|
Whisker Burn
The fire throbbed in the farmhouse's stone hearth. Sharon and I sat crouched on our elf-sized chairs facing the pulsating embers, enjoying the silence after Moto-gross Louie's verbal assault. Francesco busied himself in the kitchen preparing bow tie pasta and his delectable meat sauce. When it was ready we dug in, eating heartily. We had just finished our first round when Francesco the Bartender arrived to help with leftover detail. Near midnight, after much conversation and several glasses of Francesco's fine wine, Francesco the Bartender rose to leave. He shook my hand and we did the Italian double-cheek goodbye thing. I endured my first whisker burn since Uncle Dave used to torment me when I was five-years-old (as kids, my cousins and I actually lined up to get one of his whisker rubs). I had to admit: Francesco the Bartender's stiff bristles sure felt good on my itchy insect bites. Mamma mio. Francesco suddenly remembered his Shepherd's cheese (made even more delicious after aging another day, I'll bet), and dashed into the back room to fetch it. Francesco the Bartender couldn't resist the offer to sample it. He loved the stuff. I politely declined. I still had my previous day's tidbit tucked away in my pocket for safekeeping - I liked the stuff so much I had even slept with it. Pocket Cheese: A new product from Italy. Francesco the Bartender swallowed his first morsel, then rubbed his hands together gleefully and reached into the container for a second helping. Francesco smacked his hand. "Use a fork," he admonished. Francesco again surprised me with his fastidious hygiene habits. Who knew? A tiny ghetto-blaster hung from a nail on the wall, twanging out old rock and roll tunes. Francesco dipped into the mysterious back room and returned with a bag filled with cassettes. Sliding one into the player, traditional Sardinian music replaced American legends. Francesco the Bartender cocked his head, listening to the familiar melodies. "Do you know there's a traditional Sardo dance?" he asked between songs. "Really?" we responded, intrigued. "Can you show us?" The two Francescos stood proudly. Linking arms, they performed a fast-paced skip in time with the lively triple rhythm. The music reminded me of Irish jigs, and their dance possessed the combined characteristics of Irish-jigging and square dancing, complemented with the occasional Spanish yell thrown in for good measure. When the tune ended (mercifully for our friends), both were huffing and puffing. Beaming, they gladly accepted our applause, and slumped gasping onto a nearby bench. The pair took a well-deserved breather. When they recovered their breath, they mentioned that the island's annual carnivals were scheduled to begin shortly. Oristano's carnival was by far the best they both agreed. They told us that at the carnivals, in addition to partying and dancing, there were horsemanship events as well. Francesco slipped into the back room and returned with a photo album. He showed us pictures of himself when he had participated. There was a fine shot of him sitting on a powerfully built white charger, his back ramrod straight, looking intensely handsome indeed. Surely he was one of Sardinia's most eligible bachelors. They told us that during the Oristano carnival participants prove their riding abilities by performing acrobatic stunts. The horsemen ride in teams of three - side by side - their horses tethered together, ensuring they all ran in unison. Francesco passed us snapshots. The first set showed three horses charging madly down a dirt street with the middle rider standing on his buddies' shoulders. Yikes! That was way too much trust in others for me. In another set, riders galloped full-tilt while executing synchronous triple headstands. Jeepers! It looked like a quick way to a broken neck! My favourite set pictured two flanking riders galloping at breakneck speed while standing on the backs of their horses and holding the ankles of an upside-down middle rider. My Gosh! These people were insane! At 2 am, Francesco the Bartender got ready to depart again (he had to work the next day). At the doorway he bestowed a gift upon Sharon - a clear-sided pen with a tiny sailboat encased inside. When the pen tipped, the yacht gracefully glided from one end to the other. Neat! I wanted one. Hey! Where was mine? But I didn't get one. Francesco the Shepherd, not to be outdone, quickly grabbed his prize photo of himself sitting atop his splendid mount and presented it to Sharon. Lucky Sharon. It didn't take me long to figure out who was their favourite. All I got was another whisker burn. |
Book Info