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Bad Chicken
We rolled into Porto Torres early the next morning, hoping to get some Italian currency so we could buy some food. I practiced the required words from our Italian phrase book, but the foreign syllables twisted my tongue into convoluted knots. I still wasn't looking forward to going head to head with a real live teller, but starving to death wasn't such an attractive option either. On main street, near a bakery displaying gorgeous-looking pizza in their front window, I spotted a National Bank. I hadn't yet had the pleasure of being refused by one of their bank machines, so I decided to make one last auto teller attempt before trying the dreaded person-to-person transaction. I wasn't optimistic that the bank machine would allow me to withdraw funds, but failure at another impersonal machine seemed less traumatic than ridicule by a human. I plugged in my card, did everything the same as my previous eleven rejections, and hallelujah, to my joyous surprise, out spat crisp 50,000 lire notes. Happy days were here again! "I scored some cashola!" I whooped, waving the bills in the air and feeling as though I had just won big at a Vegas slot machine. "We're going to eat in Italy after all!" I yelled triumphantly. "Maybe you should play it again," Sharon advised. She was probably right. Who knew where I might find my next lucky auto teller? With the winnings in my hot little hands, we went directly to the bakery and purchased the two pieces of pizza bread we had salivated over only moments before. (Buying the encrusted wedges turned out to be an easy transaction. I simply pointed to the portion on display and said "Pizza." Even I could pronounce that word close enough to get results!) Behind main street we hunkered down in a sheltered square out of the blustery, wintry wind and eagerly bit into our acquisitions. On my first bite I realized I should have saved both my money and my drooling for something better. The slab was so stale I wondered if I had bought the "for display purposes only" item. It could have been in the Guinness Book of Records as the original pizza: a hunk of hardened loaf smeared with a thin veneer of dried and crusty tomato sauce. Four circles of pepperoni, so tired-looking they must have been out on an all-night binge, clung to the auburn goo. It needed more than a little work. I had anticipated something a bit more appetizing. After all, we were in Italy. Shouldn't they know how to make pizza blindfolded? Our jaws aching, we gave up on our museum pieces and headed to the grocery store. The only thing I was thankful for was that the chunk of pizza had mortared the hole in my belly - I had learned the hard way not to shop on an empty stomach. Once, in Eureka, California, after a free-for-all shopping expedition, I exited the grocery store with more in my buggy than most people who had a car, and we had had to sit on the sidewalk and gorge ourselves in a true Mama Cass style snack-fest before we were able to squeeze the remaining purchases into our panniers. It was a shopping record Sharon warned me never to break. But when I reached the alimentari I found it difficult to control myself - having a pannier filled with food was my equivalent of a two-year-old's security blanket. In the past, I had been known to get cranky just thinking about running out of provisions. We stocked up on oranges: fresh, juicy, and best of all, sweet. Unfortunately, fruit is so darn heavy. That bag of oranges alone weighed five kilos. Most of the things we liked to eat were two to three times more expensive than the same items back home. Yogurt, available only in mini containers, was outrageous. A tiny box of Corn Flakes was unbelievable. Even fresh pasta caused me to wince. To our relief, all configurations of dried pasta were inexpensive and, even better, lightweight. "Looks like we're going to be eating a lot of oranges and pasta," Sharon said. We hadn't had meat in a long while and I had a craving for chicken. Somehow, I conveyed my request to the butcher (it wasn't pretty). Both my communication skills and what I eventually received were rather crude, to say the least. In North America we're accustomed to receiving meat in a sanitized plastisized package. No fuss, no muss. In contrast, I had just been handed a horrid brown package of hacked flesh, dripping and oozing with blood. I was supposed to eat that? It looked more like a biology lab gone horribly awry. I found three spare plastic bags in my pannier and wrapped the cleaver victim as best I could before strapping it to the top of my rear rack. Our depleted larder fattened, we cycled out of Porto Torres and along the main road past Sassari, Sardinia's second largest city. To my chagrin, two lengthy tunnels were en route. Before entering the first tunnel, I had an inkling it might be a trifle scary. But I was wrong. It was totally terrifying! The transition from bright daylight into an unlit tunnel was like riding into a coffin. (And with the busy traffic and large trucks it may have been close to becoming one.) The blackness was so complete it was impossible to see where the edge of the road ended and the side of the tunnel began. Feeling somewhat like a dyslexic moth, I aimed for the speck of light at the end of the coal black hole and prayed I didn't accidentally careen into the wall, or, worse, an approaching-from-behind vehicle. Adding to my horror, friendly Sardinians flashed their headlights strobe-like and beeped their horns incessantly - a blinding, deafening, heart-thumping, hair-raising ordeal. By the end of the second tunnel, I was a basket case. My retinas were fried and my heart was skipping like an old Elvis Presley recording. I promised myself I would forever strike tunnels from future cycling routes. Legs shaking, I took the first exit I came to. I had no idea where the side road went, and, frankly, didn't care. I had only one thing in mind: to escape the madness of the main route. At least I had the advantage of travelling on a small island - so I couldn't get lost - at least, not for long. "Where are we going?" Sharon asked dryly. "Stick with me, Kid," I answered. "I won't lead you far wrong." With those words of wisdom we struck off on the little-used country road. It soon climbed unsympathetically into the mountains, but the respectful rural traffic more than made up for the steep gradient. Cars coming upon us from behind approached slowly, taking great pains to overtake us safely. Even oncoming traffic noticeably decreased its speed when they approached us. I thought everyone was being so courteous until I glimpsed drivers' quizzical expressions. It was then that I realized they were wondering: "What the heck are those aliens?" They were braking to secure a better gander. Curiosity, not courtesy, had slowed them. Apparently, I thought, overloaded touring cyclists carrying murdered chickens aren't common in these parts. But I would be wrong. Despite the odds, we came across a local gray-whiskered fellow-biker. He was loaded too, but not with traditional panniers. Rather, an entire pork hock dangled from one side of his handlebars. With every pedal stroke, it swung perilously close to his spokes. The pork pendulum could have brought him to grief on its own, but he had more. Piled high on his rear rack was a swaying heap of twigs, keeping time like some giant Daliesque wooden metronome. The rider appeared well-prepared for a bountiful roast pig dinner wherever he happened to fall. He weaved towards us like a boozer on cheap liquor, struggling to maintain his haphazard load. I had to make a quick decision: to wave or not to wave. That was the question. We touring cyclists have a strict rule: Always wave to other cyclists. It was impossible to pretend I hadn't noticed him. I didn't want to appear unfriendly, but, on the other hand, I didn't want to have to watch the ensuing disaster as our fellow-cyclist attempted to return the greeting. Sprawling limbs tangled with twisted metal, and pork hocks and sticks in places they didn't belong, painted a gruesome image in my mind. Thinking fast, I elected to go with a prudent head nod. He gave me a big roundhouse wave in return. Show-off. Safely past the artful dodger we came upon a roadside watering station and stopped to replenish our supply. A pipe penetrated the hillside, tapping a vein of water. Sardinia seemed full of underground springs; we passed numerous watering stations throughout the countryside. And they were well used. Usually there would be at least one person; often there was a lineup. At this station, a father and young son were engrossed filling multiple plastic jugs. With the noisy splash of water, they hadn't heard us stop. "As long as we're in the mountains it looks like we shouldn't have to worry about running out of water," I said loudly. The man looked up and noticed us waiting with our two small bottles. He smiled and invited us to fill them. The water was so cold that the overflowing splashes paralyzed my hand. Sharon eyed the gushing water. "Your brain will freeze," I said, knowing exactly what she was thinking. She hadn't washed her hair since Nice. "The water's far too cold to stick your head under," I cautioned, and repeated my warning. I thought I had succeeded in convincing her. But when I removed my bottle, she shoved her hand under the flow. With a numb hand of her own, she grunted, and grudgingly accepted my judgment. Why is human nature such? I wondered. If I see a Wet Paint sign, I always have to touch it to check. But, if someone tells me there are billions of stars in infinite galaxies, I believe her. It's such a mystery. We thanked the water gatherers and waved goodbye. Sharon - disappointed she couldn't shampoo her scalp - took solace in the scenery as we cycled along. In the valley below, amongst gnarled vineyards, flocks of sheep grazed peacefully on squares of green checkerboard. Above our heads, bluffs of black and orange rock towered - their erosion carved ledges resembled tongues licking waves of tiger ice cream. We passed fields of spiky artichokes with wilted leaves and drooping heads: the sad victims of frost. They verified the nights had been on the minus side of the Centigrade scale. No wonder we had been so cold. The prickly artichokes prompted Sharon to ask: "How do you eat one of those things?" "Beats the hell out of me," I answered. "They don't look too user-friendly." We rode until we came to an open gate (practically an invitation) into an anorexic field above the Mannu River. A sign in four languages warned of flash floods. "I think we should choose a high camp site," Sharon wisely suggested. We set up our tent, then descended to the edge of the constricted river and fried our morbid chicken pieces. Gak! There was so much blood, I knew it hadn't been dead long. Luckily, it grew dark (except for those billion stars studding the velvet sky), and I couldn't see what I was eating. After supper we stumbled back up the hillside and retired. Shortly after, Sharon discovered the hard way that the chicken didn't agree with her. I was right - it hadn't been dead long. In fact, observing Sharon's predicament, it was still trying to fly. After Sharon's eighth trip outside the tent, I silently gave thanks I had had the foresight to purchase a two-door model. During the night Sharon was up more than down, expelling from both ends: "Dual spew and poo," she called it. Vegetarianism suddenly appeared extremely attractive. |
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