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We Are Not Souvenirs
When we ventured from behind our fragrant shrub the following morning, the weather had calmed considerably. Seriously thirsty (all that talking) we packed up - we had drunk the last of our water the day before, and hadn't had anything since (except that half glass of repulsive shepherds' wine!). Fortunately, we were close to the mountain village of Orroli. In Orroli I took our water bottles into the grocery store. The woman at the checkout immediately left her cash register (and the queue of customers) to usher me to a tap. I filled my bottle, drank it down, refilled it, then went and stood in the bread line. Rural stores kept their bread behind a counter and patrons asked for it. The loaf I bought looked as if it had been sitting on the shelf for the better part of a week. If bread sounds like meager rations, I assure you it isn't, at least not Sardinian bread. Their loaves are the size of building blocks and weigh in at about the same kilograms. It wasn't anemic poof like the white stuff we ate in North America. European bread had heft; it was a meal in itself. We left town and cruised downhill through a gorge dripping with multi-coloured reds, oranges, and yellows. At a corner, we saw an old section of stone bridge that looked like a fine spot for breakfast. I staked out a tuft of grass and plunked myself down with my Orroli acquisition. "Look at this thing," I said. "Is this loaf a brick, or what?" I opened my Swiss Army knife and sliced into it. A waft of steam emitted from the loaf's interior. It was still warm! I couldn't believe it. "Will you look at that! I'll never judge a loaf by its crust again!" We slathered a gooey concoction of cherry, strawberry, and blueberry jam onto large hunks of heavenly delicious warm bread. We ate the whole thing. "Too big to carry - too small to eat," was Sharon's assessment. With full bellies, we dropped out of the mountains to sea level. There was nowhere to go but up. And, sure enough, we spent the remainder of the morning climbing arduously into Escalaplano. Just before Escalaplano's town limits, we passed a skinny fellow strolling along behind two fat oxen. I leaned my bike against a signpost and ran back to capture the man and beasts with my camera before they disappeared. After I snapped the picture, I returned to my bicycle and watched as the ox-driver paraded his animals into town and down main street. In disbelief I mounted my bike shaking my head over the absurdity of the unfolding spectacle. But, as I pedalled into town behind the oxen, all the locals' whimsical stares were saved for Sharon and me. Once again, I was reminded it was we on our loaded beasts who were the foreign sight. I entered the town grocery store. Sharon waited outside. She was worried that without her daily ritual shower she stank too much to be indoors, and always elected to watch the bikes while I shopped. I sauntered down the cookie aisle - a favourite haunt of cycle tourists. Partway along, somewhere between the chocolate wafers and cream-filled delights, I heard a commotion outside. Peering through an ad-covered window, I saw what the disturbance was. A young moron was wailing at the top of his lungs a few inches from Sharon's nose. His hair stuck out at oblique angles and his shirttail flapped about his waist while his arms thrashed about alarmingly, not unlike an octopus in the midst of an epileptic seizure. Poor Sharon. Trying to ignore Octi's verbal assault, she was looking down so intently she appeared to be absorbed in a master's thesis on footwear. Before I could go to Sharon's aid, Octi's father happened along. He screeched something at Octi and dusted off Octi's pants with a swift boot to the rear, then dragged Octi off down the street by his ear. Way to go dad! After my shopping excursion, I exited the grocery store laden with staples: chocolate wafers and cream-filled cookies. Sharon was surrounded by seven twelve-year-old school kids on their way home for lunch. One girl was enchanted with Sharon's laden bike - so much so that she was trying to buy it. "What was the village idiot screaming about?" I asked. "I'm not sure," Sharon replied. "He just came up to me and started talking. When I told him I didn't understand Italian, he responded by yelling louder." "Doesn't he know that only works with English?" I asked sarcastically. "Maybe he would have gotten the hint if you had shouted back: 'No capiche!'" We were in the midst of packing our purchases when two tall, dark, and handsomely buttoned police officers made a beeline for us. Had they been dispatched to investigate the uproar on main street? "Can I help you with anything?" the tallest one asked. "Can I take your picture?" I asked, seizing the opportunity to capture those shiny buttons on film. "No," he replied. "Souvenir," I tried, pouting. "We are not souvenirs," he retorted indignantly. "Where are you going?" the second officer diplomatically jumped in. I dug out our Sardinia map and pointed to Ballao. There was only one road into Escalaplano and only one road out. I recalled the way we had arrived, so even I could figure out which way we needed to go to get to Ballao. Both officers helpfully pointed the way. Satisfied they had done their good deed for the day, they prepared to leave. I attempted one final time to get their picture. "Fotografia," I said. "To remember you helping us." "Okay," the tallest one relented. "Take our picture." They stood awkwardly beneath the striped alimentari's awning, next to Sharon and the little schoolgirl who still hadn't given up on buying Sharon's bike. It was a Kodak moment. Nice buttons fellas. We managed to find our way out of town, and ecstatically discovered it was all effortless downhill to Ballao. Near Ballao, alongside the Flumendosa River, we came across cast rock picnic tables. (No worries that vandals would destroy those babies.) Of course, we stopped to use them. And, on this occasion, we were even hungry. |
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