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Which Way To . . .?
In Alghero, a predominantly Catalan flavoured coastal town, we re-stocked with fresh pasta and oranges, then hit a seaside park to eat lunch. Several wind surfers were in the bay, skimming to and fro over the aquamarine waves, making healthy use of their lunch break and the windy conditions. We left town towards Cape Caccia with its spectacular sheer cliffs riddled with marine caves. Partway there, we crossed a new bridge flanking an ancient Roman ruin bridge. Several of the ruin's arches were still intact and fishermen stood on various perches casting into the sea. The terrain flattened for a short distance and the wind was kind enough to push us along effortlessly. The land became noticeably richer with more grass and more sheep in the fields than we had previously seen. There were even cows in the fields, and I noticed the region's houses looked more affluent. The riding was easy all the way to the inland village of Olmedo. On a street corner, an old farmer was selling oranges from the back of his truck. He called out to us as we rode past. We turned around and went over to him. His kind gray eyes had a softness to them, but I was still surprised when he presented me with a big bag of oranges. "Too many!" I protested, and handed some oranges back to him. It wasn't working. He was taking the oranges from my hands and stuffing them into Sharon's already bulging panniers. When he had convinced himself that no more could fit, he pointed to my flag. "Canada," he said. "Intelligente," I responded, complimenting his astute discernment. "Si!" he replied, and confidently tapped his head. Sharon tied the remaining bag of oranges onto my carrier, and noticed that my rear tire was threadbare. "Look at this tire!" she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Examining it, she advised, "You had better change it." "I'd rather wait until it went flat on its own accord," I answered. I wasn't in the mood for tire-changing. I always got my hands greasy. Besides, I hadn't had a flat in some time and I didn't want to risk upsetting the karma. "Your karma isn't running over my dogma, is it?" I said, grinning. "With that tire," she retorted, "you'll be going downhill at forty miles an hour and have a blow out. Do you want to become a helmet-tester?" Okay. I had to admit she had a point. I grudgingly complied with her assessment and got to work. Once the new tire was installed we headed towards Santa Trinità di Saccárgia, a Pisan-style church constructed in 1116. I had seen pictures of its sublime layers of alternating black and white rock and I wanted to see it for myself. It wasn't long before I flatted. I wasn't at all pleased. It was the new tire. "Isn't that always the way?" I complained bitterly. "I haven't had a flat in weeks. I put on a brand new tire and immediately have one!" I took off the tire, ripped out the tube, and looked for the hole. To my consternation, it was on top! "A spoke end must have punctured it," I grumbled. I checked my rim and located the offending spoke, then stuck a layer of tape over it to cushion the tube from further poking. Then I patched the tube, reinstalled it, pumped it up, and finally put the wheel back onto my bike. We left the green countryside behind, and entered a dry zone. Soon, we happened across a hillside dotted with ancient burial chambers. Dropping our bikes on the side of the road, we scurried up the hillside to explore. Sharon poked her head into one doorway. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she reported it was a large chamber, about a hundred square feet, with two smooth rock pillars chiselled out of the tufa supporting the roof. "How the heck did they remove the material with such precision?" I asked when I got a chance to look inside. "Can you imagine how long it must have taken to excavate that?" We poked around the arid hillside and discovered many tombs. Most of them were small - about body size. Two of the caverns we looked in held pools of water. I thought that was incredible, considering our dry surroundings. At the top of the hill we found an expansive chamber and ventured inside. It was like a low-ceiling apartment. Just inside the entrance was a waist-high chiselled platform for a fire. The blackened soot marks appeared fresh - as though someone had used it not so long ago. Ledges were carved into the rock walls for sleeping perhaps. I felt as if I were trespassing, and was glad when I returned outside to the wind and sunshine. I was starting to get hungry. We left the tomb area and rode until we came to a pink and white blossomed almond grove. It overlooked tiny Lake Cuga, and looked like a pleasant spot for a bite to eat. We rested our backs against a stone wall that blocked us from the gusty wind, while four countrymen worked in the vineyard next to us, pruning the vines. After lunch, the terrain became more gruelling. Scrabbling up a steep section just before the village of Tissi, I rounded a switchback, and my rear tire went flat again. "Oh, blast it!" I yelled. The sight of the airless rubber threw me into a hissy fit and I railed against the abominable forces beyond my control. It was not pretty. "This place is well-named," Sharon commented wryly, noting I was in somewhat of a tizzy. I ripped out the tube. The darn patch I had put on earlier had come loose. "Lousy no-flat tubes," I complained. "Those no-flat tube manufacturers' advertise: 'Patches like a normal tube,' but it just ain't true." I put in a new tube and made it the entire ten kilometers to Ossi without experiencing another deflating episode. In Ossi we stopped beside a fountain with four lion heads spurting water. We took out our map and studied it, trying to determine the best route to the Santa Trinità church a few kilometers away. Two men from a garage next-door - a mechanic in grease-covered overalls, and a tubby, balding customer - beelined over to us. They found out where we wished to go and immediately began arguing with each other as to the best way for us to get there. The air was soon blue with their shouting; their wildly gesticulating hands punctuated their particular chosen route with heavy slaps on the map. On a couple of occasions they nearly batted the map from my grasp. What was worse, Mr. Tubby continually yanked on my arm whenever he spoke. What was that for? The better to persuade me? It wasn't working. The debate focused around which route was shortest. Sharon insisted it didn't have to be the shortest or the fastest - we would rather travel on a little road with no trucks, than on the shortest route with trucks. They finally agreed on a route. Mr. Mechanic returned to his work, pleased his mission had been satisfactorily completed, while Mr. Tubby remained by our side. In a series of pantomimes and map-pointing, he acted out our intended route. From his lengthy explanation I was positive he was acting out every corner, every hill, and every shepherd we were to come upon in the next twenty kilometers. He was still simulating his chosen route when a shepherd showed up at the fountain to fill some jugs. As water flowed into his containers, I noticed the shepherd scrutinizing Mr. Tubby's absurd exhibition. Near the end (I think) of Mr. Tubby's pantomimic shenanigans the shepherd injected his route two cents. Rancorous arguing, yelling, and arm waving between Mr. Tubby and the shepherd flared anew. Sharon and I shook our heads, and laughed. "Only Italians could get so worked up giving directions," Sharon chuckled. I was sure they were going to burst a blood vessel; hideous purple veins bulged in the middle of their foreheads. Just when it appeared the shepherd was gaining a toe hold, the mechanic's voice cried out loudly from beneath a car hood and he spiritedly rejoined the fray. Sharon nearly toppled off her bike in hysterics. I would have found the situation funnier if Mr. Tubby and Mr. Shepherd hadn't strategically positioned themselves on either side of me. They took turns tugging mightily on my respective arms in an effort to reinforce their individual proposals. "Well, at least with my arms' new length, I'll be able to scratch my feet while lying in bed," I told Sharon. The tag-team attack of Mr. Tubby and Mr. Mechanic eventually tongue-lashed Mr. Shepherd into submission. He threw up his hands in exasperation, picked up his full jugs, and wandered off to lick his wounds. Mr. Tubby, feeling victorious, invited us into the garage for a celebratory drink. The beer offer from Mr. Tubby led to an invitation to spend the night at his home. He was horribly concerned that we planned on camping at the church, insisting there were criminals lurking there just waiting to cut our throats - that was, he reiterated, if we were lucky. He made several dark innuendoes that "bad men" would do other unsavory things to our bodies before they finally mercifully slit our throat. Mr. Tubby said he was a policeman and therefore knew about such atrocities. He whipped out his police badge numerous times during his dire warnings, and strove to assure us that we would be safe with him. When people are so intent on proving their virtuosity, it always makes me a little nervous. "Maybe you should phone your wife first," I suggested. "No problem," he stated emphatically. "Follow me." Still not quite sure what we were getting ourselves into, we slogged after Mr. Tubby's car. I was somewhat amused when he led us up the exact road he had vehemently criticized for twenty minutes before with Mr. Shepherd because it was too steep for bicycles. When we arrived outside Mr. Tubby's front door unannounced, sweating and puffing, his "no problem" wife, cigarette dangling from her lower lip, didn't appear pleased at all. I was beginning to catch on to some of those arcane Italian facial expressions, and her's definitely said: "What the hell is this?" She didn't smile as Mr. Tubby introduced us. "They're from Canada," he said, as if that explained everything. His wife stomped upstairs as he showed us where to stow our bikes next to his car in the garage. He disappeared, then waved us into the main hall. "My wife. No problem," he said again. Sure Mr. Tubby. We could tell it was no problem at all. Mr. Tubby's wife prepared chicken fried in a generous quantity of olive oil. Sharon groaned. She had sworn off chicken since her salmonella episode. Luckily there was plenty of pasta too. Their three girls, ages ten, eight, and three, sat in a row at the table and took turns being loudly scolded, except the youngest, who in her parents' eyes, could do no wrong. Mr. and Mrs. Tubby chain-smoked throughout the meal. And the television set at the far end of the room blared, tuned to some no-brainer game show whose star attractions belonged to a busty blonde bimbo whose bra size surpassed her apparent IQ by a multiple of two. Mr. Tubby ogled the boob tube between bites, and not-so-coyly sent me lurid hand signals. By the end of the show, I had learned that Italians had hand signals for entire phrases. We finished supper. Mr. Tubby, with his modicum of English, asked if we wanted anything else. "We're fine," we replied. "Are you tranquil?" he asked. "Yes, we're tranquil," we assured him and wondered where he learned that word. Mr. Tubby poured us a Scotch. If we weren't tranquil before, we soon would be. I took a sip. It was too strong, so I poured the remainder into Mr. Tubby's glass. He knocked the tumbler back in one gulp. "I'm a chic zombie!" he chirped suddenly. Sharon and I erupted in laughter. Where did people who knew so little English come up with such bizarre, idiomatic expressions? Mr. Tubby must have read our minds for he answered our unspoken question by pointing at the television. Apparently, he had spent some late nights watching American B flicks. He slicked back his sparse hair, and repeated, "I'm a chic zombie!" Sharon and I cracked up again. Mr. Tubby's favourite topic was that he was a police officer. Not just any normal police officer though. Oh, no. He repeatedly told us that he had been a special policeman in Italy. "No normal police," he emphasized, poking himself in the chest with a stubby thumb. "Special police. No normal police that writes parking tickets. Special police," he told us at least half a dozen times. I got the gist he had been on a task force doing undercover Mafia work. He entertained us with stories of him getting shot. He had taken a slug in the butt on three separate occasions. (To me, that would suggest retreat. But Mr. Tubby not stupid. Mr. Tubby have brains. Mr. Tubby special police.) He went into a back room and retrieved three medals he had been awarded for "bravery." As I looked at the medals, I imagined they weren't the only souvenirs he had received from the incidents. But the others were made of lead. Mr. Tubby said the reason he now worked on Sardinia was "to protect me from the bad men." Was he in some form of an Italian witness protection program? If the "bad men" knew where Mr. Tubby was, perhaps we would have been better off taking our chances with the murderous shepherds. An Italian-English dictionary sat on the table assisting us in our conversation. But since it took so long to look up words, Sharon had invented some rules for pronouncing Italian words. She substituted the appropriate Italian vowel sounds for the English word she wanted, and then appended the whole thing with a vowel. It often worked spectacularly for her. Mr. and Mrs. Tubby were interested in how we chose camp spots. Realizing their fear of shepherds and "bad men," I intended to say "with caution," but rather than taking the time to look up the word "caution" I instead employed Sharon's as yet unpatented process and blurted out "caw-show-knee." When Mr. Tubby's bristly eyebrows raised and Mrs. Tubby's dark eyes widened, I suspected I had made a booboo. "Huh?" Mrs. Tubby said and grabbed the dictionary. Oops. How could I explain I had just made the word up? That was when I learned that the word pronounced "caw-show-knees" was slang for testicles. "How do you choose a camp spot?" "With balls!" |
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