|
Cotton Candy
"I need a whirlpool in the worse way," I moaned the next morning, still smarting from our overland expedition. "I'd settle for a shower," Sharon conceded. Whitecapped waves hurled spray against rocks, and the wind saw fit to push us out of the seaside mountains and onto flat farmland. In the town of Arborea, I walked into Hotel Gallo to book a room. Sharon had convinced me it was high time we got out of the elements and had ourselves a proper bath. When I went to register however, I ran into difficulty. The hotel owner quickly discovered I couldn't speak fluent Italian, and wouldn't have anything to do with me. Abandoning my attempt to communicate verbally, I resorted to my handy-dandy "phrase for every occasion" book and opened it to the appropriate page. Holding it out to him, I pointed to the Italian words: "Do you have a room?" The man refused to look at the passage. Instead, he smacked the book away, nearly knocking it from my grasp. "No capiche!" he said loudly. "Adios!" And with that flippant backhand motion Italian's are so famous for, he dismissed me from his establishment. Stunned, I exited, and returned to where Sharon was waiting. "I haven't met many narrow-minded people on Sardinia," I grumbled, "but the ones I do meet sure help me appreciate those who are kind to us." We bowed to the fact there was no room for us at the inn, and rode out of town in a disgruntled frame of mind. In a few kilometers, a racing cyclist, out for a spin on his sleek lightweight titanium machine, approached from the opposite direction. As we drew near, he zipped across his lane into ours, and stopped in front of us. We stopped and he passionately broke into a dire road report full of warnings about frightful conditions ahead. Our imminent path, according to him, was obstructed by road construction and totally impassable. "Obviously, he hasn't seen the roads we've been cycling," Sharon whispered. "But," he continued, "lucky for you, I am here." "Lucky us," Sharon said flatly, in no mood to be led on a wild goose chase. I explained we preferred to carry on our merry way through the construction, but our helpful citizen would have none of that. Ardently, he insisted we follow him back to a crossroads and he'd show us a road that bypassed the nasty construction. Neither Sharon nor I wished to insult our good-intentioned friend by arguing (especially since he was trying so diligently to erase the reticent hotel owner's bad karma), so, taking the path of least resistance, we allowed him to lead us back two kilometers. At the crossroads, he pointed us in the direction we were to detour, waved cheerfully, and speedily pedalled off for home (to a wonderful, refreshing shower, no doubt). We waited a full two minutes until our good Samaritan was a mere retreating speck. Then, confident he wouldn't see our about-face, we swung our bicycles around and retraced our route towards the construction he had so vigorously warned us against. When we arrived at the alleged impasse, we whooped in glee. Apparently, racing cyclists weren't made of the same stuff as touring cyclists - the only obstacles we had to skirt were a couple of mounds of dirt. Other than that, it was clear sailing. In fact, the "under construction" road turned out to be one of the better routes we had cycled in the past week. At a turnoff to San Giusta, near the city of Oristano, a huge flock of bright pink flamingoes billowed into the early evening sky. The low angle of the sun lit up their gossamer wings and they glowed like a weird imitation of an immense candy-floss cloud. Enjoying the bright spectacle, we felt that even Mother Nature was trying to do her part in apologizing for our encounter with the bad-natured proprietor. In the small town of San Giusta we restocked our food supply, then scrutinized our map curbside, plotting various routes to the town of Fordongianus. An old-timer on a rickety bike pulled alongside, and asked us where we wanted to go. "Palmas Arborea," I said (the nearest settlement on our intended route). He nodded, and waved to follow him. He doggedly led us around a series of street corners, his plump old body rocking as he pumped his single-speed's creaking pedals. We followed him down an alley and emerged at the other end to find ourselves in front of a steep hill. At no more than a snail's pace, the old geezer laboriously churned his way up the incline. He rode so slowly, I was sure he was about to lose momentum and topple over. Wheezing, and snorting like some old steam locomotive, he amazingly conquered the top and reined to a halt. He waited silently until he caught his breath, then with a wavering finger, pointed towards Palmas Arborea. He confirmed we understood his instructions, held his arm high in a hearty goodbye salute, and pedalled off in the opposite direction. We straddled our bikes on the road edge, and watched his outline recede. When he disappeared around a bend, we turned to one another, huge grins spreading across our faces. Without a doubt, good-hearted Sardinian's far outnumbered the few ill-natured ones we had the misfortune to run across. |
Book Info