approaching the three islands.  They are three very small islands with the most beautiful beaches.  There, on the left, is the famous pink sand beach.  It is closed to people now, because they take jars of the sand with them.  You can see that it is not very pink now.  But we will find other fine beaches, and we will pick two of them to stop at," Mario explained to us.  I was growing anxious to reach a destination, because the motions of the water was beginning to make me nauseous.  I, apparently, was no seafarer.
     Roman informed me that he needed to "shoo-shoo" (which is how he says he needs to take a leak).  I asked Luigi (the less-talkative, gray-haired crew member) to show me how to "work" the facilities.  He joined us in the stuffy cabin and showed me the closet that was supposed to be the bathroom.  It was so small that there was no way I could stand in it with Roman; he would have to fend for himself.  Luigi showed me how to pump water into the pooper and then to flip the switch so it would be vacuumed into storage.  The process was fairly simple, but I never would have figured it out without instruction.

The cabin

     I waited impatiently for Roman to finish.  The stuffy cabin was making me very seasick, and I just wanted to be above, in the fresh air.  Once he was finished, I handed him up to Joanna and climbed the ladder out of there.  In the short span of time that we had been absent from the deck, the sun had claimed the sky.  All around us, a blue-ness.  Any evidence that clouds had ever been overhead was swept from existence.  A day as perfect as any I have ever known had just unfolded all around us.
     The sailboat navigated into a beautiful-aqua hued lagoon; and, just as promised, boats of every shaped and size were circling all around us.  Their passengers were watching us in this span of water where they couldn't reach.  We anchored, and Mario told us we could jump right in if we wanted.  The friendly Belgiums decided that they would do just that.  The rest of us opted for the second choice.
     Mario said that, if we wanted, he could load us into the Zodiac (the outboard propelled, inflatable raft) and take us to a nice beach just across the way.  They would take us in two groups, because we couldn't all fit on the Zodiac at once.  While we were away, they would make us lunch so that it would be ready when we returned.
     Mario loaded the first group of people.  After the Zodiac sped away, Joanna, Roman, and I were left alone with Luigi and the friendly Belgiums who were preparing to jump off the sailboat into the inviting waters.  Mr. Friendly Belgium asked if I would take a photograph with his camera of he and his wife.  Of course I did; and, afterwards, I asked him to return the favor.  And, of course, he did.

The Belgium's picture

     When the Zodiac returned, Joanna, Roman, and I climbed aboard and were zipped to a small beach where no one appeared to be.  "Walk over that little hill," Mario suggested by pointing at a sandy trail near us.  As the Zodiac zipped away, we followed his direction.  And just over the rise, we saw heaven...
      About fifteen or so people (including our sailing companions) were speckled across an alluring beach where a quiet wash of sea water hugged its sandy bottom all the way to the shore.  A plethora of languages were being spoken, and Roman didn't waste any time.  He ran into the water; Joanna followed closely behind.
     All around us, sailboats and tour boats were idling by as its passengers watched us with hungry and perhaps envious smiles; the tour boats ranged from vessels made up to look like pirate ships to tiny sailboats.  Some were loaded with a hundred people; others only carries one or two.
     The water was just a tad cold, so I walked in to waist-depth.  I was comfortable there.  To the north, the Corsica Mountains loomed impossibly large.  A lighthouse to the west sat on the island's peninsula.  Joanna swam out, unencumbered by the chill, to our son.  They splashed and played as I smiled.  I scanned, slowly, from horizon to horizon.  For some reason, I began to hum "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".
      Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high. there's a land that I heard of once on a lullaby.  Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue.  And the dreams, that you dare to dream, really do come true.  

Our hidden beach

     I grabbed the camera and started taking some pictures, feeling like a professional photographer.  My wife and my son were laughing and swimming, and I forgot anything that had ever made me sad.  The hour or so that we played on that beach was timeless.  It was too short; but, also, it seemed to last forever.
     When Joanna started to swim closer to the beach, Roman found a mass of rocks from which he could leap, laughing and smiling, into the water.  He would run back to the beach and around to climb, again, to the top of the boulders.  He'd repeat that process over and over, amused and entertained as he was.
     After the allotted time, the first batch of our shipmates had climbed onto the Zodiac to be taken back to the sailboat.  We knew our time here was coming to an end.  Joanna was gathering the towels on the beach, and I let Roman leap one last leap into the sea before I grabbed his hand and began to lead him out of the water.  He was skipping in the water, giddy as a...
     "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"
     Roman just started shouting.  Or screaming.  Or crying.  Or, something.  I had never heard him cry out quite like that.  Everyone on the beach stopped what they were doing to watch us.  Joanna looked at me as if to ask 'what happened?'  I shrugged.  I honestly didn't know.
     "He must have hit his toe on a rock," Joanna dismissed.
     "No.  I can see clearly to the bottom.  There's absolutely nothing here," I countered.  "AAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!"  Roman's cries intensified.  I felt the wildebeest of panic circling me, hungry and preying.  I knew that I was about to be eaten by that monster.  I had never heard my son cry out so painfully, for so long, with such conviction.
     Out of the water, we inspected him thoroughly.  The only thing that we could ascertain was that he was tightly squeezing his knees together.  I tried to pull them apart, but he wouldn't have it.  What had been a scream of pain turned into mad screams of outrage.  And that's when I thought:  jellyfish.
     As if reading my mind, a mother and her daughter approached us.  She spoke with a British accent, but her English was broken.  I'm not sure what would have been her country of origin.
     "I don't know to call what," she began.  Struggling to figure out what she was saying was going to be a task, and I wasn't sure I was up to it.  "But, it bite.  I don't know to call what.  The water.  The sea water help.  The salt.  Need salt.  Maybe have a boat."
     "Is it a jellyfish?" I asked her.
     "Yes.  Yes.  That is it.  Salt now will help," she was content that the language barrier had been toppled.
     We brought our screaming child to the water's edge and tried to splash water on it.  He was in such a frenzy that doing anything was nearly impossible.  What little water that I was able to splash on him didn't seem to help much at all.  Suddenly, I began to panic.
     What was I supposed to do?  Piss on it?  I think I had heard that somewhere.  Were they poisonous?  Maybe some of them were.  Maybe some of the ones in Italy were.  I had no clue.  I had never encountered a jellyfish bite before.  How did such a perfect, impossibly beautiful day get so adulterated?
     We wrapped Roman in a towel and carried him to the place where we would be picked up.  His screams never let up for one instant.  I don't know how badly a jellyfish sting hurts, but I suspect pretty fucking badly.  I kept thinking:  why couldn't it have been me?  There were at least fifteen adults around us.  Why could't it have been one of the fucking adults?
     When the raft arrived, Mario had a comforting smile.  I think he knew what had happened.  He had a handheld radio; he spoke something in Italian to his partner, Luigi.  I was trying to remain composed, but I wanted answers.  Did we need to cut the trip short?  Maybe he needed to take us back so that we could take our son to a hospital.
     Mario was all calm and composed.  "They sometimes go months and not sting anyone; and, then one day, with no warning, they come out like crazy.  There is no way to predict."
     "What do we do?  He's in a lot of pain," I pleaded.
     "Don't worry.  We have something at the boat.  In five minutes, he will have forgot all about the pain."  I was comforted, but I wouldn't believe it until I saw it.
     Back at the boat, Mario tied us off.  Everyone rushed to help us.  Italian Tom Cruise leaped to the ladder to give us hand with climbing on board.  The friendly Belgiums wore visages of concern; the professional-looking German and his wife were carrying a first-aid kit; the Italian mother wore a concerned expression as she was nursing her hand.  Mario's radio call must have forewarned everyone as to what had happened.
     Once aboard, Luigi handed me something that looked like chapstick with instructions to rub it on the bite (or bites, as it turned out, Roman had been stung pretty badly on the insides of both knees).  I had no choice but to hold down our insanely belligerent child as Joanna applied the "antidote".

Roman and his seagull

     The fear that it wouldn't work exceeded my patience for the next few minutes; I think everyone felt our anxiety; but, sure enough, just as advertised, after about five minutes, Roman's screams turned into small whimpers.  Within ten minutes, he was just sitting there quietly.  I'm sure he was wondering what had happened, maybe he felt like he had done something wrong.  I felt a strong desire to comfort him.
     Joanna had wrapped him in his shark towel, and he sat on the back of the boat just staring at the water.  After a span of time that everyone used to relax, the Italian mother revealed, "I got stung as well."  She held out her hand to show me; it was swollen as hell.  "Wow.  That really sucks," I tried to console.
     "Lunch is ready,"
     Lunch consisted of some plain pasta with tomato sauce and a simple roll.  We all sat around the bench eating silently; the excitement of Roman's jellyfish encounter was still settling.  The food was fine, but the experience was delicious.  Everyone was passing around the serving platters.  Obviously sympathetic to our plight (and Roman's sudden melancholy demeanor), our crew-mates would pass the food to us first.  We'd take a portion and pass it around until it would end on the table in the middle.  Then, we were handed plastic cups of wine (water for Roman).
     Everyone was quiet.  The soft lap of the sea against the hull droned us into thoughtfulness.  I had a spiritual experience like I had never had before.  I suspect everyone did.  Something about the sudden camaraderie given the circumstances had sewn together a patchwork of cultural diversity.  Although nothing was said, the soft, warm breeze blanketed us together.  We were all one unit, and I liked these people.  And I think they liked us.

clockwise starting at 6 o'clock:  Italian girlfriend, her mother, Italian Tom Cruise, Belgiums, Germans, me

     We ate until we were full, and then Mario disappeared below deck.  He returned with carafes of what was certainly alcohol.  Luigi handed out small espresso shots which we took with small biscotti cookies, and then Mario started pouring swigs of something.  They were red and white mirto shots; he didn't ask if you wanted one.  He just handed us one of each.  And then he passed around the grappa.
     Grappa (perhaps the same thing as ouza that we had in Greece with an Italian name) is basically Jagermeister on steroids.  It tastes like vodka and gravel as it's made from the leaves and the vines from grapes (yeah, not the grapes themselves, that would be too easy).  I don't know the alcohol content of grappa, but I suspect it's a hell of a lot.
     After we did a shot of each, Mario just sat the bottles on the table.  Italian Tom Cruise anxiously went to work on the grappa.  I began to sample everything in more detail.  I had no idea when we paid our fare that admission would include all-you-could-drink.  I'm not sure that it normally did.  I had the strange impression that Mario and Luigi liked this group.
     We all started trying to converse once the alcohol loosened the mood.  I asked Italian Tom Cruise if he liked Jimi Hendrix.  His eyes got wide; he was suddenly anxious to discuss what was obviously his idol.  I've always like Jimi Hendrix, but I didn't have a lot of knowledge on the subject.  I tried to express as much, but it didn't matter to anyone.  We were just having a good time.  We all talked about where we were from.  The Italians, as it turned out, had a summer home in La Conia (the town where our resort was), but they lived on the Italian mainland.  The German was some kind of reporter (he even looked the part), and the Belgium worked at some kind of factory.  We talked about how perfect the day had become and laughed about anything we could.
     Roman sat wearing his shark towel, staring off the back of the boat.  He was neither happy nor sad, just thoughtful.  I noticed everyone checking on him occasionally, Joanna most of all.  He just sat there...
     ...when suddenly a seagull landed on the railing right next to our son.
     At first, Roman just stared it.  And it stared at Roman.  The entire boat got quiet as we watched the surreal exchange.  Roman turned his head slowly to see what had caused all the quiet.  Everyone was staring at him.  He turned back to the bird, and they spoke to one another with their eyes.  My son was different then.  He didn't jump or play or stir.  He just gazed dreamily.  He didn't know it, but he was showing us, each and every one of us, how to pick yourself up and brush yourself off.

Our sailboat towing the Zodiac

     For all I know, seagulls landing on sailboats happens everyday, all the time.  But for all of us, we saw something new that day.  Something different.  After a long silence, Italian Tom Cruise slowly stood; he carried between his thumb and forefinger a pinch of bread.  He tried to slowly approach the bird in an obvious attempt to hand-feed it.  The bird flew up, gliding on an air current, and then landed again at the same spot next to Roman once Italian Tom Cruise retreated somewhat.  \
     This dance continued for a time.  The seagull seemingly wanted nothing to do with anyone except Roman.  However, after several attempts, Italian Tom Cruise finally succeeded.  We all watched as the bird's beak pinched at the crumbs in his palm.  We had been entertained without a smart phone, without a television, without a computer.
     At last, Mario announced that he was going to lift the anchor so we could head to another beach.
     We didn't sail for long.  After heading south for about twenty minutes, we ended up near the preserved, pink sand beach.  Once again, we had to make two trips; but, this time, the Belgiums didn't stay behind.  Joanna, Roman, and I were part of the second load this time.
     Once at the beach, we claimed a patch of it by laying our towels down.  About the same number of people were here as the last beach:  not many.  Several kids (Italian kids by their dialect) were playing with one of those large surfboards that I've seen pictures of.  It's a rather large board that people stand on and use a long paddle to navigate.  They were taking turns doing a circuit around the alcove, and I enjoyed watching them play.

Roman's "cave"

     Joanna said she wanted to swim out a ways and asked if I would watch Roman.  Of course, I said I would; I was rather interested in seeing how he would react to the water after his jellyfish encounter.  Sure enough, after Joanna had already swam out away and I had waded into knee-depth, Roman just played on the beach.  I encouraged him to come in, but he acted as though he didn't hear me.  I saw him sneak a peek a couple of times, but he wouldn't take a step in my direction.  Set in the side of a dirt bank at the edge of the beach was a bit of washed out soil that, at least in the eyes of child, could be seen as a cave.  In reality, it was hardly accessible.  Roots and shrubs guarded the inset.  But Roman made a time of looking into it and throwing rocks into it.  I wasn't too far away, just barely into the water, trying to figure out a way to coax my son in with me.  An anxious thought crept into my brain that, if he ever did join me, another damn jellyfish might sting him and forever ruin his love of water.
     Roman found a stick that he drug in the sand behind him as he meandered thoughtfully around the beach.  I noticed that our crew mates, unlike the last beach where we each went our different ways, were also paying attention.  A camaraderie had been forged earlier; and, although we had each gone our different ways, we seemed to be aware of one another.  Roman had tempered his expression with a veil of ambiguity, but we all knew that an internal war was being fought in the mind of our conflicted four-year-old.
     Without any forewarning or hint of his intention, Roman threw down his stick and ran, full-throttle, in the ocean.  He splashed past me, sparing me a glance, but his destination was his mother.  A shout of encouragement that originated from the vicinity of Italian Tom Cruise caught the attention of everyone at the beach.  Most had no idea what was going on.  But the German man applauded and the Belgium, swimming in the deeper water wearing a wet suit and flippers, pumped his fist into the air.  I wanted to shout, "That's my boy!  That's my boy!" as Roman swam to his awaiting mother.  I nearly cried with pride.

That's my boy!

     I knew then why Roman had come with us to Italy.  He was meant to.  I had learned something from him that day; and, he, too, learned a valuable life lesson that he may not be able to remember learning but will have etched onto his code of conduct for the rest of his life.  Had Roman not come, I would not have made sand castles with a plastic pail and a plastic shovel.  I would not have splashed in the water.  I would have missed the planes in the sky.  And I wouldn't have learned the lesson that he had just taught me.
     Sometimes you can't think.  You can't consider or contemplate or weigh the odds or even blink.  Because if you do, you'll never leap.  And, if you do leap, it'll be too late.  Because the moment is gone.  The opportunity missed.  You throw away whatever is weighing you down, grab the hand of courage, and leap heart-first.  And then dive into your fear with nothing but faith that someone you love will be waiting for you with open arms.
     And so my family swam and splashed and played into the sunset.  The Zodiac made its trips to reclaim its passengers, and we set sail back to Palau.  As the western sea, tinted orange by the fading sun, gave way to a Sardinian peninsula, I could feel the early discomfort that precedes sea-sickness.  Just when I thought I wouldn't be able to take any more, we arrived at the dock.  The boat was tied off, the plank extended.  We all went our separate ways on land, waving goodbye with heartfelt handshakes and smiles.  I will never see any of these people again, but I have a funny suspicion that we will never forget one another.

ferry to La Maddalena

     We drove home; Roman's eyes had grown heavy.  Back at our room, he had no trouble falling asleep.  Joanna and I sat on the balcony, drinking wine, and eating a watermelon that I was trying to cut with a butter knife.  We didn't speak much; we just sat outside, thoughtfully watching the sea.  Not much needed to be said.

     The next day would be the last day with the Panda.  We decided we had better wrap up our souvenir/gift-buying, so we headed to Palau to do just that.  After a frustrating morning of finding nothing but overpriced nonsense, we opted to take the ferry one more time to La Maddalena.  Only this time, we rode it as pedestrians.
     We left the car at its parking spot in Palau and boarded the ship on foot.  The fifteen minute journey was a different experience as we got to roam more freely.  We found a window-side booth and silently watched the breaking waves outside.

gift-buying in La Maddalena

     In La Maddalena, we navigated the busy main street and even strayed through a couple of enticing alleys.  The shops were interesting, and finding the things that we were looking for was much easier.  In fact, we had to moderate ourselves a little.  My backpack and Joanna's purse were getting pretty full.
     We headed back across the sea and headed back home where we let Roman play on the beach as we just relaxed in the sun.

     On the last full day that we were there, we returned the Panda first thing that morning.  We caught the "train" back to the resort and changed into our swimming gear.  An hour later, we, again, jumped on board the "train" and headed to its other stop:  the beach, as the resort's front desk called it.

Roman shows us something

     The shuttle dropped us off next to the road where a dirt path crossed a field.  Dozens of people joined us in our trek across the trodden earth.  This "wild" beach was packed.  Instead of sand, it had soft, round pebbles that covered the bank.  Kites were flying overhead; and, once again, African merchants were marching the length of the beach politely selling their wares.  We set up our "station" and played in the water until that afternoon.  Everyone migrated back to the road to be carried to the resort at the prescribed time.
     We decided that we would have one nice meal before we left Italy:  spare no expense.  The three of us walked to the seaside restaurant that was a block away from our resort.  I had already decided what I would order.  My travel guide had suggested that, while in Sardinia, to make sure and try salt-encrusted fish and/or the fetal pig.  The pig is apparently slaughtered within the first day of its birth; it's stuffed with various herbs and slow-roasted on a spit over a fire for nearly a day.  Sounds cruel doesn't it?  Well, we didn't try the pig.  Apparently, you have to give them a day's notice for some "fetal pig" barbecue.

Our fish

     So, we ordered Roman's usual pizza and a large plate of mussels for an appetizer.  I don't think I'll ever eat mussels again unless I am in Italy.  The bar has just been set too high.  For the main course, we ordered the salt-encrusted fish.  We sipped away on white wine and nibbled on the bread as we awaited the fish to arrive.
     When it came, it was nothing like I had imagined.  It wasn't salt-encrusted fish; it was salt-encased fish.  The fish was inside a rock of salt that had been lit on fire.  Our server went to work on the fish as soon as it arrived table-side.  He chiseled away at the salt with a fork and spoon like a sculptor might work on a slab of marble.  When at last the fish was free of its encasement, he skillfully carved the fish into two portions that he served to Joanna and myself.  His routine would have been worth the price of admission even if the fish had tasted horrible; but, fortunately, it didn't.  In fact, it was the best fish I had ever had...
     My taste buds had already decided, before the fish was ever on my plate, that it would be too salty.  When I actually tried a bite though, I was very pleasantly surprised.  It wasn't too salty at all.  In fact, it just had a hint of saltiness.  I'm sorry to say that I have no idea what kind of fish that it was.  All I know is that it was perfectly moist and flavorful:  certainly worth its price.
     When the tab came, I had already decided that I was going to tip well.  But, when we started to count our money, we realized we hadn't brought any cash.  Joanna paid with the credit card; apparently, it is not possible to put a tip on a charge card in Italy.  We asked the server, and he verified this.  I asked him what time he got off, and he told me at seven tonight.  I promised him that I would run to the nearest ATM (Joanna and I would need some cash anyway), and I would return before he got off.  I'm sure he was doubtful, but he would find out, soon enough, that I was committed.  I am, after all, a server myself.  Tips are my living.
     I told Joanna to take Roman to the beach.  They could play together while I took the "train" to Cannigione to get some cash.  I could have some needed alone time, and Joanna and Roman could have fun at the beach.
     On the "train", I sat in the caboose by myself.  I enjoyed the seaside road as we snaked our way to the small town.  Topless girls were laying on the beach catching sun in places that it normally didn't shine.  Elderly couples walked hand-in-hand along the sidewalk.  Diners sat on patios, sipping on wine and looking out at the sea where a spectacle of one-man sailboats were navigating around some buoys.  They appeared to be boys undergoing some nautical exercises.  I was in such a different and beautiful world.
     In Cannigione, I quickly got the cash and had an hour to kill before the "train" returned.  I walked by the seafront and saw merchants setting up tables and stands for all kinds of interesting merchandise.  Apparently, after the sun went down, tourists came here to shop.  I would tell Joanna about this, we could do some shopping and strolling on our last night here.  I went up to the place where the "train" would be picking me up.  I ordered a beer and took a moment for me.  I think I may have drink three beers as I awaited the "train" to return, and I really enjoyed the quiet time that I used to watch the different people coming and going.
     Back at the resort, I walked back to the restaurant.  Seven o'clock was almost nigh as I strolled into the diner where everyone was busy cleaning up for the night.  Our server saw me approaching and intercepted me with a smile and a firm handshake.  "Well, I hope you have enjoy Sardinia," he said.
     "Oh, I have," I told him.  "I have."  I handed him a rather generous tip, and then went off to find my wife and son.
     Joanna agreed with me about shopping one last night in Cannigione.  We went there and strolled casually around.  I bought a beaded necklace for myself (it was the only thing that I had gotten for myself).  I liked the uniqueness of  the different necklaces that I had gotten in the places that we had been.  I still had a cool-blue one from Crete; and, now, I had a neat black-and-white one from Sardinia.  Joanna got a shell ring which broke the next day.  I promised that I would get her a new one (I still need to do that).  Roman got a whistle that sounded like a bird.  None of the gifts were very pricey, but they were special to us.
     The next day, we boarded the bus to Olbia where we boarded a plane and headed back to Poland.  Mason Jennings wrote that "there's a tourist in every heart that just wants to stay, and there's a tourist in every heart that just wants to go home."  Isn't that so true when you're on vacation?  I love being away for a while, but a time comes when I start missing home.  And that time had come.

     The plane ride back to Warsaw went without incident.  However, once in Warsaw, we had a couple of hiccups.  Our luggage took forever to come.  We waited, along with all the other impatient passengers and an impatient Roman, at least an hour, for it to come out of that conveyor system.  We started to wonder if it was ever going to.
     When at long last it did, Joanna had to pee badly.  We looked around as we were heading out for a restroom.  I don't know what's up with that Warsaw airport, but restrooms just aren't that plentiful.  We found one, but it was "closed for cleaning".  We walked for what felt like a mile, when, at last, we found one.  Joanna started to go in when a cleaning lady blocked her with a custodial cart and a sign that said something in Polish (surely, closed for cleaning).  I was mad.  We had the same situation when we had left for Sardinia.  I said (in English, so I'm not sure if she understood me), "Joanna, screw that.  Just go in anyway.  This is ridiculous."
     "Oh, I am," my wife said.  She pushed her way past the cart as the lady was telling her something in Polish.  Joanna spoke to her in her native tongue in a way that I knew very well.  Even though I didn't know, word-for-word, what was being said, I still knew.  "Every restroom is closed for cleaning.  I have to go.  Move, or I will go right here."  Passersby watched us with interested expressions; I held Roman's hand and smiled and nodded.  Fuck 'em.
     Joanna went in as the lady threw up her hands in exasperation.  When my wife came out, she was smiling.  So was I.
     After the shuttle service took us to the parking lot where the van was parked, we started the long drive back to Kalwaria.  I remembered seeing a McDonald's on the outskirts of Warsaw; I asked Joanna to hit the drive-through there.  I don't really even like McDonald's normally, certainly not at home.  I bet I don't eat there twice a year.  But, for some reason, every time that we've come back from one of our "expeditions", I always crave a large, nasty Big Mac and some fries.  Joanna agreed; and, before long, we all had bellies filled with fast-food goodness.
     The long drive went without incident.  At home, we were anxious to hug and kiss our daughter; but, Amelia acted like she could care less whether or not we were there.  She appeared perfectly content with Ba Ba and Dza Dza.
     We only had a couple of days left in Poland.  We spent them getting some last minute gifts and saying goodbye to the Madej family.  Those goodbyes are so fucking hard.  And they get harder every time.  Now that I have a family of my own, I can better empathize with the thought of saying goodbye to a child that I might not see for another year (or even more).  It makes me sad, too.  I always feel like the villain taking away their family.  But they don't treat me like a villain.  They hug me just as hard as they hug everyone else.
     And Joanna, out of consideration for her parents' concerns, always waits until we're out of sight before she starts crying...

--  Don't forget to like Parenting with Lightsabers here.
-- And if you liked this story, try reading something from our Polish vacation like "Flying to Poland"

       
 

   

   

   
   
     

Sardinia Day 3 - The Mountain City and the Widow

                                     8/15/14 - "Sardinia Day 3 - The Mountain City and the Widow"

     Blogger's Note:  Before we get started, there's a couple of things you should know, so that you'll understand what I'm talking about in today's feature.
     After Amelia's baptism, we had a nice celebration dinner at Joanna's parents' house.  Sitting next to us was, on one side, Jimbo and Karolina and, on the other side, Ewa's parents.  My new sister-in-law's parents turned out to be really cool.  They are the world travelers that I like to pretend to be.  They showed us pictures of their most recent trip to Morocco.  They had shipped across the Mediterranean, via ferry, their RV that can only be called an RV in the loosest terms.  The first time I saw it, traversing the desert sands of northwest Africa, I thought it looked like, basically, any RV that I had ever seen.  That's because I didn't have any size reference to compare it to.  When I, at last, came across a picture that showed it sitting next to other vehicles, I came to realize the enormous size of this thing.  It was literally as big as Bigfoot.  They would take it off-roading through the Moroccan desert until they decided to set up camp for the night.  I was utterly impressed.
     When Ewa's mother caught wind that we were about to be leaving for Sardinia, she had told us that they, too, had gone to Sardinia.  It was one of her favorite vacations, she revealed.  I asked her what we should see or do while we're there, and she started naming off some suggestions.  I got out a pen and paper and began to take notes.  One thing she suggested was La Maddalena, which turned out to be a success.  If she was right about La Maddalena, maybe she was right about everything else, too.
     One place she said she particularly liked was Alghero.  Alghero was on the opposite coast from where we were staying, at least a 2 hour drive.  But, I was determined to see this place.  On the morning of today's adventure, Joanna and I were disagreeing on where to go.  She wanted to lay around on one of the nice beaches that we had seen pictures of online.  She wanted to explore the northern coast where a plethora of these gems sat.  I, on the other hand, wanted to drive to Alghero.  I told her that there were beaches there, too.  We could explore the city and hit the beach there, as well.  Joanna and I just couldn't seem to come to an agreement.
     Listening to:  Manu Chau - "Bongo Bong"

     After our usual breakfast routine, I had begrudgingly agreed to go with Joanna's idea.  First we would find the Giant's Grave (an archaeological site not too far from us) and then we would head to the north-central coast to find one of the magically, beautiful beaches there.  We could relax and swim the day away.  We got all the necessary beach equipment and headed on our way.  The sun was shining a little brighter than it had yesterday; the Italian scenery seemed a touch more vibrant.  A catchy tune came on the radio by the name of "Bongo Bong", which Joanna informed me, was very popular in Europe several years ago.

Giant's Grave

     We drove through the small town of Arzachena on our way to the Giant's Grave.  I made a couple of wrong turns before we finally found some signage that directed us through the countryside and to, what I had assumed, would be a popular tourist attraction.
     When we arrived, a small, parking area sat empty beside a small shack where we could purchase tickets.  The friendly boy informed us that there were actually two attractions.  One was the tomb itself; we could walk onto the road, take a stroll for about 100 yards, and we could see the tomb on our right.  Afterwards, we could, if we wanted, come back, get our car, and drive up the hillside to some ruins that sat there.  We decided we would check out both.  The boy handed us some paperwork explaining what everything was and away we went.

Nuraghe la Prisgiona

     The grave sat next to a radiant vineyard, perfect for capturing some family pictures.  I enjoyed the scenery, in fact, more than the tomb itself.  The Giant's Grave, the information explained, is not, as it would appear, the grave for a singular person (certainly not a "giant"), but the tomb for several people.  The large slab that served as the tomb's marker may have looked like a giant's tombstone, but, was simply a marker that was used to designate the grave's site.  What made the tomb interesting to me was that it wasn't the resting place of any one particular person, certainly not one of importance.  Random people from the village (this one was Coddu Vechju) were selected to represent their fellow citizens in the afterlife.  They came from all sorts of trades:  tailors, blacksmiths, fishermen, farmers, etc.  And they were buried in this special place to represent their "people" in the celestial realm of the Everafter.
     We returned to the car and drove up to the ruins that we learned were called Nuraghe la Prisgiona.  The road changed from asphalt to gravel near the top of the hill, and we navigated the countryside to the ruins.  I found a spot just past the attraction on the shoulder to park the car.  I could see the imprint of tires from cars that had obviously parked there recently.  We got out and made our way to the entrance that was nestled in a stone fence-line.
     "Hello.  You may not park there."  A middle-aged, Italian girl, dressed like a guide, informed me.  I looked around.  I couldn't see or hear anything or anyone even close to us.  I had parked the car safely off the road, and I looked at her like she was stupid.
     "There is parking about a kilometer down the road," she told me.
     A kilometer?  I wasn't going to be walking a kilometer for something that I could clearly see from right where I was standing.  If the place was busy, then maybe I could understand.  I paused to gather my rebuttal when she struck first.  "You move car now," she instructed.
     "Joanna," I began to talk to my wife.  Joanna, who knows me perhaps better than anyone on this planet, looked to be very prepared to receive what was clearly going to be my "smart-ass" persona.  I didn't usually like to unleash this monster, but this bitch just pissed me off.  Stand here for five minutes for a couple of pictures or move my car and walk back a kilometer?  That was an easy decision.  "Joanna," I repeated.  "I'm going to get the car.  Get some pictures with Roman.  I'm going to turn around and come back to pick you up.  Take your time."  My voice was as icy as the Antarctic.  I'm pretty sure Miss Italiana Bitchy Bitch knew that I was aggravated.
     I drove the car down the road, turned it around, and parked smack-dab in the middle of the road.  I patiently waited for my wife while the engine idled.  Do you know how I knew that I wouldn't need to move out of the way for anyone?  Because I could see for miles from this vantage point (as could she) that absolutely nothing was headed our way.  I could have parked there for the next hour and probably not blocked a soul.  After a few moments, I decided that I hadn't adequately aggravated her as much as she had unnerved me.  I rolled down the window and encouraged my wife to hurry, "COME ON, JOANNA!  WE AIN'T GOT ALL DAY!"  I laid on the horn.  Joanna knew that I didn't really care how long she took, but I was in asshole mode at that moment.  I really, honestly don't like going to asshole mode; but, occasionally it happens.

     Miss Italiana Bitchy Bitch seemed to be at a loss.  What could she tell me?  Be quiet?  Move?  I was in my car, behind the wheel, on the road.  Not to mention, I think she could tell I wasn't quite rational at that moment.  She never said a word to me.
     Joanna patiently finished with her picture-taking and encouraged Roman back into the car.  He was clueless that anything off-kilter had happened.  I drove away smiling.
     We followed the country road back to the main highway and began to navigate across the Italian island in search of the northern coast.  We reached a crossroad where a sign indicated that going right would take us to Palau and that going left would take us to Isola dei Gabbiani.  We traversed the interesting landscape as we continued following the signs that led to the beach that our tour guide had recommended.

Isola dei Gabbiani

     As we approached the peninsula, the road was bookended by two beaches - one on each side.  An uncountable amount of cars were lined on the shoulders, and I knew right away that we were going to have trouble finding a place to park.  Joanna encouraged me to turn into a small, crowded patch of parked cars just past the left beach.  At first, I was nervous that we'd be trapped between a wall of parked cars and a flurry of incoming traffic.  Fortunately, a gate was open to a small field that had a lot of parking space.  So much, in fact, that I wondered if we were supposed to park there, but we did anyway.

     We, now experts, changed in the car and grabbed our gear:  towels, Roman's sand bucket, Roman's flotation device, the camera, and the bag filled with beach paraphernalia.  We strolled down to the beach.  Literally, thousands of people stretched from one end to the other.  Colorful umbrellas shaded those wanting rest from sunbathing; beach-towel beds supported their occupants; and, African merchants peddled their wares.  One man was wearing an impossibly tall stack of Italian fedoras and Panama-style hats on his head.  Ladies were carrying hangers that showcased their cotton shirts and sun dresses.  Others carried inflatable beach gear or suntan lotion or bottles of water.  One man was pushing a cart from which he sold ice cream.
     I passed a topless, elderly lady that smiled at me as I continued along.  I returned a smile and gave her a thumbs up.  Hell, what's the proper etiquette in such a situation?
     We claimed a spot and headed to the water.  As we walked toward the sea, I noticed that, despite the fact that thousands of people were at the beach, only about three people were in the water.  As soon as I touched it with my feet I realized why.  It was unbearably cold.  Even Roman or Joanna wouldn't go beyond knee-depth.
     My wife and I exchanged disappointed glances.  Roman just stood and stared.
     "What now?" I asked glumly.
     "I don't know..." Joanna replied.
     We decided that the northern and western coasts were much colder than the eastern coast.  We headed back to our gear and stood for a moment, silently debating on where to go next.
     "Let's find a beach near our resort," Joanna finally decided.  The water was at least swim-able there.  We headed back to the car, even Roman didn't argue.
     We climbed back on the road and navigated back to the highway.  As we returned to the crossroads, I steered toward Palau (the direction of our resort) but Joanna insisted I stop.  As I began to slow, she said, "Just go to Alghero."
     The sign pointed to Tempio Pausania.  We had already ascertained that we would go through that town.  The travel guide described it as a scenically rustic, mountain town.  We had planned on stopping there on the day that we made the trip to Alghero.  I never hesitated.  I turned the car that way, only slightly agitated that we hadn't gone this way to begin with.
     The drive from Isola dei Gabbiani to Tempio Pausania (which we simplified to just Tempio) was one of the curviest stretches of road I have ever driven on.  Perhaps the curviest.  The road was never straight for even one foot.  We would wind to the left so far that I thought that we would surely meet up with where we had just been before we would turn the other way and repeat the process.  We determined that the drive to Alghero would take about two hours, but I was beginning to realize that I had badly mis-figured.  I couldn't get above 35mph on this road, and I was going as fast as I could in our little Panda.
     I would get nervous when a local that knew the road would start tailgating me.  I learned to just pull off on the shoulder and let them pass.  I think the locals recognized the Fiat Pandas as being the tourist cars.  When I would pull over, they would usually give me a friendly smile and wave as they passed.  Once I learned the routine, I became even more comfortable driving.
     Once we finally arrived in Tempio, I followed the signs that said "Centrum" (which I learned was the town's center).  I turned onto some narrow, cobblestone streets, drove past what appeared to be a mammoth courthouse, and quickly found a parking spot at a good, centralized location.  Then, I learned, firsthand, about siestas.

Tempio Pausania

      We had been warned about siestas by a couple of people we had talked to, but they hadn't really affected us yet.  A siesta (for those that don't already know) is a short period in the afternoon (in Italy, it's from about 1:30pm to 4:00pm) when all the shops close down so that its employees can get some rest during the hottest hours of the day.
     After we climbed out of the car, we noticed that, despite the plethora of shops and restaurants that lined the stone alleys, no one was around.  As we took our first steps, I could hear my footfalls echoing down the corridor.  I had an eerily creepy feeling that we were being watched; and, when I saw a lone man walking in the distance turn to look at us and then quicken his pace toward the opposite direction, I actually grew a little frightened.
     We continued despite our anxieties.  All of us were rather hungry, and I was determined to find a restaurant that was open.  We tried several doors, all of which were locked.  We did find a coffee shop that was open; the young man looked at us warily as he directed us to a restaurant that he thought might be open around the corner.  We headed in that direction.

The dead streets of Tempio

     When we found it, we heard the chatter of patrons and the clinking of glasses and silverware from its open windows.  Joanna pulled on the door...  ...and someone inside pulled back.  She tried again, and again they pulled the door closed.  Whether they didn't want us there, or if there was some confusion, I would never find out.  I literally picked up Roman, and we hightailed it back to the car.  Fuck this place.  I didn't like it here, and my impression stemmed more from fear than anger.  Let's just get the fuck out of here.  Joanna didn't seem to disagree.
     I squealed my tires as we climbed back onto the highway.  We would have to find something to eat somewhere else.  I would have felt more comfortable hanging out with some Children of the Corn than I was here...
     Just a few miles west of Tempio, the road finally straightened.  In fact, now, it was almost perfectly straight.  I opened up the throttle and flew through the vineyards and country churches and hillside villas.  Eventually, the highway turned into a modern, four-lane freeway.  The signs informed us that Sassari was the next city in our path to Alghero.  We were still in the middle of siesta time, but we actually saw a sign (the first and only one we saw in Italy) for a McDonald's.  Surely, it would be open.
     I chose a random exit and based on the urban sights, the amount of traffic, and the number of exits, I ascertained that Sassari was a rather large city.  We'd learn later that it is the second largest city in Sardinia.
     I turned down the street that I thought the McDonald's was supposed to be.  Every block had a stoplight, and our progress had slowed considerably.  When I saw a sign that directed us to the Centrum, I chose to go that way instead.  After traversing the trolleys and taxis and cars and pedestrians, we finally found a spot near a large museum to park.  We got Roman's umbrella stroller and set out on a mission to find food.
     Down the street, we found several cafes, but we didn't want a cafe.  We came to learn that cafes offered things like specialty coffees and cakes and sandwiches; but, they didn't have meals.  And we were hungry for a meal.
     We entered a large plaza where a statue of a man that looked just like Cap'n Crunch had been erected.  He was obviously a famous or important Italian figure, but I was hoping he'd offer me a bowl of cereal.

     We found a restaurant in a corner of that plaza (the only one open, anyway).  The sign out front said, "WELCOME TOURISTS!" so we stopped our search there.
     Inside, a very friendly elderly gentleman seemed surprised to see us.  He welcomed us nevertheless and found us a table.  We were the only people in the restaurant.  The walls were decorated like an old library and stacks of smelly newspaper gave me a feeling of intellect.

the spaghetti alla carbonara

     When the cordial man came to take our orders, I decided on the spaghetti alla carbonara as they didn't have the seafood options like the east coast did.  Roman got his usual cheese pizza, and Joanna opted for traditional spaghetti.
     The food turned out to be less than exceptional.  The pasta clung together; the alfredo sauce was lumpy; and, the bread was hard.  But, we were so hungry that we didn't complain.  And, at least, the service was good.  We paid the tab (even the coperti) and began to stroll back to the car.
     On the way, we noticed that the street was lined with various citrus trees.  I noticed lemon and orange trees and an olive tree.  I had this revelation that fruit trees might be a good idea in big cities.  They're pleasant to look at; and, I didn't work out the particulars, but wouldn't they make for a healthy food option for the homeless?  Hmmm...
     We got some gelato at a cafe for dessert before heading back on our trek to Alghero.  We climbed back onto the freeway and carved out the final stretch of our route.

     As soon as we turned onto the beach-front street that led to the old-town market area in Alghero, we knew that we had happened upon a gem.  Alghero was simply beautiful.

A fruit tree in Sassari

     Stone walls rose above the sea line to surround the old town like a fort.  Sailboats docked on the north side gave us a romantic reminder that we were in Italy.  Narrow alleys that may, in fact, have been streets were haphazard grids that scarred through the impossibly large market area.  I began the task of searching for a parking place as I dodged the zipping cars and brave pedestrians.  In Italy, crosswalks give pedestrians the right of way regardless of traffic.  If someone approaches one of these crosswalks, the driver's responsibility is to stop and yield.  I thought they must be rather courageous to just jump in front of my American ass.  Being so unfamiliar with the process, I was certain that I would eventually run someone over; fortunately, I had Joanna to remind me to stop if I showed evidence of forgetting.
     We parked, fed the meter, and unloaded our "hiking" gear:  the umbrella stroller, my backpack, and bottles of water.  We started in the direction of the sea.  By establishing a perimeter, we could explore the insanely large market area without fear of getting lost.  The sea and the main avenue from which we entered formed opposing boundaries that we could easily recognize.
     A stone wall with intermittent towers guarded the western edge of the city.  We ambled along the stony walk, cautiously peeking over the edge where the waves would break through a gauntlet of boulders to crash against the wall below us.  We toured the edge, passing restaurants and cafes where charming tablecloths flapped in the pleasant breeze.  The bars and cafes seemed to be unusually busy; we quickly found out why.

The Alghero seafront 

     We just happened to be in Alghero during the World Cup game between Italy and Uruguay.  I was actually happy about this stroke of luck, because I had always wanted to see how crazy some of these fans were during an actual World Cup game in the country that was actually playing.  People were beginning to crowd around flat-screen television sets that had been rolled outside for the occasion.  At other bars, the crowd had spilled onto the street where people were huddled around an open door or an open window.  And the game hadn't even started yet...
     We curved around the edge of the city where sailboats were docked at the harbor.  Finally, we decided to enter one of the narrow passageways where people were darting from shop to shop in every direction.  We decided we would try to check off some more items from our souvenir and gift list, so we stepped into some of the shops that we passed.  We happened upon a candy shop that was made up to look like Willy Wonka's factory.  It was actually pretty cool looking.  Music from both versions of the movie was playing nonstop.  I felt sorry for the gentleman that was working there.  He had his head propped against his arm on the counter; he looked like he was contemplating suicide.

The Alghero harbor

     I was starting to get hungry again, and I had talked Joanna into stopping at a good cafe for a snack if we found a good place to stop.  We began looking at menus as we would pass the various places.
     We came across a tall tower that said "FREE ENTRY".  We decided to climb the old stone steps that wound back and forth up one of the tallest structures that we had seen in Alghero.  We came to an opening where a small model of the entire city had been constructed before we continued to the top.  From the pinnacle, an Italian flag flapped over a panoramic view of the harbor, the sea, and the labyrinthine streets below.  We posed for pictures and enjoyed the pleasant breeze before continuing our explorations.

     Back on the streets, we had gotten confused over which way we had come.  We weren't worried about getting lost, but we wanted to explore as much as we could.  Cheers erupted across the city like a humbling thunder as the Italian soccer team must have done something spectacular.  I happened upon an elderly, Italian lady that was reading the newspaper to herself.  I politely listened, enjoying her kind-spirited narrations even though I didn't understand a word.  I asked Joanna to snap an un-intrusive picture of her as I wanted a memory of the lady that was emitting such good vibes.
     We passed several vending machines that offered the typical stuff:  cold drinks, chips, candy, gum, cigarettes.  But, they also had beer displayed inside.  I wanted to get one just because, but I never did.  How nice it must be to just walk down the street with a cold beer in hand!

A model of Alghero

     We continued down an alleyway where a gift shop caught my attention.  The shop had a little step-down so that it was almost nestled in a basement.  Hanging all around the entrance way and all inside the shop were various paintings of scenic places in the city that were made on cork.  Joanna and I like to collect at least one sample of original art from our various travels.  We have a panoramic photograph of Prague, an ankh drawn on papyrus from Egypt, a quaint scene of the Chania harbor from Crete, and a watercolor drawing of the marketplace in Krakow.  We hadn't seen any paintings quite like the ones from this shop, and they were charmingly done on cork board.  I asked the lady inside how much they were.
     An elderly lady, dressed all in black, stopped what she was doing and looked at me.  After a brief pause, she anxiously grabbed a folding stepping stool.  She walked outside with me and tried with unkempt English to ask me which one I was interested in.  I pointed at one.  She paused again and looked at us.  I had the sudden realization that she was about to try to get one over on us.  "Twenty Euro," she said.  That didn't sound too bad.  Maybe they weren't worth five.  I suspiciously paused before continuing.  She motioned me inside before I could say anything.

A charming lady reading to herself

     Back inside, she hurried behind the counter and pointed at a picture of an elderly man that had been displayed there.  "Husband," she said.  "He dead.  One week."
     Slowly the realization dawned on me that she was saying that her late husband had painted the artwork around me.  I hate to admit that I was doubtful.  After seeing some of the techniques used in Egypt, I doubted everything when it came to bartering.  I stepped back outside where Roman and Joanna were waiting.  I told her what had happened.  "I'm not sure I believe her," I confessed.
     "Duane, look."  Joanna motioned at the lady back inside.  She was shaking and crying silently, tears flowing softly down her cheek.  "She's wearing all black; she's in mourning," my wife scolded me.  After seeing things through that perspective, I noticed things that I hadn't before.  No one would go through this much trouble to make a sale.  It had gotten heavy, and our search for original art had just ended.  I chose a piece that I liked and could afford.  "I'll take this one," I told her.
     She took it and held it close to her.  She disappeared to the back for a bit before returning.  She had wrapping paper and a leather patch.  Using wood glue, she fixed the patch onto the cork, and I saw that she had fastened the name of her husband to the back side of the painting and what I decided was the name of the place that had been painted onto the front.  I studied the other paintings while she was wrapping mine.  I noticed that the names on each painting were different, and I began to think that I had been had.
     She surprised me when she spoke.  She was now standing beside me as if she had been reading my mind.  "Places," she defined.  Apparently, the names fixed on the frames were the names of the places that her late husband had painted.  As I inspected more closely, I saw that, indeed, on each painting, the same name had been signed on each.  These had indeed all been drawn by the same hand.  I quit my searching and laid my heart on the counter for this lady to have.
     Slowly and deliberately, she carefully wrapped and packaged a piece of her husband.  I had some things that I was proud of, but never a conversation piece like this.  A process that could have taken five minutes took fifteen.  I didn't care.
     After the transaction had been completed, I told her thank you.  "This will be hanging in our house in America," I told her.  And we left.
     We strolled as the sun began to dip into the sea with a melancholy and a peace, quietly enjoying the scene.  The game had apparently ended as people were beginning to disperse from the bars and cafes.  We'd later find out that Italy and Uruguay had tied.
     We finally found an Italian cafe close to where we had parked that offered an Italian porticciolo
that Ewa's mother had recommended.  The menu also had french fries for Roman and, apparently, they had horse meat.  I tried the Italian sandwich which was, of course, fantastic.  The french fries, too, were pretty damn good (maybe because we were so close to France).  I decided that I'd save the horse meat for another day.  We relaxed for a few minutes before getting back to the car and beginning the long drive back to the resort.
     After driving for almost an hour and going past Sassari, I came to realize that we were going to need gas.  We were pretty close to empty, and I didn't remember seeing any gas stations on the drive here.  Except, perhaps, in Tempio (the weird mountain city).  I really didn't want to stop again in Tempio; and, even if we did, I doubted there would be a gas station open.  Everything seemed to close rather early in the villages within the Sardinian island.
     As we drove into the eerily dark, mountain town of Tempio, it had become apparent that we needed gas.  We drove past an unlit gas station and pulled in.  We sat there for a bit contemplating our options.  I had no idea how we managed to overlook the fact that we would need fuel, but I was accustomed to vacations where gas stations weren't too hard to come by.
     Suddenly, a car pulled in.  It pulled up to one of the pumps, and a black man got out of the car.  He walked to a dark section beside the building and was out of our sight for a few minutes.  At last, he returned to his car where he started pumping gas.  How was he doing that??
     I decided I would ask him.  I pulled the car up next to the other pump, got out, and approached him.  He looked nervous when he saw me approach (and, no, the irony of stereotype didn't escape me).  "How did you do that?  How are you pumping gas?" I asked him with as friendly a smile as I could muster in this dark and strange town.
     "Come.  I show you."  Great!  He spoke English.  He walked me around to the dark side of the station where he had been and showed me a machine that had a slot to put bills.  "Put money here," he instructed.
     I nervously got my wallet and took out the cash.  I was on vacation and was carrying more cash than I probably should have been.  I was certain that he saw the "stack" as I pulled free some money.  I was growing a bit apprehensive.
     He took the money out of my hand and started feeding the slot for me.  When the desired amount had been inserted, he went back to the pump where our car was and started pumping the gas for me.  He was smiling, and I realized that I had fatefully crossed paths with a real gentleman.  When he finished, I shook his hand and smiled back.  "Thank you so much," I insisted.  He replied with, "no problem.  Enjoy this country.  It is beautiful."
     I climbed back into the driver's seat and resumed our journey.
     Now, we were on the curvy part of the mountain highway.  The road was twisting this way and that; our headlights weren't illuminating our path because the road was always curving to the left or to the right.  I'm not usually nervous about breaking down, but something about this dark and dizzying highway left Joanna and myself rather nervous.  We wound around for what felt like hours; my motion sickness was kicking in.  For the first time, I believe that I had gotten car sick while driving.  I had been car sick before, but only as a passenger.  This road was so curvy and the darkness was so enveloping that I began to feel rather yucky.  Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, the road straightened.
     We had found Palau, and Palau, after such a long journey, felt like home.  We had a couple more turns and we would be at La Conia and the resort.
     But, it was night time.  The darkness was disorienting, and I couldn't see Bear Rock to get my bearings.  I made a wrong turn and ended up in someone's driveway.  I turned around to try again.  I made another turn that I was certain was now right, but I was wrong again.  Over and over, I made wrong turns.  We were less than ten minutes from our room, but we just couldn't fucking find it.  I hadn't even realized that there were this many side streets when we had gone this way before.  And I was usually rather gifted with a strong sense of direction.  But, neither Joanna nor myself could seem to figure out which route was the way home.
     Finally, after we had exhausted every possible wrong turn between La Conia and Palau, we found the right road.  When we pulled into the parking lot, we all breathed a sigh of relief.  The day had been magical, but we were ready to close the curtains.  We climbed to our room, tucked Roman into his bed, and curled up under the covers.  Today had been a good day.

-- Don't forget to "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here.
-- And continue reading about our Italian adventures in "Sardinia the Final Days - Blue Skies"