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Washrooms in Italy: Closed
On the way into Cagliari, Sardinia's capital and most populous city, we stopped at a mini-market. The two women serving me were cheerful and bubbly (the outgoing nature of Italians is easy to get used to). But, what I was having difficulty getting used to was grocery shopping. The whole affair was foreign. For example, buying fruit or vegetables could easily become an ordeal. Rather than quickly choosing produce myself like back home, I was forced to stand in line and, upon reaching the front of the queue, tell the clerk the quantity of each item I wanted. Their method was a great way to improve my Italian, but nerve-wracking when I forgot a word or number. The clerk would place my item into a paper bag, then repeat the process for each of my requests. When I first encountered their system, I thought they did it for hygienic reasons. (The customer was never allowed to fondle the produce; I sure missed squeezing the tomatoes.) However, after learning the island's unemployment rate, I began to suspect the whole affair was a colossal make-work scheme. If we had a hankering for sliced ham and cheese sandwiches, I would line up at the meat and cheese counter and practice saying Italian numbers in my head. When it was my turn, I would point to the Edam cheese, and indicate the number of slices I wanted by holding up the requisite number of fingers, while pronouncing a fuzzy facsimile of the corresponding number. (Italian is such a musical language - no matter how many slices I really wanted, I always asked for "quattro" just because it sounded so cool. Sharon liked it too!) The clerk would reach into the display case, haul out the cheese block, hoist it onto the electric slice-o-matic, and lop off four slices. That accomplished, the clerk replaced the cheese block in the display case. Then, the clerk would wrap my slices in dark waxy paper, carefully (read: slowly) fold it, weigh it, and write the price on it. Next, I would point to a hock of cured ham, and we would dance through the entire progression again. Eventually, I was handed two small packets and, as I trundled off, the proceedings began anew with the next patron. I noted the following customer often requested the same type of cheese I had. The clerk would pull the formaggio out yet again, prop it on the slicer, and carve off the required four to ten slices. It was a labour intensive process and (depending on my mood at that moment), I considered it either quaint or a farcical waste of time. I cradled my bundles and sidled over to the checkout counter. Once there, I was tempted with one last impulse buy - Italian ice cream bars - and, like a two-year-old, couldn't resist. Grinning as jubilantly as a Visigoth returning from sacking Rome, I returned to where Sharon was waiting. The sun warily peeked through clouds, as if trying to glimpse my Italian gelato. We crouched out of the wind and indulged in the nut-covered ice cream bars with strawberry centers. "I could get used to these," I announced gleefully. When I finished, I returned to the store for two more. "Piccolo," I said, commenting on the ice cream's smallish size, as I reached into the freezer. The two clerks laughed heartily. We rode into Cagliari, and stopped beside a lagoon to watch hundreds of flamingoes feeding in the shallow water. A few of the long-legged birds were bright pink, but most were a dull orange or even white. I wondered if the orange and white birds were a different breed or if they were that colour because it was winter? We left Cagliari on a busy coastal highway. At a narrow bridge we stopped to consider the situation. A strong crosswind was howling, threatening to toss us into traffic, and we knew the wind would probably be worse out on the open bridge. We wisely decided not to fight cars, buses, and trucks for a measly portion of the tight bridge deck, and elected to push our bikes on the sidewalk. Halfway across, sure enough, the wind was at its most intense. Airborne grit pelted our faces. Blinded, we grappled our way to the end of the bridge - and found we were trapped. The road's guardrail shunted off onto the shoulder, effectively enclosing us on the walkway. As trucks and buses rumbled past, I ranted about stupid railing installers, then hernially strained myself lifting my loaded touring bike over the guardrail. I was still hexing pea-brained guardrail workers when we approached a gas station with a sign prominently advertising washrooms. Sharon insisted she had to stop and use them. "It'll be our first real washrooms in Italy," she said. Smiling, she left me with the bikes, and happily trudged off to porcelain bliss. She soon returned however, her mood downcast. "Why so glum, chum?" I probed. "I was told they're 'Riservato.'" "What?" I said incredulously. "You have to make reservations to use a toilet?" Sharon pedalled off in a huff mumbling something about "maintaining our track record." She was right. When we had asked to use a washroom in Italy, we had been turned down one hundred percent of the times. "Maybe you should get one of those female urinary devices that allow women to go standing up," I advised helpfully, puffing to catch up to her. "I think it's called a 'She-pee.'" Sharon was not amused. |
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