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Efficiency
Costa Smeralda - the Emerald Coast - located on the northeast coast of Sardinia, is a high-density, high-priced tourist area with large summer homes and harbours filled with expensive moored yachts. It was quite the contrast to what most of the local villagers and shepherds lived like. And, with all the development, we were having a difficult time finding a place to pitch our tent. It was growing dark, and we still hadn't found any place suitable. I was starting to wish we had accepted the American woman's offer to spend the night with her and her family. Perhaps I hadn't accepted her offer because I was gun-shy after my experience with Mr. Tubby, but I reasoned that if we wanted to get back to Oristano on time for the Sartiglia we had to pump out a minimum daily quota of miles. We pedalled on into the gathering dusk. Eventually, in the dark somewhere past Porto Cervo, we followed a dead-end road down to a beach. At its end we were greeted with a NO CAMPING sign. "Look at this," I said, leaning my bike against the sign. "Bike parking." I was too tired to care about where we rested our heads for the night. And besides, it was still winter in Sardinia - it wasn't likely anyone would come for a late night swim and discover us. For the first time in a few nights, we slept the whole night through peacefully. Refreshed, we packed up early and pushed our bikes up the sandy road to the main highway. We didn't want to be discovered camping illegally Back at the main road we were met face-on with a fresh sea breeze. As I cycled into the wind, I felt as if I were a young sapling being bent backwards. I glanced at the trees lining the roadside. Just my luck! They were slumped the opposite way! "Why isn't the prevailing wind prevailing?" I wondered somewhat miffed. We battled on; our strength diminishing as the wind intensified. In Porto Rotondo we stopped at a small market to rest and buy supplies. As I strove to keep my hair from blowing away, I pointed to the name of the market: Quattro Vento - Four Winds. I had to admit it was aptly named. "I'll bet the only time it's calm here," I said, grinning, "is when the wind blows equally from all four directions at the same time." A small car skidded to a halt in the gravel beside me, kicking up a mini whirlwind of dust. The driver hopped out and went into the market to deliver six packages of carrots. "How the heck can that be cost efficient?" I said in wonderment, and went in to buy a bag. The carrots were fresh and crunchy and helped rejuvenate my tired legs. But it was tough mentally to get back on my bike and slug it out with the wind. I found that fighting a headwind all day was more psychologically demanding than climbing mountain passes - at least with mountains, I eventually got to coast down. There was no such luxury with a headwind. It only served to lower my speed, increase my efforts, and jangle my nerves. Our plan was to head to the port city of Olbia and pick up a ferry schedule. We had decided that after Oristano's Sartiglia we were going to head back to the mainland. The days were growing warmer and we wanted to be in Holland in time to check out their blooming tulips. The road we were clinging to traversed a narrow ledge high above the sparkling turquoise waters of Golfo Aranci. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on the width-challenged road and we would have enjoyed the coastal views if it wasn't for the blustery wind - as it was, it was all we could do to keep our bikes on the tarmac. Then we entered a kilometer long tunnel, and I realized where the term "wind tunnel" came from. Holy cow! It was howling in there! And, as fate would have it, two cars met alongside us at the same time. "That's carrying Murphy's Law too far!" Sharon's voice shrieked in the darkness as the vehicles scrubbed past us, narrowly missing our hamster-like churning legs. "There hasn't been two cars all morning, and then we're in a tunnel and two meet us at the same time!" "It could have been worse!" I yelled back, pedalling as fast as I could to get out of the black death trap. "It could have been two trucks!" We arrived at Olbia's port at 2 pm, out of breath, but unscathed. Predictably, the ticket office was closed. Just inside the wicket's window - tantalizingly stacked just out of reach - were the shiny pamphlets we needed. "Why couldn't they leave a few out for customers?" I complained. "That would be too easy," Sharon sighed. "And expecting too much," I said. I couldn't understand their rationale. They could deliver six packages of carrots to a little market in the middle of nowhere, but they couldn't leave a few pamphlets out? The whole setup wasn't efficient and was beginning to irritate me. I was tired of shops always being closed when I needed them. I was tired of the inconvenience. I was just plain tired. "I think I need a vacation from my vacation," I lamented. Leaving Olbia, we stopped at a travel agency and asked for a ferry schedule. But, they were sorry they said, they only had timetables leftover from last season. And anyway, they said, ferries from Olbia didn't run until April. That dang Mr. Tubby had led us astray again. He had told us that ferries ran from Olbia every day. Apparently that was true only in the summer months. I hoped Mr. Tubby was a better police officer than he was a tourist info guide, but then I remembered those "bravery" medals and had my doubts. |
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