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Coffee Shooters
Not far from Olbia we called it a day and dragged our bikes off the road to hide behind some sheltering scrub brush for the night. The next morning, we followed a mountain road between Olbia and Saint Teodoro. Ahead of us lay row upon row of blue mountain ridges, stacked against each other like houses built on a hillside. Each successive one tried to rise above its neighbour for an unrestricted view of the aquamarine Mediterranean far below. The route bobbed up and down, following alongside a pristine cove. By the time we reached Saint Teodoro, it was 10 am and I was in desperate need of a coffee break. But first we needed money. I leaned my bike against a NO PARKING sign, and headed into a bank. Unlike when we had first arrived on the island, I had no trepidation in making the transaction. After over a month on Sardinia I had become familiar enough with Sardinians that the prospect of a face to face transaction no longer rattled me. I entered the bank's first door, which placed me in a small holding cubicle between two glass doors - kind of a banking no-man's land - I was neither inside the bank nor out. Banks in Italy had an interesting procedure where they allowed only a certain number of patrons inside at one time. The inner door into the main part of the bank wouldn't open until a teller buzzed it open. As I stood waiting, I noticed an armed guard standing just inside the main door. "How could anyone even consider holding this place up?" I muttered. The guard wasn't unusual. There were often armed guards stationed outside, too. And, if the bank had an Instant Teller machine, one was also posted near it. Italian banks took security seriously! A casual robber wouldn't stand a chance of pulling off a heist. I noticed a red button on the wall opposite me and, feeling a bit like Mr. Bean, pressed it. A teller gaped over at me. She must have decided I was okay (my week old beard growth was no more or no less than anyone else's). The electronic door into the bank buzzed, and swung open. I walked over to the teller and presented my Visa card and passport. "One million lire cash advance," I said, smiling. (I loved the sound of that!) She took my card and papers, phoned for an authorization number, then inserted a credit slip into a clunky old manual typewriter and began to hammer away. The old machine jumped up and down with each pound of the keys as she entered information from my passport. Banks in Italy weren't rush-in, rush-out affairs. They were more like: Take a lunch. After a few minutes, she presented me with the form. I signed it, but I still didn't receive any cash. Instead, she gestured towards another area of the bank to show that was where I had to submit my slip of paper. I walked over to a waxy-faced chap barricaded in a cash cage behind bars and glass. I slid my documentation to him. He scrutinized it. After a pregnant pause, and only after he was fully satisfied that all was in order, he slowly, carefully, doled out bills to me one at a time, laboriously counting each note aloud with the utmost precision. "Grazie," I said when he had finished laying out the pile of bills. In one swoop, I scooped the cash from the countertop and stuffed it into my passport pouch. At the exit, I had to wait until the guard received the nod that it was okay to liberate me. Whew! I was finally back out in the spring sunshine and a million lire richer. That should buy a couple of coffees, I thought as I walked to our bikes. Sharon had entertained herself in my absence. She had oiled our chains, repaired a tube, and eaten a sandwich. "At least you put your time to good use," I said as I recounted my banking ordeal. I had almost finished when a dump truck stopped and its driver cried out "Beautiful!" He had spotted our Canadian flag and was coming over to get a better look. "This is a beautiful flag!" he shouted most enthusiastically. I nodded in agreement. "Hi! My name is Jean," he said, and stuck out his hand. I shook his hand as he continued, "I worked in Toronto for thirty years as a dry cleaner. I really miss Canadians! Can I buy you a coffee?" Since that had been our intention anyway, we followed him to a corner café. Italian coffee breaks aren't like our sit-down-have-a-doughnut-or-a-muffin affair. No. Italian coffee breaks are a stand-up affair that lasts a grand total of two minutes - and that includes the time spent waiting for service. Italian coffee isn't sipped. No sirree. It's slammed back like a shooter. And that's appropriate, I suppose, since coffee is served in tiny shooter-sized mugs. (Can one call something that tiny a mug?) Jean handed me my coffee thimble. I peered into the wee receptacle. "There's not enough liquid in here to dissolve sugar," I said. The cup held about an ounce of coffee - but oh, what a jolt! My heart did palpitations! That stuff was like liquid nitro. "Are you going to Budoni?" Jean asked as he set his Tom Thumb-sized coffee cup back on the counter. "Yep, that's where we're headed," I answered. Jean smiled. He dug into his worn Levi's and fished out a tattered shred of paper and scribbled some information on it. "This is the name of a Canadian woman I know there," he said pointing to his illegible scrawl. "I had coffee with her last week, and I know she would love to speak English with someone. I don't know her address," he confessed, "but everyone in town knows her husband: Batista. When you get there, show this to someone and ask for directions to Batista's." |
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