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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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"
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.
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| Giant's Grave |
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.
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| Nuraghe la Prisgiona |
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.
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 |
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.
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| Tempio Pausania |
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.
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| The dead streets of Tempio |
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.
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.
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| the spaghetti alla carbonara |
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.
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| A fruit tree in Sassari |
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.
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| The Alghero seafront |
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.
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| The Alghero harbor |
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.
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!
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| A model of Alghero |
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.
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| A charming lady reading to herself |
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"
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