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Raffaele and Rimedia
In the morning, we rode into the small town of Sili and I phoned Rimedia to apologize for not showing up as planned. "Hello," a woman's voice sang out, taking me off guard by answering in English. I told her who I was, and she became even more animated. "My name is Iole," she bubbled. "My husband and I used to live in Canada!" She explained that her husband, Bruno, and she were friends of Raffaele's parents, and that they had come from their village on the other side of the island to watch the Sartiglia. "I'm so glad you called back!" she said enthusiastically, her voice ringing with cheerful vivaciousness. "We were afraid we had lost you!" I began to make my inadequate apologies. Iole interjected, "Where are you calling from?" When I replied I was calling from a phone booth in Sili, Iole fairly squealed with excitement. "What's the name of the street you're on?" she asked, sounding as if she were about to have kittens. I told her, and she immediately instructed, "Stay where you are!" The phone receiver clicked in my ear. Two minutes later, a sports car zoomed up to the telephone booth. A woman in the passenger seat sprang out and embraced Sharon in a warm hug. Sharon had just had her first introduction to Iole. "It's so good to see Canadians!" Iole exclaimed, a large smile brightening her lovely features. "We lived in Ontario for sixteen years," she said. "We left many good friends behind when we decided to move back to Sardinia. Bruno and I are still very interested in Canadian news. Do you have any news from Canada?" I had to apologize again. We had been away too long to be anywhere near current. "Bruno and I watch CNN on satellite every night," Iole laughed and proceeded to bring us up to date. "This is Raffaele," Iole said, introducing her chauffeur. "Raffaele's parents live near here," Iole said. "Follow us." Sharon and I trailed Raffaele's little car back to his residence and met his mom and dad, and Iole's husband, Bruno. We accepted an invitation to join them later for lunch, then hopped into Raffaele's car and zipped off towards the nearby community of Baratili San Pietro to meet Rimedia. (After several months of sedate pedalling, I must confess it was a trifle disconcerting to zoom along at over a hundred kilometers an hour. I was elated, however, that my reintroduction to high-speed motoring wasn't on one of Sardinia's skinny mountain roads!) Rimedia, like Raffaele, lived with her parents. The island's high unemployment made such arrangements necessary; it wasn't uncommon to find unmarried children in their twenties still living with their folks. Rimedia's parents were jolly oldsters with inviting smiles. Her father pumped our hands warmly and welcomed us with shots of Vernaccia. (Vernaccia is a potent regional wine that tips the alcoholic scales at 20 percent! The particular grapes grow only in that area, and the locals are justifiably proud of their Vernaccia distinction.) I handed the empty glass to Rimedia's father, licked my lips, and realized it wouldn't take much Vernaccia before I was rather jolly myself. Rimedia's mom and dad were elderly pensioners. Or so I thought until we got around to the topic of ages (which doesn't take long to come up with Sardinians), and I learned how young they were. Rimedia's mom turned out to be only 63. My goodness - she looked to be in her 80's. Her dad was 63-years-old as well. I would have guessed him to be in his late 70's. That strong Sardinian sun was hell on youthful visages. I mustn't have been very successful at hiding my astonishment. Rimedia pulled out a photo album and pointed to pictures of her parents. In one photo, taken thirty-five years before, Rimedia's mom was in a swimsuit at the beach. Unbelievable! She was a knock-out! It was impossible to discern that the knobbly old woman sitting beside me had once been the svelte person in the photo - her facial features and body shape had changed so drastically. Apparently, Sardinia's physical labour was as unkind to one's body as the fierce sun was to one's face. But, Rimedia's parents were happy souls, and, in anyone's world, that is all that should really matter. After we downed our second Vernaccia, Raffaele said it was time to return to Sili for the midday meal. Rimedia joined us. By the time we arrived, both Sharon and I had attained our car-riding quotas. Inside the house, waiting patiently for us were Raffaele's younger brother, his parents, Bruno, and Iole. At the dining room table I slid onto an empty chair next to Iole. "How do you know Rimedia?" she promptly asked. "Oh, Christine, a friend of Rimedia's that lives in Budoni, gave us her phone number," I explained. "And how do you know Christine?" "Now, that's a story," I said, and went on to recollect how it had happened. "In Siniscola, Sharon and I were about to find a place to have a coffee. This man came over and started saying how beautiful my Canadian flag was, and then he offered to buy us a coffee. We accepted. While having our coffee he told us about this woman, Christine, and that she was a Canadian and would love to have some English-speaking company so he gave us her address." I paused, thinking. "I guess we got Rimedia's phone number indirectly through this fellow Jean." "You know Jean!" Bruno and Iole erupted. "We've known Jean for years!" Bruno exclaimed. "Boy, oh boy," he laughed. "You guys have probably met every English-speaking person on Sardinia!" "There's really not that many of them," Iole added. I shook my head. Sometimes it really was a small island. Our conversation was interrupted by servings of lasagna, followed by a meat platter. Everything was done to perfection. I wasn't surprised when I learned Raffaele had been trained as a chef and had made everything from scratch himself. "Where have you worked?" I asked, intrigued. "I used to work at Swiss resorts," he revealed. "That's where I learned to speak English." I wondered if he knew Francesco the Bartender? Rimedia chimed in that she had been a waitress, and had taken English courses to make herself more employable elsewhere. "Because of Sardinia's high unemployment rate," she explained, "young people often leave the island to find work. But they usually come back," she added thoughtfully. The meal was educational as well as delicious. I finally discovered how to eat artichokes! Mind those spiky tips! Iole explained what to do. Following her example, I placed a leaf in my mouth, scraped it against my teeth, and drew it out. That was it? One little scrape? I was disappointed. Artichokes would never become favoured fuel for cyclists. Dessert, on the other hand, was a much better stoking choice. The twisted citron-flavoured dough was deep-fried and sugared - obviously high in caloric octane. I packed away a few of those delectable tidbits! At the end of the meal, Sharon wanted to thank Raffaele's parents for the wonderful feast unfortunately they didn't speak a word of English. But that didn't stop Sharon. She forged ahead bravely in Italian. "Sardinian people have big hearts," she wanted to say, but she forgot the word for heart, so in a charade intended to imply the missing word, she pounded her chest and expanded her hand outward. One of Raffaele's father's eyebrows shot up. Fortunately, Bruno, comprehending Sharon's intention, jumped in and translated her botched gratitude attempt. When Bruno finished, Raffaele's father said something and laughed softly. Bruno translated our host's reply. "He thought you said 'Sardinian people have big tits!'" We roared. "So much for the universality of sign language!" I said, and sat giggling, wiping away tears as I wondered how many times in the past we had left a confused party in our wake. The spontaneous gaiety led to Raffaele's younger brother being teased about having a girlfriend. Trying to be helpful, I waded in to his defense. "She's just an amico, right?" I said, and was greeted with appalled looks from everyone. I was informed - ahem - it was amica. Oops. So sorry. I once again realized how unintentional misunderstandings lead to hurt feelings. Bruno and Iole prepared to head back to Arbatax. "How about coming to visit us?" they eagerly invited. "You can catch a ferry from there to Genoa or Civitavecchia," Bruno said, knowing that we planned to leave the island after the Sartiglia. "Really?" I responded, surprised at his ferry announcement. I hadn't known it was possible to take a ferry from Arbatax - that information wasn't in any of the information booklets we had. When I questioned the validity of Bruno's statement, Iole assured me, "Oh, yes. Twice a week. Year round." Their offer sounded great. The only problem was that Arbatax was on the opposite side of the island - and the most direct route would take us over the massive Gennargentu mountain range again. Sharon was enthusiastic. Recalling the steep mountain passes however, I was somewhat less so. "Bruno and I own a tourist accommodation," Iole said, sensing my hesitation. "If you come, you can stay in your own apartment," she offered, sweetening the deal. That clinched it. I couldn't imagine a finer offer and told them so. Bruno and Iole gave us monstrous goodbye hugs. "We'll see you in a week!" they said, and waved goodbye. After Bruno and Iole departed, Sharon and I went to Oristano with Raffaele and Rimedia to watch the youngsters perform a mini Sartiglia. "They start them young," I said when I saw the pint-sized participants and their miniature horses. The kids did a great job of imitating the adult acrobatics. Like adults, they went down the track three abreast. Unlike adults, not as many kids fell off. Their sense of timing and balance was amazing. Of course, the ponies were much closer to the ground, and didn't travel nearly as fast as the full-grown horses. But it was still exciting to watch their daring antics. A crowd favourite was the juvenile who drained a carton of milk as he raced down the course - the underage equivalent to the guy who had guzzled a bottle of wine the day before. Another youngster, whose talents may lie elsewhere, stripped to her underwear while racing along the route. I couldn't recall the adult version of that! The escapades concluded. Raffaele and Rimedia invited us back to Rimedia's hometown to continue Lenten festivities. Back in the car we went for another high speed ride. When we arrived in Baratili a short time later, a town-square street dance - accompanied by accordions - was in full swing. Young and old, dressed in various attire, mixed peacefully. Some participants flashed about in Halloween-like costumes; others traipsed around in traditional Sardinian festive clothing; others came as they were, clad in Sardinia's daily garb; a few were even decked out in western-style clothing. Sharon and I joined in with our reflective bike attire. Raffaele and Rimedia taught us a traditional Sardinian step, and we danced the night away. The music ended. We walked to Rimedia's for a late night dinner. Raffaele set to work in the kitchen preparing a heaping quantity of spaghetti with tender slices of meat. It was tasty, but I liked dessert best - it's tough to beat those special festival-only cream-filled pastries. Everything was washed down with liberal quantities of homemade wine and, of course, Vernaccia - there was no shortage of alcoholic beverage. When I wondered aloud if it was ever going to run out, Raffaele escorted me onto Rimedia's parent's back porch and pointed to several full wine casks piled there. Her parents owned a vineyard. There was no danger of running out any time soon. But, dessert and Vernaccia aside, guess what our biggest treat was? Showers! That's right. Rimedia (increasingly angel-like in our eyes) produced sets of towels and pointed us towards the bathroom. "I know how much I appreciated showers when I was travelling," she said. Wahoo! We immediately descended upon the tub and had our first real showers since France. The hot water pounded my shoulders as I luxuriated in its scorching massage. "This feels so great!" I enthused. But my level of involvement was nowhere near Sharon's. As I towelled myself off, I listened to the breathless raptures emanating from behind the steamy shower curtain. With all the blissful moans and sighs, it sounded as though Sharon thought she had died and gone to heaven. "Are you okay in there?" I enquired. "You don't suppose we could pull one of these behind our bikes?" she groaned deliriously. |
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