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Friendly Sardinians
By morning, Sharon was drained (so to speak) and as weak as a newborn lamb. She would have liked to have stayed put for the day, but there were no empty patches of grass left. And, though cars on the rural road were sparse, in the daylight our blue tent stuck out like a sore thumb. While I dismantled the tent, Sharon slunk off for one more retch. "It's been a crappy experience," she remarked on her return. "I think our climbing's almost finished," I said, trying to comfort her, but knowing it was a lie. On Sardinia - a mountain top sticking out of the water - there just ain't that many flat bits. We headed for Banari, a small town seven kilometers away, all uphill. Sharon, trying to keep her exertion quota near zero, feathered her pedals as if she had eggs beneath her feet. But I'm positive if she had seen a chicken on the road, she would have tried to run the critter down. Halfway to Banari (a full three-and-a-half kilometers!), Sharon was ready for a break - her tummy still executing "chick-ups." We stopped next to an artesian well. While I filtered water, I glanced over at Sharon. She was leaning heavily against her bike, languishing near dissolution. "Do you want me to wash your hair?" I asked, attempting to rally her flagging spirits. She perked up immediately. I had pulled her back from the abyss. (Sharon and cleanliness were like cyclists and tailwinds - she just couldn't get enough.) By the time I had shampooed her shoulder-length blonde hair - twice - and rinsed it innumerable times, then braided it into a tight ponytail, she said she felt well enough to carry on. The road grade tested her stamina and will; we had been climbing steadily since leaving camp. Sharon cycled on without protest. I had to give her credit; I knew I would have been complaining loudly if I had to do it on a glass stomach. A kilometer past the artesian well we approached a parked truck. Two figures leaned effortlessly against the tailgate, watching intently as we slowly made our way towards them. Drawing nearer, I saw one was a robust elderly chap, and the other was a fit lad of about twenty. They provided me a perfect opportunity to practice my new slow-down-and-talk-to-the-locals philosophy, and, judging from their smiles, I gauged they wouldn't mind if I stopped for a chat. Glimpsing Sharon's pained expression in my rear-view mirror, I realized she would appreciate the break. I pulled to a stop, and stuck out my hand in greeting. Exchanging pleasantries didn't take long, considering my nearly non-existent Italian and their equally non-existent English. The elder fellow introduced himself as "Giovanni," and, jabbing a thick thumb in the younger fellow's direction, introduced him as his son, Marilo. Giovanni strove to continue the "conversation" by pointing to a box of tools in the truck bed, then to the fence in the ditch. I understood they had been fixing the wire. In Italiano, Giovanni asked us questions. I assumed he was making the usual enquiries so many folks had asked us in the past. Regardless, with a series of charades, map pointing and arm waving, Sharon and I supplied the information for where we were from, where we had been, and where we were going. Giovanni seemed pleased and excited when he learned we were on our way to Banari. He pointed to himself and Marilo, then to Banari on our map, conveying that was where they lived. He performed a hand-to-mouth pantomime, scribbled on a scrap of paper he dug from his pocket, and thrust the jotted note into my hand. "What's he doing?" Sharon asked. "Elementary, my dear Watson," I replied, feeling like Sherlock Holmes deciphering clues. "We've just been invited to lunch." I nodded my acceptance to Giovanni, pointed up the grade, and stuck my tongue out in an exaggerated pant. The old man's eyes twinkled. Laughing hard, he slapped my back soundly. I interpreted his smack as: "You're young! You'll make it!" Giovanni stuck up a thumb and forefinger. "Banari: two kilometers," I said. "Hey, I think I'm getting the hang of this Italian lingo!" Giovanni and Marilo climbed into their battered pickup and lurched off in a gray cloud of exhaust. I coughed, waved my arms to clear the air, and set off to tackle the remaining distance. With the steep terrain and hot sun, it didn't take long before I was perspiring profusely. "Why are uphills always in the sun?" Sharon moaned, her face glowing bright pink. "Because downhills are always in the shade." Half an hour later we arrived in Banari's village square. Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I extracted Giovanni's note and showed the scrawl to a passerby. Before he had finished explaining the directions to Giovanni's, Giovanni himself appeared from around a corner of a building and enthusiastically waved us towards him. "I made it!" I puffed when I reached him. As if understanding, Giovanni patted my shoulder. We pushed our bikes into a lane the width of a compact car. Midway through the alley, Giovanni stopped and pointed to a rock wall. We took that as our cue and leaned our bikes against it. Giovanni looked at Sharon and me. "Papa," he said, and pointed to himself. Apparently, somewhere in those last two kilometers, Sharon and I had joined the Giovanni family. We followed Papa through an inconspicuous doorway on the opposite side of the alley. At the end of a small anteroom a flight of stairs led to a second story; we turned left, into a dining room. Marilo was seated at the table and motioned for us to join him. I sat next to him and noticed he sported an earring. I tugged my earlobe, and pointed to his bauble. Marilo made a chopping motion, then pointed to his dad. Papa wanted to cut his ear off? I chuckled. Apparently fathers' dislikes transcended cultures. Marilo's older brother came into the dining room and was introduced as Angelo. "I saw Sassari," Angelo said pointing at us. It was a small island. I wondered if he had been one of the friendly motorists who had honked in the tunnel and scared the blue blazes out of me. Momma, her ample figure tucked into a comfortable pale-blue dress, appeared from another doorway and invited us into the kitchen. As we followed Marilo, I wondered if this was a stereotypical Italian family. Marilo told us, in halting English, that a friend had been called to come over and translate. "Pierre school best English student," he extolled. While waiting for our mouthpiece, we sat mutely around a long wooden table and watched Papa carefully slice cured homemade sausage into thin ovals. The center of the table held three small bowls of black olives, a basket cradling two varieties of bread, and a tray laden with hard white goats' cheese. Momma strapped an apron over her cotton frock and busied herself at the stove frying two types of fish - one was trout-sized; the others were baby-finger in length. Momma dipped the tiny fish, complete with heads and fins, into a batter before tossing them into the pan. I later discovered they made a not unpleasant crunch in my mouth, but they didn't taste of anything besides batter. Pierre, our interpreter, arrived and joined us at the table. I asked him what the fish were, but he didn't know their English names. He did specify however, that everything we were eating - olives, bread, cheese, and meat - were all produced by the Giovanni family. Except the fish. And, I noticed with interest that Papa wasn't eating any seafood. When I asked Pierre why, he explained: "The fish comes from the coast of Sardinia. Since we are inland, Papa doesn't consider it local and therefore he doesn't eat it." I had no idea "local" could be so rigidly defined. The wine was excellent. When I commented on its fineness, Pierre informed me it was home-produce as well. And I wasn't alone in my appreciation. We learned we weren't the first two-wheeled visitors to grace the Giovanni household. "A few years ago, Papa invited some German motorbikers for lunch," Pierre related. "The Germans consumed so much of Papa's great wine that later, on their way to stay overnight at the Giovanni's farmhouse, two of them fell off their motorcycles and slept the entire night in the ditch." When Pierre repeated the story in Italian for the rest of the family, Papa slapped his leg in merriment at the memory. I had almost finished my plate when I glanced over to see how Sharon was doing. Her stomach was still queasy, but she was forcing herself to politely eat the greasy sausage and tangy olives so as to not offend our gracious hosts. I hoped she wouldn't have to make a mid-meal dash to the toilet. When I proudly finished my plate, Papa, playing the consummate host, dumped the remaining platters of fish and sausage onto our plates. "Eat, eat," he commanded with a broad smile. Sharon turned an interesting shade of green. I spiritedly dug into my pile - our hosts were waiting for us to finish before they proceeded to Mirto-laced coffees (a liqueur made from local berries). I hurried, enthusiastically masticating. Suddenly, without warning, I chomped down on a bone hidden in the meat. As the sickening crunch echoed inside my head I somehow managed not to cry out - I didn't want to cause our hosts grave embarrassment knowing I had munched a bone in their fine sausage. I glanced around. Everyone was still engaged in congenial conversation. Apparently the resounding crack had gone unnoticed. Relieved, I surreptitiously fished around in my mouth and removed the offending bone. As I did, I felt my back molar wiggle alarmingly. Oh, terrific. And no dental insurance. I realized why Papa had been slicing the sausage so finely (and why so many shepherds had missing teeth): it was his attempt to find any remaining bone shards. Unfortunately, I had found an even more foolproof way. A rap sounded at the door and a redheaded woman with a spark in her eye bubbled into the room. "I was walking in the lane past the Giovanni's and saw your bikes with the Canadian flag and had to come and investigate - I'm originally from Derry in Ireland," she explained without taking a breath. I noted she hadn't lost her gift of the English language. "I'm Patricia," she introduced herself, and extended a fine-featured hand. She was a native English and Irish speaker, and was proficient in both Italian and Sardo as well. She immediately took over translation duties. (I hadn't known that Sardinians - a people of unknown origin - also had their own similarly mysterious language.) Patricia was a medium-height, comely woman with a lithesome figure. Her deep green eyes flecked with hazel burned with vivaciousness as she spoke. "I own a house three doors down from the Giovanni's," she said. "The one with the bright red door to match my hair! I'm really just a part-time neighbour," she burbled. "I came at Christmas and ended up staying a bit longer than I intended. My house in Banari is my summer home. I live the rest of the year in Padova, Italy, near Venice, with my husband and our three children. The kids are home in Padova with their nanny, going to school," she explained with a backhand wave. Patricia translated the conversation back and forth between English and Sardo, Sardo and English, asking us questions about ourselves and our trip, then dutifully relaying her findings back to the enraptured audience. At one point, warbling at ninety miles an hour, she got so wrapped up in the proceedings that she started gibbering to Sharon and me in Sardo and to the Giovanni's in English. When she caught the quizzical looks on everyone's faces she caught herself. "You'll have to excuse me," she laughed boisterously, "sometimes my mouth is in a higher gear than my brain!" She definitely was a live one! Patricia downed her shot of Lemoncina (a lemon-flavoured liqueur), then excused herself to run some errands. "I'm returning to Padova next week," she said, "so I'm throwing a dinner party tonight for friends that I won't be seeing again for a few months." She paused, then hastily added, "Before you leave Banari, do drop by and see my house it's the one with the red door. You can't miss it!" Before Patricia slipped away she surprised us by relaying an invitation from Papa. He asked if we would like to stay overnight at the Giovanni's family farmhouse. "It's only a kilometer from town," Patricia said. We immediately accepted his kind offer. As Patricia glided out the door, Caramella, a daughter of the Giovanni's, arrived. She was to become our guardian for the day. Thanking Momma and Papa profusely, we left them and accompanied Caramella to stow our bikes in her garage "where they will be safer," she said. Surveying our peaceful surroundings, I doubted we would have had problems even if we left our bikes unattended for a month. But, as they say, better safe than sorry. Once our bikes were securely ensconced behind Caramella's locked metal garage door, I remembered my tooth and tentatively placed a finger on it. It wiggled disconcertingly. I reached in with thumb and forefinger (big mouths were good for some things) and plucked out a chunk of molar equivalent to one-quarter its original size. I ran the tip of my tongue along the sharp ridge and thought it strange there was no sensation of pain at all from the cracked area. Sliding the baby-tooth-sized fragment into my pocket, I shrugged as I adopted the nine-fingered spirit of our Canadian friend Roger. "I still have thirty-one left! Why worry?" We walked with Caramella to Tony's, a school teacher friend who taught French, but knew English as well. Caramella successfully recruited him as our next translator. I figured that by now we must have met every person in the village who spoke English. Conversing with Tony was somewhat amusing. He had learned English mainly on his own through his scholarly perusal of textbooks. His pronunciation was a bit odd at times. But, being from multicultural Canada, we had heard many different accents and didn't have much problem following what he was trying to say. When we spoke however, it was a different story. Tony had a troublesome time understanding us. Our Canadian accent, combined with our use of contractions, idioms, and rapid speech, all fused to create a perplexing conglomeration. When I asked: "How many people live in Banari?" he answered: "Mainly farmers." I slowed my speech and carefully enunciated each word, sounding like Mr. Rogers on Valium. Tony and Caramella escorted us on a two-hour walking tour around town. Our first stop was the community fountain. "In the old days," Tony said, "people came here to get drinking water." In the old days? When was that? This afternoon? It still looked well-used to me. The area appeared hygienic and in good repair, and the cement trough continually filled with fresh water. I imagined it to be a socializing place where people met and gossiped while waiting for their containers to fill. It was used as a billboard of sorts too. Scrawled on the concrete was crude graffiti along with the French word "merde." I asked Tony what the writing said. After studying it carefully, he replied: "It's just some political activist's ranting." Why won't he tell me? I wondered. Perhaps he thought we were some sort of secret bicycle police? Or maybe he was just shielding us from the island's politics. Then again, maybe he couldn't read French. As we promenaded, Sharon and I asked some of the strange questions that had gathered in our heads over the past while. One interesting reply came from: "How are those spiky artichoke things eaten?" Tony misinterpreted the question and answered: "We eat many different crops from what you are used to." For the time being artichoke consumption would remain a mystery. Tony had questions of his own. But they were far more pointed than our spiky artichoke question had been. "Why did you come to Sardinia when you can't even speak Italian, let alone Sardo?" he demanded. "We thought it would be warmer than France," I answered casually. Tony furrowed his brow and shook his head, befuddled. "Not knowing about a country excites us," I explained. "Before we boarded the ferry to Sardinia, the only thing we knew was that it was an island governed by Italy. We make exciting new discoveries every day." "And we figured since it was south of Corsica, it must be warmer," Sharon added. Tony was as horrified as he was mystified. And he was not at all satisfied with our responses. "How could you come when you don't know any Italian?" he probed again. "You must be arrogant to think you can go anywhere when you know only English." I noted the animosity in his tone, but I also sensed an undercurrent of jealously. There Sharon and I were - truly monoglots - and we had packed up and headed off into the unknown; whereas he, a speaker commanding four languages, was afraid to do so. I had the distinct impression he wanted to travel, but was apprehensive to because of his imagined language barrier. Sharon and I had decided before we left home that we wouldn't let only knowing one language stand in our way. We reasoned that if we waited until we learned every language of every country we wanted to see, it would take an exceedingly long time indeed to travel around the world. (However, if one was going to trek the globe with only one language English was definitely the best choice. Nearly every village had someone who spoke English. They may not be standing at the grocery store waiting for us to arrive, but in an emergency, we had faith someone could be located.) We walked on past basketball courts, tennis courts, and soccer fields. I was amazed - all those facilities in a community of five hundred! As a grand finale we popped into the impressive newly constructed town library where Caramella introduced us to many of the townsfolk. It was growing dark and cold - already it was nearing zero Celsius. I commented on how chilly our nights had been. "The island's coldest temperature on record is minus five degrees Celsius" Tony informed us. "Weather as cold as you are experiencing is extremely rare." That information didn't make me feel a whole lot warmer. "In the summer," Tony continued as I pulled on my fleece jacket, "it is usually around forty degrees Celsius." After a moment, he comically added, "Even the tourists shouldn't go outside at midday." We returned to Caramella's to get our bikes so we could pedal to the Giovanni farmhouse. Caramella (perhaps sensing my uneasiness about riding in the dark) suggested she drive her car in front while Tony followed behind. Their vehicles effectively lit the country road and protected us from traffic. At the farmhouse turnoff we huffed and puffed and jolted our way up a rocky driveway more suited to mountain goats than loaded touring bikes. (It was amazing with all the rough roads we had been on, we had very few flats - they usually came in batches though.) Arriving out of breath at the farmhouse, we were ushered inside to meet Joseph, another one of Giovanni's sons. Joseph, Marilo, and Angelo all worked together on the farm caring for the pigs, cows, goats, chickens, and sheep. I marvelled again at the Islanders' self-sufficiency. A fire, smoking hotly in a corner fireplace, pleasantly warmed the old stone farmhouse. Joseph showed us how to turn the cook stove's gas fuel bottle on and off. Hospitably, he had made ready an espresso-maker and pot of creamy milk in preparation for our morning coffee. Sardinians' kindness and thoughtfulness surely put them at the top of the list when it came to making strangers feel welcome. Joseph said there was a bathroom, but no hot water. He apologized, then quickly added that was usual for Sardinian farmhouses. Caramella, ready to leave, extended hospitality again, and invited us to her place for supper. Sharon felt we had already imposed too much and refused Caramella's fine offer. (Acceptance of hospitality was one area we constantly disagreed. Sharon was uncomfortable about accepting offers. "I don't feel I'm giving anything in return," she said. Myself, on the other hand, felt I was giving something in return. My belief was that through sharing ourselves and our stories, we brightened someone else's routine day. For a short time they got to vicariously experience our trip. It made them feel special. Accepting their hospitality was the least I could do.) I hastily retracted Sharon's non-consent and told Caramella we would be delighted to accept her dinner invitation. Leaving our bikes on the farmhouse verandah we piled into Caramella's small car and bounced back to town. The chipped and peeling concrete blocks of Caramella's apartment building didn't present an affluent atmosphere. I assumed, from their state of disrepair, that the inside would be in the same derelict state. But I was pleasantly surprised. Instead of drabness and despair, her door opened onto a floor of elegant coral-pink tiles. "The island colour," she sang when I commented on their beauty. Her apartment was ultramodern. Artistic smoked-glass furniture and black space-age kitchen appliances transformed her living area into a double for a Star Trek set. Best of all there was a remote-controlled ceiling-mounted heater, and Caramella didn't hesitate to zap it whenever she felt a trifle cold. After all, it was winter. Surrounded by exquisite taste and luxury, I concluded I would never again judge a building by its exterior. Caramella's husband, a lawyer, arrived home from work. When Caramella introduced us, he didn't look the least surprised to see us sitting at his table. Caramella buzzed about preparing dinner. She was interrupted regularly by a stream of friends who rapped on the front door and entered. Some just said a quick "hi" and were on their way; others stopped long enough for a drink and to chat about their day. It was a marvellous sense of community. Everyone was so friendly, joking, laughing, sharing, undeniably enjoying life. At the stroke of eight o'clock, Caramella served mounds of rice mixed with thinly sliced tomatoes. Olives, cold meats (watch for bones!), fruit, and wine were served on the side. Caramella must have held the assumption cyclists needed mountains of food. She was absolutely right. Unfortunately, Sharon's delicate tummy was still performing Olympic-sized somersaults - in fact, it was even throwing in the odd back-flip for bonus points. Halfway through the meal Sharon managed to pawn a small amount of her still heaping platter onto my plate, but her efforts to transfer all her excess were thwarted. "That's only for you!" Caramella said, intending to be kind. Fortunately, Tony noticed Sharon struggling and came to her rescue, assuring us we were not obligated to clean our plates if we were full. Grateful, Sharon put down her fork and sat extremely still, concentrating on calming her churning stomach. I finished my overloaded plate and looked around for dessert. Dessert was a new treat: Pocket Coffee. An innocent chocolate coating hid a volatile hit of high octane liquid coffee that popped my eyes open. "Just like the Italians to invent chocolates containing coffee," I said to Sharon, my heart palpitating. After a second Pocket Coffee I felt I could have stayed awake all night. And that was before the espresso was served! No wonder they had so much energy - they were all wired on caffeine! At nine, friends appeared for the usual Friday evening painting class. They introduced themselves as The Group of Four and noisily joined us around the table - just in time for after-dinner drinks. "Who is the instructor?" I asked, immediately setting off a vociferous debate between the four. Arms waving, their voices rose and fell as they struggled to arrive at a consensus. "They must paint with passion," I declared. Tony relayed their eventual answer: "We all are! Because not one of us knows how to paint!" Alcohol flowed freely. For the duration of the evening, paint and canvasses laid aside, The Group of Four bombarded us with questions. "Tonight they are critics," Tony said. During the evening, we saw firsthand how extroverted Italians really are. The place was like a full-blown three-ring circus: lively, expressive, and entertaining. Italians were far more animated than the most outrageous Canadian could ever dream. Everyone talked at once, relating tales. Poor Tony. He tried his utmost to translate three simultaneous conversations being told in a mixture of English, Italian, and Sardo. By midnight, he was looking rather frazzled. "Another Pocket Coffee, Tony?" I asked. There was a momentary lull in conversation. Caramella, having observed Sharon and my strange North American motionless custom, asked: "Why don't you wave your hands when you speak?" "It's not common for Canadians to speak with their hands," I explained. "Too many car accidents." "I want to experience what it is like to talk like a Canadian," Caramella said, and resolved to refrain from gesturing for the remainder of the evening. I asked her for directions to Saint Antine, our next stop, and to everyone's delight, she immediately waved her arms as she supplied the information. Realizing she had been duped, she grew a look of determination on her face and folded her arms tightly across her chest. And there they stayed until she spoke. Not one to give up, she resolutely decided to sit on her hands. But, to my amazement, she still wasn't successful. Clearly, minimal expression was not in their nature. Sharon leaned over and whispered: "Amputation is surely the worst imaginable misfortune to befall an Italian." Benjamin, a member of the Group of Four, had huge mutton chop sideburns. Everyone took a jab at him, kidding him about their enormity, which only made him more flamboyant. He began to juggle oranges and taught Sharon and me how to say mandarino, the name of the island's oranges. With great gusto he sang "mandarino" over and over until we had mastered it to his satisfaction. He learned we had toured Mammoth Cave in Kentucky and told us he was a spelunker. Having taken a shine to us, he offered to guide us through some of Sardinia's underwater caves. I was never keen on being in water, let alone in a cave, underwater. Luckily we lacked a common language, and I used that as an excuse to refuse his kind offer. Sometimes not knowing a language had its benefits. Tony, changing the subject, asked "What is Canada's national dish?" "We don't have one," I answered. "That's not possible!" he erupted indignantly like I was trying to pull a fast one over on him. "Canada is a very big country," I explained, and attempted to put the size of our country into context for him. "Sardinia would fit into Lake Superior like a pebble." Tony shook his head, still disbelieving. Sharon tried to help. "Canadians living on the coast often eat different foods than those in the interior," she said. "Canada is a composite of immigrants various regions enjoy different cuisines. Canadians like all sorts of foods. But we don't have a national dish." "You must have some common food that everyone eats" Tony insisted. I thought hard. "Doughnuts!" I exclaimed. "Doughnuts are our national food!" Yep, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. After all, Canadians ate the most doughnuts per capita in the world - we stomped our closest competitor, those Twinkie-eating Americans, by a healthy (okay, maybe that's the wrong word) margin of seven to one. Undoubtedly, it was the sugar in doughnuts that kept us Canadians sticking together. Problems with Quebec? Send 'em more doughnuts. At 1 am, having polished off the box of Pocket Coffee, Sharon and I headed back to the ranch. The amount of security in place to reach the secluded farm amused me. Partway up the road was a padlocked metal gate, a second gate through the barnyard was padlocked, and a third gate into the farmhouse yard was padlocked. I was tired just unlocking and locking padlocks, opening and closing gates. When we finally made it to the verandah, we were faced with unlocking not one, but two heavy iron farmhouse doors. Even the windows' metal shutters were locked. Talk about barricaded. When we managed to break inside the farmhouse we found it stone-cold - the unattended fire had long since burnt itself out. But we slept securely. |
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