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Married - With Kids?
Sometime after two in the morning, we spread our sleeping bags on Francesco's cold tiled kitchen floor, and drifted off into peaceful slumber, warmed by the knowledge that we had been privileged to share a typical day in Sardo life. I was convinced it was our mode of travel that afforded us such extravagances. Our bicycles made us approachable, unlike most travellers barred inside metal monstrosities. At 6 am, Francesco's boots hit the floor - albeit more slowly than the previous day. No doubt he would be glad when we were gone and he could resume his regular sleeping schedule. By the time he returned from morning milking we were up. He promptly strained fresh sheep's milk into a pot for our now obligatory mugs of hot chocolate. After breakfast, we were set to get underway. Sharon found her bike leaning against the woodpile exactly where she had left it two days previously, but she discovered she had acquired an additional passenger. A kitten had taken up residence on her seat. When Sharon approached her bike, the cat didn't even stir. To me, the curled-up furry critter looked as if it would make a comfy cushion - at least once its claws were trimmed. Sharon had no such inclinations. She pushed the feline off. It immediately hopped back onto the saddle and assumed its position. "That cat wants to travel" Francesco stated. "You can take it with you," he said, only half-joking. Sharon declined his kind offer, and handed him the fuzzy seat cover so we could make our getaway. "It looks like it's going to rain," Francesco noted, looking skyward, attempting to delay our departure. "It wouldn't be the first time," I answered as I mounted up. With a tinge of sadness, knowing we would probably never see our friend again, we headed off down the long driveway, dinging our bells and waving goodbye. In a few minutes, Francesco passed us in his three-wheeled truck, heading to the dairy to deliver milk. He honked up a storm and waved as if he hadn't seen us in eons. We arrived in Paulilatino, and stopped to buy bread. The two friendly women in the shop asked me questions. I surprised myself. I understood them well enough to reply. Francesco's two-day crash Italian course was paying off. At a crossroads on the edge of town, we stopped to look at our map and decide which way to go. A blue three-wheel truck honked and pulled over. It was the fellow who had reprimanded me at the bar the night before. "Jeez," I said to Sharon, "if we wait around a few minutes, I'm sure we'll see everyone we know." He hopped out of his truck. I pointed to my watch, joking that we had been waiting for him. "What took you so long?" I kidded. He jerked a thumb towards a shredded tire laying in the back of the truck. I guess we weren't the only ones who suffered flats. I was still uttering my condolences when a second vehicle honked and pulled over. It was Francesco the Bartender. "It really is a small island," Sharon affirmed. Francesco, a permanent smile plastered on his stubbled face, wished us another round of cheery goodbyes and best wishes. "Are you coming back next year?" he asked earnestly. "Someday we will return," Sharon promised. Yep. There we were, attempting to cycle around the world, and having one small problem: we couldn't get away from Sardinia. The people there were just too darn friendly. Finally, everyone was waved out, and we headed off towards the village of Saint Leonard's. On a tranquil forested corner partway there, we happened upon two roadside tables tucked away in the trees. We pulled to a stop beside them, obeying our unwritten rule of not passing any picnic tables, and pulled out our food. We were almost finished lunch when a telephone company truck stopped. Its doors swung open and two Catel workmen hopped out. They sat at the adjacent table, eyed our bikes, and immediately invited us over to join them. Marcos, the younger and shorter of the two, was an accomplished English speaker. He introduced himself and his non-English speaking workmate, Mario. It was impossible not to notice that Mario was a dead-ringer for Tom Selleck. "Where did you learn English?" we asked Marcos. "I learned English from my teacher wife," he answered with a grin and mischievous twinkle. It was easy to tell he had a penchant for jokes. He asked us the usual queries, and translated some of our replies to Mario. Sharon and I found that Sardinians asked far more personal questions than the average North American. Rather than merely asking: "Where are you from? Where are you going? How many miles a day do you do?" Sardinians usually asked: "How old are you? Are you married? Do you have any children? Why not? Is your mother or father Italian?" When in Rome, do as the Romans do, we figured, so after they heard our responses, we asked them what their ages were. "Forty-two," Marcos responded. "No!" Sharon and I cried, surprised by his youthful appearance. We had him pegged somewhere in the early twenties. "That is impossible!" Marcos opened his wallet, removed his driver's license, and pointed to its birth date to prove he was telling the truth. We were still shaking our heads in disbelief when he dropped the bombshell. "I have six sons," he said earnestly. Six sons! "Impossible!" Sharon and I exclaimed again. We truly didn't believe him. "I think you're twenty-two and single," Sharon said. I almost expected Marcos to pop open his wallet and display pictures of six boys. But enough talk - it was time to eat. They opened their lunch bags, and removed the contents, bringing forth some interesting items. Rather than sandwiches, they both had containers of pasta. Fair enough. They were Italians, after all. And instead of a juice or soft drink, they pulled out tiny bottles of wine. I had to laugh. Apparently, a true Italian never ate lunch without wine. Mario graciously offered us a squiggly-shaped deep-fried lemon pastry. I took a bite, and smiled: it tasted like a zippy citrus doughnut. "Mario's wife makes the special pastry once a year for lent," Marcos told us. "Mmmm," I said, "I've never had anything like this before." Mario passed me a second pastry. Marcos was intrigued. "Do you have pasta in Canada?" "Oh, yes," I answered. "But is it real Italian pasta?" Marcos stressed. Only after I had assured him it was real Italian pasta, complete with the red, white, and green Italian flag, that I realized I had missed a great opportunity. "Pasta? What's that?" I should have said. "No, we don't have pasta in Canada." Did that sound convincing? Perhaps if I started saying that, our dinner invitations would increase. (But, with my luck, we'd be in Scotland and the locals would invite us in for haggis every day. I'd have to lie. "Haggis in Canada? You bet! Heck, even McDonald's serves 'em: McHaggis.") Marcos took a pad of paper out of his pocket and sketched my face, complete with my three-day beard. "Brutto," he said. "Ugly." I wasn't entirely sure if he were speaking about his artistic ability or his subject matter. Regardless, I agreed with him. It was indeed brutto. "Where do you live?" I asked, changing the subject. "Mario and I live in Oristano." "Oristano!" Sharon said, brightening, recalling that Francesco had told us Oristano had the island's best festival. "Will you have horses at the carnival?" she enquired. "Yes," Marcos answered, then added impishly, "Mario has a big horse the big boss man needs a big horse!" Mario hadn't comprehended any of our conversation, but he realized from Marcos' tone that he was being made the brunt of another joke. Marcos had previously rendered snippets of our conversation to Mario, but usually only when he had made a joke about Mario. At Marcos' latest jab, Mario piped up, "Marcos only interprets when it suits him." He was absolutely correct. That was precisely what Marcos was doing. Marcos knew he held the upper hand, and he was taking full advantage of it. Mario decided it was time to get even. He chimed in (in Italian), that we had been right all along about Marcos. "Marcos really is a young single guy. That was fake ID he showed you earlier." I responded to Mario's information, practicing my Italiano. I knew most shepherds were single (working in a field with a herd of sheep didn't present many chances to meet women). "Marcos is a pastore (a shepherd)," I said. Mario nodded his head in agreement. Marcos was a pastore. I then chose a rather unfortunate moment to practice one of the few other Italian words I knew. "Pecora (sheep)," I said. Mario exploded in laughter. He belly-laughed for a good half-minute, wiped tears from his eyes, and then reached across the table to heartily pump my arm. He thought I had played a highly amusing joke on Marcos. "Can you come and meet my family?" he asked, still chuckling. Apparently, anyone who could get the best of Marcos was a friend of his. Letting go of my hand, Mario high-fived me, duly impressed that from the two words of Italian I knew, I had pulled off a joke at Marcos' expense - and a dirty one at that! |
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