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Blessed
We rose earlier than usual - 7:30 am (Hey, it was still dark!) - and headed for the port. Frost coated the grass. A downhill section of roadway gleamed in the early morning rays. "Ice!" Sharon warned, slowing cautiously. "I know," I called, and took the opportunity to pass her and perhaps chalk up the daily high speed record in the process. (We had an ongoing contest for the fastest velocity. And Sharon, a speed freak with a streamlined torpedo-shaped body, ensured it wasn't often I got a chance to be in front on the downhills.) Watching me zoom past, she shook her head at my foolhardiness. Arriving at the terminal unscathed, I glanced around at the tiny assembly of patrons, and congratulated myself for heeding my previous day's intuition. If the small number of vehicles queued for the morning's "essential service" was any indication, I could rest assured the preceding afternoon's sailing had been cancelled. In short order we boarded the ferry - accompanied by two ancient trucks overloaded with firewood, an antiquated rig piled high with cork, three cars in varying states of disrepair, and a handful of somber passengers, that, judging from their sullen expressions, must have slept overnight on the wharf. Shades of Nice! We sailed into Bonifacio Strait between Corsica and Sardinia. I stared back at the precarious cliff town bearing Count Bonifacio's name. His brooding citadel, built in ad 828, almost disappeared into the surrounding limestone, seeming as if it hadn't been dusted in over a thousand years. I imagined a few rogue waves buffeting the chalky cliffs, and crumbling the ultimate cliff-hanger into the sea. Odysseus, fabled to have made landfall at the site's natural harbour, would have, no doubt, applauded the area's return to its original idyllic seascape. My daydream abruptly ended as the breezy outside deck shrank my already tiny bladder. I scurried off in search of a washroom and came across a door: Igiene Donnes. A quick peek inside revealed gleaming porcelain. (I immediately decided I liked Italy! Never before had I made such expeditious inroads in a foreign country.) Well pleased that I had discovered toilets on my own (and so quickly, too), with a smug expression on my face, I went to venture across the threshold. A passing mate tapped me on the shoulder. Women's washroom, he pointed out. How embarrassing! My sense of accomplishment deflated faster than a party balloon meeting a pin. Sharon, noticing my unfortunate predicament, chose to castigate me further. "You should have at least figured out 'Donnes,'" she chastised. "It's close enough to 'dames.'" "There are just too many 'dame' names for the same thing," I muttered, and pretended to pout. Relishing my unfortunate condition, Sharon pushed on. "Do you know the difference between a Ladies room and a Dames room?" she asked. Obviously, I had no idea. I didn't even know the difference between the men's and the women's, other than I suspected theirs didn't have urinals. I shrugged. "Well," she explained helpfully, "a lady is a woman who can go without touching the seat." "I see," I said, though I didn't. "And what's a dame?" I asked earnestly. "A dame," she informed me, "is a woman who can go without touching the seat and smoke a cigarette at the same time." "That's classy," I had to admit. Perhaps we were spending too much time together. Sharon's jokes were beginning to sound an awful lot like mine. We arrived at the port town of Santa Teresa di Gallura where two burly police officers immediately pulled us aside. Holy smokes! Had they heard about my incursion into the wrong rest room? "Passports," the fatter one intoned. I rummaged through my handlebar bag and extricated my documentation from its depths. "Canadian," he grumbled, and waved me on. Sharon, still fishing for her passport, was asked by the less-fat officer, "Canadian?" When she replied "Si," he waved her through too. I was shocked at how easy it was to cross European borders - not a single question or even a cursory glance through our passports. Quite the contrast to the hour-long interrogation and pannier search we had endured when we crossed from Canada into our neighbour's country, home of the brave, land of the free. We hopped on our bikes before they changed their minds and pedalled into the town's centro looking for a bank machine that would spew forth Italian lire. Fortunately, we quickly found one. Unfortunately, it wouldn't recognize either my Visa or my MasterCard. In other countries I had merely inserted my card, entered my pin number and the amount of money I wanted, and out popped the resident country's currency. No hassle. No fuss. No forms to fill out or lineups to stand in. Puzzled (all the instructions were in Italian), I left the machine, figuring another bank's Instant Teller would be just around the corner and would fix me up with no problems. I was half right. There was another auto teller around the corner. But it refused my cards also. I suddenly realized I was way too reliant on technology. Then again, as Sharon pointed out, barter was pretty unwieldy too. It wouldn't be easy carrying around a couple of sheep and a sack of potatoes on the back of our bikes. The banks with the live tellers had closed for noon hour and in Italy that was a minimum two hours. All the persons who could have helped me were out to lunch. Shoot! I still hadn't gotten used to the fact that services in Europe closed for lunch. Back home that was my favourite time to run around and pay bills. None of that was possible in Europe. Lunch time was expressly for eating, and that's exactly what they did. I thought it a commendable idea - except when it inconvenienced me. "You know," Sharon said, changing the subject, "I'd find these places a lot more interesting if I knew something about them." A quick trip to the tourist information office (it was even open!) provided us with a free tourist map and a bundle of booklets outlining Sardinia's history and culture. Sharon was happy, even though it added more weight to her already overloaded panniers. We carefully studied the map. A road, circling the island's perimeter, gave us two options. We could cycle it either clockwise or counter-clockwise. Sharon voted for counter-clockwise as that would put us in the lane closest to the sea, and thus allow a better view. I noticed ruins marked on the map near Porto Bello, only a few kilometers away. That observation confirmed our counter-clockwise direction. Not locating any more bank machines, we struck out for the ruins. In a short distance, at a sign for Porto Bello, we turned off the main route and trekked four kilometers on a small road. But we didn't come across any ruins. "Maybe someone moved them," I said dryly. "They were old anyway," Sharon replied. Not quite ready to abandon our search, we cycled another kilometer and happened upon the seriously private Porto Bello residential park. It was the furthest thing from a ruin I could imagine. An elderly guard at the park's entrance spoke no English, and we spoke no Italian. Using hand signals, he patiently conveyed it was permissible for us to enter and have a look around. We wheeled our bikes through the exclusive neighbourhood gates. The entire complex was constructed on a hillside, allowing each million dollar property an equal-valued sea view. It was like a park all right. There was so much green space between houses I couldn't even see the neighbour's not-so-humble abode. And there wasn't a soul in sight. "We could camp here a week without anyone finding us," Sharon said. "Longer if the guard didn't come looking." After half an hour of marvelling, we returned to the entrance and asked the guard: "Why?" We wanted to know why there was this huge deserted complex with million dollar homes in the middle of nowhere. The guard responded the best he could, rubbing his fingers together to indicate the people living there had money - a lot of money. We straddled our bicycles, laundry strapped to our rear carriers, dwarfed by an immense house beside us. "We're definitely in no danger of being added to their Christmas card list," Sharon decided. The guard was interested in our trip and asked us questions. We dug out our Italian phrase book and European map and traced the route we had taken since landing in Paris. The guard watched in fascination, muttered something exclamatory, and rushed over to his guard house. Wondering if he were retrieving his gun to chase off us two vagrants, I was relieved when the only thing he returned with was a bottle of wine and two glasses. He filled each tumbler with dark-purple liquid and handed them to us reverently. Then, like a homemaker waiting for her guests to taste the fruits of her labours, he watched expectantly as we lifted the brimming offering to our lips. It was excellent: clear and full-bodied. We pronounced it two thumbs up, drained the tumblers and handed them, reverently, back to him. We pedalled off and glanced back to give a final wave. He was still standing on the roadway beaming proudly. A short distance down the road Sharon let out a gleeful giggle. "What's up?" I asked. "It's our little spontaneous chance meetings - like our rendezvous with the guard - that makes bicycle touring so rewarding," she answered. "Not being shielded behind a ton of metal and glass definitely makes us accessible." It was true. People were drawn to us in a way I couldn't explain. Perhaps it was our vagabond appearance that piqued their interest. Perhaps it was our vulnerability that brought out their humanity. Or perhaps it was just plain old pity. I'm not exactly sure, but I do know that wherever we found ourselves, folks reached out and touched us in ways they wouldn't have otherwise. The guard had pointed us off in the direction of the elusive ruins. We retraced our route and continued our search, following his directions until the pavement petered out and the road disintegrated into a steep one-lane dirt track. We pulled our brakes on and stopped, staring at what lay ahead. "I wish they had the courtesy to put these ruins in accessible spots," Sharon said. I nodded. Those ruins were driving us to ruin. Not wishing a bumpy ride down the precipitous trail (and looking forward even less to the push back up), we elected to abandon our pursuit. We about-faced, and headed for the main highway. It was growing dark. I disliked being on the road after sunset (drivers were crazy enough in the daylight) and began to pray we would find a camp spot soon. Ask and ye shall receive? Back at the crossroads we had passed twice already we discovered there was a church we hadn't noticed previously. In fact, it was still in the midst of construction. Maybe travelling by bicycle was faster than He thought? "The Lord works in mysterious ways," I muttered, and swung my bike into the parking lot, feeling like we were being well looked after by some patron saint of travellers. A glass cross, constructed into one end of the half-finished church, cast a pale blue light over our well-blessed meal. By the time we finished our supper, the night had become black. "What happened to the moon?" I wondered aloud. "It was nearly full last night on Corsica." But it was nowhere to be seen. The stars were in their rightful places, shining brightly. It was a mystery. What had become of the moon? My view of the heavens was partially blocked by the church, so I strode away from it to get an unobstructed view. Still nothing. "This is really strange," I mumbled. Mystified, but giving up my search, I started back to the church. That was when I saw it - a dull orange glow over the western portion of the sea. I stopped in my tracks, then hesitantly stepped towards the sea, unsure of the distant glow. A dark curve licked the farthest reaches of the horizon, throwing dull oranges and reds across the Mediterranean waves. As I watched, the curve rose slowly, transforming itself into an enormous blood-red orb. I began to shake, gripped in some weird intense spiritual experience. Sweat pricked my forehead. Tears bleared my eyes. Moment by moment, second by second, the moon's overwhelming majesty asserted itself as ruler over this dark paradise. It was little wonder the ancients took the moon to be a powerful influence in their daily lives. As the full moon rose higher into the night sky, I stood transfixed, frozen in time, scarcely drawing a breath. A profound knowledge washed over me. Within those few minutes of the moon's ascension, I realized the existence of an awesome connection between humankind and nature. I had always wondered if I should be more in tune with the cosmos, rather than living in cities where I couldn't even see the stars. I now had my answer. My mystical experience jolted me into realizing I would be more fully alive if I took the time to appreciate nature's wonders. Living in sync with our planet's natural cycles would give me more of a sense of my time and place in our world. After all, that was precisely what humans had done since time immemorial. Sadly, our modern civilization has lost that connection. My new insight provided me with a lot to think about. Ethereal and philosophic thoughts dancing in my head, I strolled off towards the sea to contemplate. |
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