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"
   
   

Sardinia Day 2 - A Serendipitous Encounter

                                          8/8/14 - "Sardinia Day 2 - A Serendipitous Encounter"

     Blogger's Note:  Let's get on to Sardinia shall we?  First, you should know some facts about the Italian island (thank you WIKI)...
     Sardinia (spelled Sardegna in Italian) is the second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea (just behind Sicily).  French-owned Corsica (a bit smaller than Sardinia) is just a handful of miles off the northern coast.  To the east, the Tyrrhenian Sea separates Sardinia from its boot-shaped motherland.  The coasts of Sardinia run 1,149 miles long.  That's the part that surprised us...
     I believe, in an earlier post, I described Sardinia as a small island.  Well, Sardinia is anything but small.  Unlike Crete, which we (pretty much) thoroughly explored, Sardinia was gigantic.  When we had planned on exploring it from end to end, we hadn't realized how big Sardinia was.  If we were going to see even the northern half of the island, we would need to get our asses in gear.
     It was a real shame we were trapped at a resort in the small village of La Conia with nothing to do...
     Listening to:  "Can't Get It Right Today" - Joe Purdy

The view from the patio

     I woke up and decided to just pay the fucking 12€ for 5 days worth of WIFI.  I'd have to sit in the lobby which really pissed me off; one of the selling points of this particular resort was the WIFI access.  For the record, a Euro (or €) is about $1.20.  So, to be precise, I'd be paying $14.40 for 5 days worth of WIFI.  Crooks!  What kind of resort in the 21st century charges for WIFI??
     I sat on the patio behind the lobby and played around on the laptop for a bit before eventually meeting up with Joanna and Roman in the buffet.  The food was absolutely horrible!  Even Joanna agreed with this one.  I'm not much of a breakfast eater anyway, so I'd just get a cup of java from the coffee machine and a cup of pineapple juice from the juice machine.  I'd get a hard-boiled egg, and I was good until lunchtime.  I've always preferred not to eat breakfast, but
I like a big lunch.  We never really ate the lunch at the buffet there, but we would eat the dinner every night.  The dinner-time food usually had one or two items that were halfway decent; and, being that it was free (or already paid for), we would eat dinner at the resort's buffet.  Lunch became the meal that I would really look forward to, because we could actually eat some of the local fare and try strange and wonderful new foods.
     I watched Joanna make a stack of Nutella sandwiches for Roman with the breakfast supplies.  She stored Roman's future snacks in a baggie; I didn't feel too guilty about the "thefts" considering we really didn't eat anything else.  We had certainly paid dearly for 6 pieces of bread, a spoon of Nutella, 2 cups of coffee, and a cup of juice.
     I sat there, concentrating on not openly grumbling when Joanna excused herself and disappeared for a few minutes.  I tried to keep Roman in his seat while she was gone which would probably be a routine that I'd be performing regularly.
     When Joanna returned, she had a piece of paper in her hand.  "What's that?" I asked.
     "It's the train schedule," she answered.  I'd come to learn that a shuttle that was fixed up to look like a train ran from a popular beach a few miles north of us, to our resort, and to a town a few miles south called Cannigione.
     "It leaves in ten minutes out front," I noted after reading it.  "And it doesn't come back for another hour."
     "Let's go!"  Joanna's chair loudly rapped the floor as she stood and grabbed Roman's hand.  We all but jogged to our room to grab our things.
     We hurried as fast as we could and arrived in front of the resort just in time to see the "train" completely filled with other resort occupants.  My heart sank.
     "Where are you going?"  the driver asked us.
     "Cannigione," my wife replied, or at least tried to pronounce.  I didn't really know where we were going or what she had planned at that moment; I was just glad to be leaving this fucking place.  I was also glad that she didn't say "the beach".  I really didn't want to lie around on a beach all day.  Not today, anyway.
     "Ok.  Wait here.  I drop passengers off and come back for you in ten minutes."  The English may have been broken, but the message certainly wasn't.  He just made my day.
     Ten minutes later, sure enough, the "train" returned.  Joanna tried to pay him, but he said that we had to purchase the tickets at the front desk of the resort.  Joanna ran inside as my anxiety began to return.  Damn!  I hope she could come back before he had to leave.
      A couple of minutes later, Joanna returned.  She had produced the receipt from the travel agency that she just happened to have in her purse.  Apparently, the package we had purchased included free transport on this "train" as she had been informed by the receptionist.  So, we jumped on board, to Roman's smiling content, and "chugged" along to Cannigione.
     "What are we going to do there?" I asked my wife, who clearly had a plan to which I wasn't privy.
     "Rent a car," she revealed.
     Our plan and our budget had been to rent a car in the middle of the week for a couple of days.  "So soon?" I asked.
     "We are going to need a car here, I think," Joanna concluded.  I sure as hell couldn't argue with that!
     We arrived at the front of a hotel in the middle of the small town, and the "train's" passengers scrambled in all directions.  They were all but sprinting.  What in the hell was going on?
     "Come on!" Joanna implored.  We started running as well, but I didn't know where.
     "What's going on?" I asked.
     "Everyone is wanting to rent cars.  The best deals go first."  Of course she was right!  And now we were hurrying along into the rat race!  We detoured down side alleys, up and down the narrow streets, looking for rental places.  We found a couple, but all of the cars had already been rented out for the day.  I could feel my anxiety growing.  Finally, we happened upon a small place near the shore where a gap-toothed, middle-aged Italian man greeted us with a smile.
     "Do you have a car available for rent?" I asked him.
     He handed us a graph that looked familiar.  We had seen something similar in Crete, and we knew how the game was played.  We would ask for the cheapest car (hell, we just needed to get from one point to the other), and he would say what was actually available as if he couldn't have done that right from the start.
     Sure enough, after we selected a car from the graph, he pointed outside out a sedan.  "I only have that one left.  It is 150€ a day."
     Fuck you, man.  I surmised that he probably only had that one car in the whole of his inventory, and he was hoping an idiot would happen along and feel pressured into taking the horrible deal.  "Ok, thank you," I said as we turned around to leave.  We weren't going to be going anywhere on this day.
     We slowed our pace and meandered down the sidewalk, feeling defeated in the "game".  "Let's get something to eat," I suggested.  Joanna didn't object, and we started reading the signs and looking in the stores.  We walked down a slope to the shore-side street that ran along the sea.
     "Look," I pointed at a storefront that was nearly hidden from view.  Scooters, ATV's, motorcycles, and cars were rented there.  Joanna shrugged, and we entered.  A man hardly looked up from his desk to greet us.  And I learned something at that very moment.
     If you ever find yourself in need of a rental car in a touristy area, stay the fuck away from the smiling people.  Because people that are smiling are smiling for a reason.  They're about to butt fuck you with no lubricant, because that's what gets them off.  Rental cars get taken left and right in places like this.  There's no deals, no bargaining even if you think there is.  Avoid the smiles; avoid the scams.
     What you need to find is an asshole.  Someone like this man.  He didn't want to mess with dickering or nonsense.  He wanted to say, "here's what I have."  And he wanted to hear, "yes or no."  The end.  I really preferred this technique.
     The man was straight to the point.  He had a car for about 40€ a day.  We decided to take it for 5 days, which was longer than we had initially planned on renting a car, but we could afford that if we cut corners elsewhere.  And we needed a car.  I gave him a thumbs up.  We paid and filled out the paperwork, and he handed us the keys to the Fiat Panda sitting out front.  We.  were.  free.

our Fiat Panda

     After everything went smoothly, the man seemed to liven up a bit.  He seemed to realize we weren't jerks looking to be stupid or to get a free car.  He was actually a fairly pleasant man that seemed sensible.  We asked him where would be a good place to go.  He suggested we follow the road north and climb Bear Rock.  From there, you can get your bearings.  You can see La Maddalena, the Corsica Mountains, Palau, and the surrounding landscape.  Basically, you can get a feel of the land.
     We took his advice.  The resort was on the way, so we stopped in there to get Roman's car seat and proceeded to Bear Rock.  The roads in Sardinia are really nice and smooth, but they curve and twist constantly.  I never had so much fun driving in my entire life.  I hit the accelerator and navigated through the snaking paths as fast as I could safely go.
     For a small fee, the three of us climbed the rocky steps and slabs to the "bear"-shaped rock that overlooked the northeast corner of Sardinia.  Clouds were beginning to roll in, and a drizzle of rain fell on us just as we reached the top.  But it didn't dampen our spirits.  Not after seeing what we saw...

A view of Palau from Bear Rock

     Even with a mist shrouding a clear view, we could
see the city of Palau stretch out beneath us.  Across a span of sea, La Maddalena colorfully rested on a postcard hillside.  I hardly noticed the bear-shaped rock above me; I was too busy taking in the wonderful world with my eyes.  Ancient ruins of a village sat on a hillside near us; we were told that we could go there if we wanted.  The abandoned buildings were empty; however, and there was nothing more to see than what we were looking at.  We opted not to climb the other hill to get any closer to what we could already clearly see.

Roman at Bear Rock

     We took some pictures of the scenic panorama around us and decided that we would head to Palau, the city that spread out below us.  We climbed back down the now-slippery descent, but managed not to fall despite our perilous sandals and flip-flops and my weak ankles.  I tried not to smile as I drove the Panda through the windy roads and roundabouts, shifting like an Indy driver.
     I knew that driving in Palau might be burdensome, but I had learned something else while in Crete:  just follow the flow of traffic.  The northeast portion of Sardinia is a tourist hot-spot; everyone was headed to the town's center just as we were.  I was really nervous driving in Crete until I came to realize that, as long as I stayed filed in the line of cars headed into town, I would be ok.  After I got over the anxiety, I came to enjoy driving in these foreign, strange places.

Bear Rock

     I even learned how to survive a roundabout.  Here's the trick.  Once you enter the "circle", you're committed.  Don't stop for anything or anybody.  As long as you keep moving, you won't piss anyone off.  Roundabouts actually make more sense than our American four-way stops.  They keep traffic flowing.  If you miss your turn (your exit), no problem, just keep going around.  I know it sounds funny; but, as long as you keep moving, you won't piss anyone off.  Stop to let someone in or slow down to get out and you'll hear the honk of a disgruntled follower "voicing" their displeasure.  I couldn't say how many times Joanna and I drove in circles at a roundabout just to buy us a few extra seconds while we double-checked to make sure that we knew which direction to go.
     In Palau, we drove through the downtown streets until we came to the ferry where cars were loading and unloading to and from La Maddalena.  We weren't quite ready for that trek, so we continued around and found a parking spot on a side street on a steep hill.  We had brought an umbrella stroller for Roman to ride in for just this type of situation.  We might be walking for quite a ways, and we didn't know how easily Roman would be able to keep up.  As it would turn out, he would really enjoy riding in it.

Palau

     As soon as we rounded the corner that spilled onto the main street, I noticed a book store nestled there.  I had been wanting an English travel guide for Sardinia ever since we had booked the trip, but I hadn't been able to find one.  The travel guide that I had found for Crete had been a game changer.  We had found some really spectacular places and suggestions that we would never had known about without it.  We had outlined our trip by making a list of things that we would regret not having done while we were there and started checking them off.  I wanted a book like that of Sardinia.
     The bookstore had several to choose from.  After flipping through several, I noticed that some had too many pictures; others didn't have enough.  I finally chose one that appeared to serve my purpose.  We paid for it and went back to strolling through the market-lined, seaside town.
     I was growing hungry as we passed stores that sold gelato or cafes where people were drinking cappuccinos and eating Italian versions of sandwiches.  When the street finally ended at the sea near the large ship that served as a ferry for cars and passengers, we turned and followed the sidewalk where sailboats were docked.  I had my head down, reading about various points of interest in Sardinia.  I flipped to the Palau section to see what things we should do or see while we were here.
     According to the travel guide, while in Palau, one should rent a sailboat which is the only means of transportation if one wished to see some of the scenic, one-of-a-kind beaches that weren't easily accessible to the average person.  The excerpt went on to say, that in Palau, excursions could be booked via booths that were set up along the waterfront.  These trips weren't just suggested for people in Palau, but for anyone that had come to visit Sardinia.  I decided I would share this information with Joanna in case...
     "Hello."  I was pulled from my reading to look up and see a pretty girl with a nice tan and a charismatic smile.  "Have you found anything interesting to do in there?" she asked whimsically.  Her slight accent seemed quite nice, and I knew she must be selling something.  As I nodded a friendly affirmation, she handed me a brochure.  "Here.  Read this, too, if you get time," she smiled again and went to what was obviously her post at one of the booths that lined the sidewalk.  A friendly-looking dog and a stern-looking, elderly lady were also there.  Roman saw the dog, jumped out of the stroller, and ran to pet him.
     Joanna and I walked over to the booth to get our son.  While Joanna was imploring him away from the canine, I decided I would use the window of opportunity to ask questions about the excursion being offered on the brochure she had handed me.  I mean, let's face it, the timing between reading about these excursions and her handing me a brochure about one was rather serendipitous, wouldn't you say?
     Her name was Veronica.  She was from Romania and had just moved to Palau from Crete, another fateful topic of conversation.  We had been to Crete.  And she was a dog lover.  Just like Joanna (and Roman).  The elderly lady beside her had designed and built a sailboat that she had sailed (mostly) around the world.  Now, she was retired, making a living by renting it out for a day of beaches and food and drink.  What made them different than the other vendors, she pitched, was that their boat had a much shorter keel (the underwater fin that helped guide the boat).  The excursion would leave in the morning and navigate along the coastline, beyond La Maddalena, and into a triad of islands where some of the most beautiful beaches in the world were nestled.  The boat could hold up to 12 people, and we got to pick 2 beaches that they would take us to via Zodiac (an inflatable raft with an outboard propeller) to swim for about an hour at each location.  They would feed us lunch (a nice meal with local fish).  And we would be anchored in a crystal-clear section between the islands that most boats couldn't reach.  She said it was only about 4.5 feet deep there (so not even over my head), and we could just jump off the sailboat and go swimming if we felt like it.  The price was 60€ per person (35€ for Roman), but that included everything.  The only opening they had was for Thursday.  If we were interested, we'd have to put a deposit of 20% down.

The sailboat-lined waterfront

     After she got done with the explanation, Joanna told her we'd think about it.  I didn't want to reveal my game face, but my heart was pounding.  Every instinct in my body was screaming DO THIS!  DO THIS! but I didn't want to say as much in front of the girl until I talked to Joanna.  I could hardly even listen to the continuing conversation that my wife was having with the girl about dogs.  They were talking about Fitz for crying out loud.
     When we finally walked away and I felt safely out of earshot, I stopped and turned to Joanna.
     "I don't want to think about it.  I want to stop right here, right now, turn around, and give her the deposit," I confessed.
     "No.  We eat lunch and talk about it," she countered.
     "Joanna, I know it sounds stupid, but I feel like the stars aligned perfectly for this one.  Please, let's go out on a limb, turn around, and just give her the deposit.  I really, really think we should.  Seeing some of these exotic beaches is on the must list anyway; I've never been on a sailboat; and, I just have a good feeling about this.  Joanna, give me this one..."
     My Polish wife looked at me, and I think she realized that I was serious.  She may have just been happy that, for the first time in Sardinia, I wasn't bitching.  Whatever the incentive, she turned to walk back to the booth.  We gave her the deposit and exchanged phone numbers in case of inclement weather.  We were to meet back here at 10am on Thursday.

Sardinian pasta

     Before we walked away, I asked Veronica if she could recommend a good restaurant.  She pointed at one just down the walkway, and we headed to it.
     The place she had suggested turned out not to offer pizza for lunch, and we knew that Roman would prefer pizza.  So we opted for a different place that was buzzing with tourists.
     I was hoping to find something like the pasta that I had had yesterday, with mussels and clams.  I found something similar and ordered it.  The waiter asked what type of pasta I would like with it and suggested I try the type that Sardinia was famous for.  I took his advice.
     When the dish arrived, the pasta turned out to be little "pellets" like large couscous.  It wasn't bad, not nearly as good as yesterday's, but not bad either.  I decided I wouldn't be eating anymore Sardinian pasta, though.  My pallet thinks that pasta should be in the form of a noodle (like linguine or spaghetti).  I didn't like the texture of "balls" of pasta.
     Roman got a cheese pizza, or margherita, as he would almost every restaurant that we visited.  Pizzas in Italy don't come in different sizes.  They are thin crust, simple pizzas with simple ingredients.  They taste fresh; but, I must say, I prefer our American counterparts.  From what I understand, the Chinese invented pasta, but the Italians mastered.  As far as I'm concerned, the Italians may have invented pizza; but, we mastered it.  I like a big, deep dish of cheesy sin filled with any and every ingredient known to man.  Roman, however, loved his margherita pizza.  While he ate the pizza, he was unusually quiet; and, he finished every last bite which was rather unusual for our picky-eater son.
     When the check arrived, the amount was fairly close to what we were expecting.  I was just about to pay the tab when I noticed something on the receipt that I didn't recognize:  coperti.  We were being charged 9€ for coperti.  What was coperti?  I almost just said screw it and just payed the bill, but my curiosity got the better of me.  I stopped our server as she was walking past.
     "Excuse me?" I began as I pointed at the line on the bill.  "What is coperti?"
     "Oh.  It is for table.  You pay to sit at the table," she explained and hurriedly walked away.
     Do what???  Pay to sit at the table??  What kind of villainy was this?  Who charges someone to come in and do business with your establishment?  Joanna and I were appalled.  Apparently, the coperti charge was per person; we were being charged 3€ apiece.  That's about $10 just to eat there.  Seriously??
     I was very tempted to complain, but I decided that I would research it before I made a fool of myself.  Later, I would find that a coperti charge is very common, not just in Sardinia, but in all of Italy.  Italian servers don't usually expect a tip (although, as a rule, I always tip), so I guess it's supposed to even out.  I continued to tip, but I did adjust it somewhat to help offset the cost of coperti.  I noticed, however, in their defense, that Italians (hell, Europeans for that matter) tend to sit for a very long time when they go out for a meal.  I suppose if you're going to keep business away by setting up camp in a restaurant, then, maybe, you should pay for the seat.  Coperti would continue to show up at nearly every restaurant that we ate at in Italy.
     We paid without any fireworks and decided to let Roman romp around a playground that we had seen on the way here.  As he was jumping from the swings to the monkey bars, I was tasked to find some water.  Around the corner, I found a produce store that had some very tempting cherries and grapes and wines and cheeses and salamis on display.  I willed myself to stick with just purchasing water (still, not sparkling) and went to pay with a large bill.  Unfortunately, she didn't have change.

The playground

     Needing smaller denominations became an ongoing problem in Sardinia.  I got very aggravated by this triviality.  We were in a tourist-heavy part of the world for goodness' sake!  How many tourists bring 4 tens, 7 fives, 14 ones, etc. when they go shopping.  Not to mention, a ten was the lowest paper bill.  Anything lower was a coin; too many coins started weighing me down.  Italians seemed to get quite distressed if you don't have exact change.
     Anyway, I walked around for a while until I finally made change.  I went back, purchased the bottle, and returned to the playground.  Joanna said she was about ready to head back, but I implored her to reconsider.  We were right beside the ferry that takes cars and pedestrians to La Maddalena (the name of the city as well as the island that the city sits on).  La Maddalena was definitely on our to-do list.  The time was only 3pm.  We could see a lot between 3pm and 8pm (when it got dark).

The ferry

     After a brief moment of convincing, Joanna agreed.  We loaded everything up and headed to the ferry where several ticket stands were set up.  Apparently, there were 4 different ferries operating the gap between Palau and La Maddalena.  We wanted to buy the one that would be arriving next (which turned out to be in about ten minutes).  We bought the tickets and rushed back to the car.
     Upon arriving, we filed in line behind the other cars that were waiting to board.  As we started to load up the ferry, a man directed the small car we were in to a very narrow ramp that climbed on either side of the main area.  The space between our car doors and the guard rail was so narrow, in fact, that we weren't able to get out of the car, which disappointed me because I had wanted to see things from the ship.  Hopefully, we'd be able to on our way back.
     When we arrived at La Maddalena, we drove off and were forced in a particular direction by the flow of traffic.  I wasn't too bothered by this because I didn't have a dead-set plan anyway.  As the cars and scooters began to thin out, I decided that ascension would be the best path if we wanted to tour the small island.  I figured that the higher we got, the further from the ocean we must be going.  It turned out that I was right.  We zigzagged up to a point where we looked back and just stopped the car.  We pulled onto the shoulder of the road (there wasn't much traffic anyway) and got out to look at the amazing view.  It caught my breath.
     The city of La Maddalena spread out below us; the buildings were painted these beautiful, pastel colors.  Across the way, in the distance, Palau claimed a portion of the hillside.  Joanna got her good camera and began to snap pictures.  The three of us stepped across the guardrail to get a better angle, which turned out to be a horrible idea and a cruel reminder that we "weren't in Kansas anymore".  In Kentucky, I know the flora and fauna.  I know which weeds make you itch, which leave burrs in your clothing, which make you sneeze.  I wondered if I didn't take that knowledge for granted...
     The dry blades of grass poked our sandal-clad feet.  The three of us cried out in pain (almost comically) and quickly climbed back to the other side of the rail.  We snapped some quick pictures, nursed our aching feet, and climbed back into the car.  We wiggled around the island, bending around cliff-fronts that would reveal scenic panoramas too amazing to describe.  We stopped for pictures more than once.
     As we continued the trek, we noticed several "hidden" beaches along the way.  Sometimes, a line of cars would be parked, seemingly for no reason, on the shoulder of an otherwise lifeless stretch of road.  We grew to realize that people were taking paths down to the water to patches of sand that served as beaches for the locals.  My recently purchased travel guide suggested we try this (and, aside from that, we just wanted to).
     We had driven for maybe twenty minutes and had reached the north side of the island when we saw a beach that just begged us to play there.  Large boulders and jagged rocks separated patches of sand that would served as beaches for the locals.  Illustrious umbrellas had been planted in the ground to shade sunbathers after they had enough sun.
     Joanna and I changed clumsily in the car (quickly before anyone saw us).  We got Roman in his swimming gear (including his flotation device that had arm bands that went around his biceps and then circled across his chest to allow for more freedom).  Then, we made our way down to a section that seemed to be reserved for us.  We set up "camp" and began to play.
     In the distance, Joanna noticed the gargantuan mountains that I nearly mistook for the horizon.  They were the Corsica mountains of France.  I thought we were next to some pretty high landscape until I saw those peaks looming in the distance.  Two elderly, Italian ladies stood and walked into the water.  They jumped in and just started swimming.  I thought they were headed to a buoy about 100 yards out, but they kept going past that.  They swam across the bay that surely had to be a mile (or even more).  There was no way I would have been able to do that.

A beach in northern La Maddalena 

     I stepped into the water and shivered.  Damn, it was cold.  Roman didn't falter.  He jumped in and just started swimming.  I slowly waded from ankles, to knees, to waist.  A polite, Italian gentleman wearing jeans and no shirt was laying at an area next to us.  He looked as though he was trying to communicate with me.  I paused to try and translate his very thick accent.
     "Cauld wahta," he was saying.  It took me a second to realize that he was saying, "cold water."  Indeed!  He was smiling as he said it, and I realized that we had unknowingly been accepted as part of this commune with the land.  He offered to take the camera from Joanna.  I took off Roman's flotation device; and, then, she, Roman, and I posed for one of my favorite pictures.

Pine at the House of Garibaldi

     We swam and played for about an hour before, growing tired, we loaded back into the car.  We drove completely around the island before coming back to the city of La Maddalena.  We knew that a smaller island was connected by a bridge on the east side, so we drove completely through the city looking for this bridge.  We made several wrong turns before finally finding it.  We drove across it and entered strange and enchanting country.
     Caprera, we quickly discovered, didn't have any residences or commercial businesses on it.  It appeared to be like a national park (not unlike the Land Between the Lakes back home).  I followed the signs to where a museum was supposed to be.  I parked in the lot, but the gates appeared to be closed.  Roman was sleeping in the back seat, and Joanna just wanted to chill in the car.  I got out and walked a ways, just to get a quick glimpse of what Caprera had to offer.
     A tree, that nearly looked fallen, had signage that described it as the "Pine at the House of Garibaldi".  It was protected by law and had apparently been planted by the house's owner in the mid-1800's.  I continued down the path and saw the actual house.  Everything was closed up; so, I, and some other tourists seemingly doing the same thing as I, headed back to the parking lot.

The cool trees in Caprera

     We continued around the island and drove down a road through a grove of trees that looked unreal.  They laced like fingers over us, creating a surreal tunnel.  We zipped around the bends at a fun speed, quickly gathering in the sights before time pulled us toward the resort.  Enticing picnic tables looked inviting under that canopy of strange trees.  I wished I would have packed a lunch so I could rest there, even though I wasn't hungry.
     The nicely paved road turned into a narrow gravel road that ended at a beach where a few stragglers were packing up their things for the day.  I turned around and headed back off the island.
     We drove back to the city of La Maddalena.  Before purchasing tickets to get back across to Palau, we thought we would check out the seafront shops that lined the street.  We needed to start checking off some items on our souvenir list, and we weren't sure if we'd be coming back here.

A souvenir shop in La Maddalena

     We parked the car and walked around; Roman was now groggily awake in his stroller.  We were about to give up when we happened across a liquor store that had some interesting cork bottles on display.  We asked the girl that worked there about them.
     Mirto is, apparently, a popular liquor in Italy.  It is made from a type of berry that has no use (it's too sour) other than making this alcoholic nectar.  She had an open bottle in the back that she let Joanna and I taste.  It was stout, but sweet.  We liked it.  The bottles would make nice gifts and looked interesting, so we bought a few.
     After we filled my backpack with a few things from there, we headed back to the car, bought tickets, and drove onto the next available ferry.  This time, we had a parking spot where we could climb out of the car and explore the boat.  We went above deck and were giddy with the sights.

Leaving La Maddalena

     La Maddalena looked unrealistic as the boat and the palm-lined street there was separated by the turbulent water being animated by the ferry's labored engines.  Roman and I just quietly took in the sights as Palau approached in the distance.  We stayed up there for as long as we could before arriving at our destination.
     Back in Palau, we pulled off the ramp and, once again, followed the flow of traffic.  We wove our way through the city before making our way out and onto the road that led back to La Conia.  We found another picturesque spot for pictures; we just never grew tired of the eye-candy world around us.
     We decided to stop at a grocery store on the way back.  We shopped inside for some cheeses and salamis to go with some wine and beer.  I asked the butcher if he spoke English, to which he angrily dismissed me.  Joanna insisted he cut us some of the meat on display, and he finally did.  I confessed to my wife that I hated dealing with people like him.  She said, "Why?  If he doesn't understand us, we can cuss him, and he doesn't know."  I tried this new approach as he scowled and handed me the wrapped meat.  "Thanks a lot you fucking piece of shit," I expressed with a smile as I took the package from him.  Indeed!  I felt much better.          
     After Roman fell asleep that night, we sat on the balcony, reflecting on our day and pondering the next one.  Dusk was revealing the night's stars, and the lap of the sea in the distance calmed me.  Today had been much better than yesterday, and tomorrow would be a blank page thirsty for the ink of an eager pen...

Palau (left) and La Maddalena (distant right)

                                                 (to be continued...)

     -- Don't forget to "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here.
     -- And, if you liked this, try reading our "How We Met" story starting with "Chapter 1 - The Tea Monster"
     -- Or continue reading about our Italian vacation in "Sardinia Day 3 - The Mountain City and the Widow"
   

Sardinia Day 1 - Cold Water

                                            8/3/14 - "Sardinia Day 1 - Cold Water"

     Blogger's Note:  Before we get started on Sardinia, I think I need to wrap up Poland just a bit.  I'll do that now.

Dominika, Maja, and Joanna

     My mood hadn't been stellar.  I had, for the most part, been stuck in Kalwaria at Joanna's parents house for the majority of our time in Poland.  If we weren't getting ready for the wedding, we were getting ready for the baptism.  If not the baptism, then Amelia's birthday.  And if we weren't getting prepared for an event then Joanna was sick, and then Roman was sick, and then Amelia was sick.  At the house in Kalwaria, I don't have a lot that I can do.  I can't watch television (I can't understand what's being said).  I can go for a walk, but the town is small and there's not much to see.  And, as I've already mentioned, the WIFI signal can only be reached from the master bedroom (or the balcony attached to it).  So, that's where I usually stayed.  In the past, I had had some American companion to talk to; but, this time, I had nobody.
     Joanna, perhaps feeling sorry for me, understood my plight.  She called up her English-speaking cousins Dominika and Maja, and we all hooked up for a Kazimierz afternoon of good food and spirits.  We had all of our conversations in English that night (bless their hearts), and we had some rather fantastic discussions.
     I had hung out with Maja before; but, in previous visits to Poland, she never spoke much English.  She was always rather polite, but I just didn't know much about her.  At Arek and Ewa's wedding, for the first time, Maja and I had a conversation.  She told me how she how just gotten back from a magical vacation in Italy where she had toured the country in a group of nine motorcycles.  She described the food and the sights with such spunk and fragrant description that I knew that we should be friends.  She explained that, over the course of the last two years, she had been getting some English lessons from an Australian tutor.
     We all congregated in the center of Kazimierz before migrating to the Horai restaurant so we could assemble at a sidewalk table and eat some Thai or Japanese food and drink.

once the Jewish ghetto

     After dinner, we made our way further into the Jewish district.  In the distance, illuminated by the setting sun, the balloon that spectators used to get a bird's eye view of Krakow was climbing into the sky.  We wove through the narrow streets.  Tiny bars and restaurants that seemed to only have one or two tables inside lined the passages.  They each had a signature personality.  Some had a decor that belonged in the seventies; other were very modern; some were sports bars; others were hippie hang-outs.  Upon inspection, the tiny rooms usually emptied into secret, hidden gardens where the majority of the tables were corralled.
     We chose a quaint place that seemed to have a good dessert selection and an even better drink menu.  The place horseshoed around a centralized room that was outside.  Ivy crept up the brick walls on buildings that surrounded us.  One building in particular seemed to be breaking in half.  While Maja and Joanna pondered over ice cream or cake, Dominika and I discussed the irony that just mere decades ago, this had been the ghetto.  The Nazi's had cordoned off this area to segregate the Jews.  Very likely, a starving, scared family was hunkered in that dilapidated building, hoping against hope for a miracle.

At Magda's

     We decided that the artsy, cultural center that Kazimierz had become was so very appropriate.  I felt like we were throwing up a middle finger to the villainy of the world; we were raising our beers against tyranny; and, we were feeding the ivy with hearty laughter and love instead of the creeping fear and hopelessness that once, here, thrived.
     Dominika told us about a trip to South America and some of the missions that she had been on to educate and help the children of another world.  She relayed the time that she had walked through the mountains until sundown.  The absence of light and the cold had forced them to set up their tents for the night.  She said that she had truly feared for her life that night.
     Maja informed me that she worked with French bra models; so, then, of course, I wanted to know all about that.  She had been staying in Paris a lot lately; but, she said she was in love with Italy.  We talked and laughed until we had to zip up our jackets to the night that was growing damp.  So, we said our goodbyes and navigated the unsteady cobblestones back to the car.
     The only other social diversion that we managed was a day in Myślenice where Joanna's cousin Magda lived.  She had two sons that could play with Roman.  So we spent a day there, where Magda spoke only English to me.  We visited a very cool park there where Roman and his cousins played on scooters and the playground there.  Later, Magda cooked us an Indian dinner that was simply amazing.  She was a home decorator; and, based on what I saw of her home, a damn good one.
     But, other than those two magical days, everyone was too busy in their own universes, so I had been cooped up on a balcony in Kalwaria...    for a bit too long...
     Listening to:  Kiesza - "What Is Love?"

     Roman had thrown a tantrum.  A really major one.  And not the first.
     He didn't want to stay even five minutes without us.  So, no, when we decided to do some last-minute shopping in Krakow, he wasn't going to stay at Ba Ba's and Dza Dza's.  Not like Amelia, who loved it there.
  He was on his back kicking and screaming.  And Ba Ba and Dza Dza didn't think that us going to Sardinia for a week without him was going to work.  He was going to have to go with us.
     This really pissed me off.  From the moment that we arrived in Poland, I had been telling Joanna that we needed to be doing things.  Fun things.  Right from the start.  That way, Roman would see how much fun hanging out with his Polish grandparents could be.  But, noooo... she wouldn't listen.  She wouldn't translate.  She wouldn't even acknowledge my concerns.  And see?  See now?  I was right.  I had been right all along.  Roman hadn't been warmed to the idea; so, of course he wasn't going to quietly acquiesce now...
     Joanna and her parents suggested that we take Roman with us.
     Oh no!  Oh, fuck no!!!  He wasn't going to Italy with us!  Italy?  Wine-country, romantic, exotic beach-filled Italy???  Oh, no.. I don't think so!  I'd just assume not go than take our four year-old with us to Italy!
     So... Joanna and I had a nuclear meltdown.  One of the most memorable of our marriage, in fact.  I wasn't taking our four year-old to the epic vacation adventure that had been two years in the making.  All that vacation time we had to save!  All that money!
     I just wanted to go home.
     Just call the airline, pay the fee to get my ticket changed, and get my ass back home.  There wasn't anything left to do in Poland, and I wasn't taking Roman with us to Italy.

Joanna, Kasia, Ben, and Magda

     After a good hour of solid pleading and intense discussion, Joanna finally convinced me to take Roman with us.  But I wasn't happy about it.  Not one damn bit.
     The plane would be leaving Warsaw at 7am Sunday morning which meant we'd need to be at the airport at about 5am to get checked in.  The drive from Kalwaria to Warsaw was around 5 hours, which meant that we'd need to leave Ba Ba and Dza Dza's at about 11pm Saturday and drive through the night.
     We didn't really get any sleep that Saturday either.  Joanna's friends that she had met and worked with on her first trip to America just happened to be in from Australia and had come by for a visit.  I got to meet them for the first time.  Ben was really interesting, and he spoke great English.  He told me all about Australia and some stories about surfing and his trip to Thailand and learning Thai boxing.  Very cool, indeed.
     I ended up just staying awake and watching World Cup soccer with Joanna's dad.  Just before 11pm, we loaded up the van, said our goodbyes, and fastened our groggy son into his car seat.

Roman at the Warsaw airport

     Joanna drove the whole way.  The plan was for me to tag in when she got tired, but we saw several Polish police officers on the way.  They stand intermittently along the highway.  If they catch you speeding or have some reason to stop you, they wave the flashlight in their hands and, then, you'd better stop.  We weren't sure of the legalities of me driving in Poland; so, we played it safe and Joanna drove the whole way.
     Something that we had noticed in Poland that was certainly different from Kentucky was the amount of daylight there.  It didn't get totally dark there until around 9pm, and it seemed like the sun began to come up around 3am.  Well, we confirmed this belief on the road that night.  By 4am, we could see easily without headlights.  Interesting...
     We rolled into Warsaw around 4:30am and hit a McDonald's drive-thru before we had to get on the plane.  It was a 24-hour joint; but, apparently they didn't serve breakfast until 6am so we had some burgers.  (Just as well with me, 'cause I don't like breakfast food anyway...)

Roman's view from the bus

     We found the parking lot where we would park the van and get shuttled over to the airport.  We stood in the long line to get our baggage checked-in and then made our way to the correct gate.  On the way, I kept looking for a restroom, as I needed to go badly.  We walked a hundred yards before we came to the first restroom, but it was closed for cleaning.  I walked for what felt like forever before I finally found one that was open (the point of me sharing this will be revealed in a future feature, so stay tuned...)
     The flight was only two hours.  When we landed in Olba, Sardinia we made our way to baggage claims and then to the bus that would be transporting us to our resort.  A resident speaking in Polish began to explain the itinerary once everyone had found their seats.  Our resort would be the second stop which was fantastic considering that at our last two excursions (to Crete and to Egypt) we had been the last bus occupants remaining when we finally arrived at our destinations.

The road from Olba to La Conia

     The drive from Olba to La Conia was about an hour.  Travel began to wear us down, especially Roman.  He started throwing a fit; I'm sure he was hungry and wanted to lay down.  The dizzying road twisted through the coastal mountainside; sometimes we could see a span of asphalt that we had just traversed after we had rounded a hillside.
     When we finally arrived at the resort, I was anxious to be in our room.  Roman's tantrum had intensified, justifying my insistence that he not join us.  The receptionist explained that the time was only 11:00am and that the room wouldn't be ready until 2pm.  We were welcome to leave our luggage by the desk and walk around.  We could also eat the buffet which opened for lunch at 12:30pm.  I was frustrated.
     Let me explain something about myself.  I get cranky when I'm hungry or tired.  And, if I'm hungry and tired, I'm beyond reason.  You see, if I'm hungry, I can eat.  Problem solved.  If I'm tired, I can sleep.  Problem solved.  But, if I'm hungry and tired, then I'm too hungry to fall asleep; and, I'm too tired to get something to eat.  It's a perpetual cycle with no pleasant solution.  And, that morning, I was very hungry and very tired.  And, to make matters worse, Roman's tantrum was growing to epic proportions.
     The lady at the desk, growing aware of the volatile situation, offered to get us a room at 12:30pm.  "We care about the children here at La Conia," she said with a snooty air, in her snooty suit, with her snooty glasses.  She gave Roman a penguin stuffed animal that was the mascot of this particular chain of resorts, here, shut up little boy.  I was hoping Roman would mistake it for his favorite cartoon penguin:  Pingu.  He didn't.
     As we waited, I tried to pass the time on my smart phone, which is when I found out that the WIFI that was promised by the website wasn't free and was only available in the lobby.  Fucking crooks.  Now, I wasn't going to be able to write like I had wanted to.  It was one of the reasons we a chosen this resort.

the "beach"

     Finally, at 12:30pm (the same time that lunch was available), our room was ready.  A boy that didn't say anything after the resort's signature bonjourno led us up two flights of steps to a door that overlooked the pool.  He didn't bother to help us with the three, giant suitcases that we had to lug up the stairs while a frenzied, four year-old was kicking and screaming.  At the room, he pointed at the door and walked away.  Well, fucking bonjourno to you, too, mother fucker.
     The room was rather typical.  It had a cooler, a king-sized bed, and a small, side bed/couch from where Roman could ruin my vacation.  A balcony overlooked a small playground; and, in the distance, we could see the Tyrrhenian Sea.  I just needed to close my eyes for a minute.  I wanted to eat, but I just needed to rest my eyes for a bit...
     I awoke at 2:00pm.  The lunch buffet was over, and I was oh-so-hungry.  I grabbed my shoes and ran downstairs to see if anything was left.  I walked through and found cold chicken and some lunch meat that I was too afraid to touch.  While I had slept, Joanna had fed Roman and packed some of the swimming gear.  She said she was taking Roman to the beach.  I decided to join them.
     On the back side of the resort, the main artery that ran through the village paved between the beach and the mainland.  A narrow track of sand was what the brochure had called a beach.  The view was beautiful, but the beach was hardly existent.  We walked a ways down the street, hoping to find a better location to swim.
     Along the walk, an inviting restaurant had its windows propped open to allow the sea breeze to caress its occupants.  The food smelled amazing, and I was hungry.

The best pasta I've ever had

     "Joanna, I gotta get something to eat," I told her.  She agreed, and the three of us entered the establishment.  A friendly host sat us at a sea-side table.  Unfortunately, the view was a little too good.  Roman could see people swimming and playing.  His patience was gone.  We had been promising to take him swimming all night long, and the time had come to ante up.  He wasn't going to sit quietly.
     "Joanna, baby...  please take him to the beach.  My head is pounding; I'm hungry.  Let me eat quickly, and I'll come down there and swap places with you," I pleaded.  Thank the heavens, she agreed to the deal.  She took Roman's hand and led him to the beach.
     When my waiter came, I ordered some type of seafood pasta and a carafe of white wine.  Some fresh bread was brought as an appetizer.

Roman with his penguin

     The pasta ended up being some type of linguine with clams and mussels.  A large prawn centerpiece was staring fearfully at the ravished American.
     I had never eaten (and still haven't) pasta as good as that was.  I could have eaten the linguine with nothing on it.  It had this ever-so-slight saltiness to it, a faint aftertaste.  The mussels were unlike any I had ever had.  I like mussels ok, I guess; but, these were so soft.  They weren't chewy at all, nor the clams.  I destroyed the plate of food, paid the tab, and went to find Joanna to trade out.
     At the beach, Joanna and Roman were both in the water.  I had been wearing my swimming trunks; so, I decided to get in myself.  As soon as my foot touched the water, I realized that it was cold  It was fucking cold.  I hate cold water.  It was still swim-able; hell, many people were.  But, it would take some getting used to.  I slowly migrated to where Roman and Joanna were splashing and playing.  Those fucking Polish were impervious to cold.  How did they do it?
     I swam for a while after I had finally adjusted to the water temperature.  The weather itself was quite nice, and I wondered if the resort's pool might be warmer.  So, I offered to take Roman to the pool there while Joanna had some "chill" time.

The pool below our room

     A small, "kiddy" pool that was about knee-deep was perfect for myself and my son.  We were the only two there, besides a young lifeguard.  As soon as we stepped into the water, he began to admonish me for something.  I couldn't figure out what it was, but he kept pointing at his head.  I came to realize that he wanted us to wear a hair cap while we were in the water; apparently, it's an Italian "rule" (hell, maybe a law).  Our heads weren't even in the water.  I was in a foul mood and just wanted to punch the arrogant asshole when he produced a small cap that Roman could borrow.  I got out of the pool and watched Roman play for a while.
     Joanna showed after a span of time, and the sun was beginning to fall.  We decided to go for a walk around the resort.  Near the back, a stage was lit up, and some performers were gathering to put on a show.  Several children were gathered to watch the act where someone dressed like the resort's trademark penguin was dancing alongside several young girls.  Joanna and I ordered a beer, sat, and let Roman enjoy the show.

The resort's night life

     Afterwards, we decided to go for a walk further into the village.  After going several blocks, we began to realize that there was nothing here.  We walked and walked as I grew grumpier and grumpier.  At last, I decided that I had had enough.  I just wanted to get back to the room and try to forget that this day had happened.  I wasn't sure what in the hell we would be doing for a week at a resort with shitty food, cold water, no WIFI, and nothing whatsoever to do.  My vision of Italy had been very different than this.  I wasn't sure what we'd be doing tomorrow; but, whatever it was, it almost certainly wouldn't be fun...
                                            (to be continued...)
   
     -- Please "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here if you haven't already
     -- Read about our adventures in Poland with features like "Flying to Poland".
     -- Or continue reading about our Italian vacation in "Sardinia Day 2 - A Serendipitous Encounter".