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Don't Thank Me
In the morning, sore pinky and all, we descended onto the farmland and rode past green fields. Men worked in the fields, picking artichokes. In one fluid motion they stooped, chopped off the head, then tossed it into the basket on their back. "Have you ever seen so many artichokes in your life?" I asked Sharon. "Sardinia must be the artichoke capital of the world." I was still pondering how one ate those spiny leaves when we came across a roadside water trough. We stopped to bathe and wash our clothes. It wasn't exactly the hot shower we craved, but it would suffice all the same. Luckily, the sun was shining - I hated taking my clothes off when I could see my breath. As I stripped down and lathered up, it felt as if the entire island drove by for a gawk - including a convoy of army personnel that passed single file, honking and waving. (I knew it wasn't my bod they were excited about though.) After we got underway, fresh and clean, it wasn't long before we cycled onto the causeway leading to the small island of Saint Antioco. Flamingoes, eating and sunning themselves, lazed about a lagoon created by the raised road. ('Pond' in Italian is 'stagno,' and by the smell of that water, their word was more appropriate. Bacon is 'lardo.' Score two for the Italians.) Down to our last lira, we had to replenish our money supply before the banks closed for the weekend. We should have given our trip to the bank top priority, but an archeological dig beckoned and became our first stop. Prehistoric pottery funerary jars were scattered about; shards half-buried in the earth rose amongst tufts of yellowed grass. Our brochure stated that the first-born had been sacrificed at the site to the god Bes. What were they thinking? As a first-born myself, I wasn't too keen on that tradition. Who started that ritual? Second-born's? We pedalled off in search of a bank still pondering the enigma of human sacrifice. On a Friday afternoon we arrived outside the only bank in town. The hours were posted on the door: Closed 3:35. It was 3:37. But there was an auto teller. I stuck in my Visa card. No joy. I tried Mastercard, tickling the keypad with sensual tactility. But again it didn't like foreign plastic, and rudely rejected my advances. I could see through the window that workers were still inside, counting money. I wondered if they would let me in, and entered the bank's first set of doors into a cubicle between two glass security doors. A disembodied voice crackled over an intercom's speaker: "We're close-ed," it said, in three distinct syllables. "When are you open?" I asked. "Monday," the voice intoned, floating into the chamber like some disembodied ethereal being. I burst out laughing thinking Sharon and I would be much thinner by Monday. But I doubted Sharon would see it as quite so amusing. A portly manager, bearing a remarkable similarity to Danny DeVito, strutted over, and unlocked the door on his side of the bank. "What do you want?" he asked. I held up my credit cards. "Cash advance." He deftly plucked the cards from my fingers and motioned me inside. He returned behind the counter, and standing opposite me, scrutinized both my credit cards with his beady little eyes. I wondered if he were going to bite them to see if they were real. Then, carelessly, he flipped the Mastercard back towards me. It skidded across the smooth countertop surface and I snagged it as it slid off. "How much do you want?" he sighed, handing my Visa card to a teller. "Five hundred thousand lira," I grinned, and grabbed a pen off the counter to write the number with its five zeros for clarification. In Italy, I felt like a millionaire. The teller dialed for authorization. "Grazie," I said, smiling. "Don't say 'Grazie' yet," she said curtly. She hung up the phone and strode to the counter with a winning smile. "It's okay," she said, pointing to the authorization number. "Grazie," I said again. She requested my passport, then transferred its address info onto another form. When she wrote 'Edmonton,' for the place of residence she poked a finger on the countertop. "Vancouver," she said. "Where is Edmonton?" "Right next to Vancouver," I replied, then tapped points on the counter while saying: "Vancouver, Edmonton, Toronto, Montreal." She nodded. "My parents live in Vancouver. I am going to visit them in April for ten days," she told me. It's a small world, I thought, as I exited the bank with an enormous wad of cash. "I'm going to have to get a bigger wallet," I said to Sharon, as I crammed the bundle of bills into my passport pouch. Flush with new wealth, we rode through town, eager to explore the tiny island. Remembering the direction of the main island's prevailing wind, we decided not to make the same mistake again, and chose a clockwise route for our Saint Antioco tour. A seaside road led us out of town and along a steep and rocky coast. Elderly folks on the hillside - bent-double in the tall grass - searched for mushrooms. Fungi didn't interest us: we were in pursuit of the most picturesque camp spot on the island. We cycled one particular section of coast three times, back and forth, deliberating over the many choice spots. "We need more garbage dump sites," I said, referring to a spot we had camped at in Spain. "Then we wouldn't be so picky." We finally chose a sandy area above a mini castle with a fine view of the sea. "This is the life!" I said as I bedded down for the night. |
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