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Celebrate Fear
Raffaele and Rimedia invited us to stay another day and join them in more Lenten festivities. The words "Slow down" whispered in my ear. Sharon voted for another round of Sartiglia in Oristano, but I tried to veto her choice. To get a good spot we would have to stand two hours beforehand I didn't have the energy for it. Besides, rumour had it there was going to be oodles of food at the progressive dance. It sounded like an ideal chance to sample local cuisine. Sharon acquiesced. We began our tour at Rimedia's brother's home and sampled cream-filled pastries warm from the oven. We also had our first nip of what would prove to be thirty different Vernaccias throughout the day (everyone made the stuff, and they all proudly encouraged everyone to sample theirs). After imbibing, we set out to find the wandering dancers who had already begun the town's progressive dance. We made several forays in wrong directions, but finally, listening for strains of accordion, we tracked the troupe down and joined them. The progressive dancers made their way around the small town. Homeowners, if they wished the group to dance in front of their home (it was considered good luck), had a chair set out. The accordion player took advantage of the seat, and the dance group skipped a traditional Sardinian jig to the lively beat. The dancing was great fun. But even better, the homeowners served us treats. I scarfed down sandwiches, pastries, doughnuts, cookies, candies, oranges, wine, pop (Coke, if we were lucky; Crudino - a vile solution that even Sardinians disliked - if we weren't), zingy Lemoncina liqueur, and Vernaccia, Vernaccia, and more Vernaccia. When we completed the town circuit it was early afternoon. We drifted to a neighbour's place and joined seventy other people for a barbecue of pork chops and rings of sausage. "What would you like to drink?" Rimedia asked. I spied a large Coke bottle on a far table, and asked for that. Rimedia went off dutifully like a good host. But she returned empty-handed. "No Coke today," she said apologetically. "Only wine or water." She noticed my quizzical expression, and said, "The Coke bottle is filled with wine." After all the Vernaccia I had downed, I didn't care for more wine. As I ate my meats and sipped my water, I watched the affable Sardinians. They had gathered around a long table with arms draped over each other's shoulders, and sang song after song. One ditty had the entire room in stitches - but the only word I could make out was 'caca.' Another song, each man had to tell something about his wife and even the women laughed. Everyone was so amiable, it was amazing. One joker saw fit to "sing" through a cardboard tube directly into another poor fellow's ear. If it had been my ear, I would have ripped the tube out of the guy's hands and hit him with it. But instead, the receiver placed his hand over his ear good-naturedly and continued singing lustily himself. Then, another nuisance got hold of the tube. His idea of musical accompaniment was to whack someone on the noggin each stanza. Let the whacking commence! To my amazement, everyone peacefully endured the whacking. One fella even went so far as to remove his glasses. Late that afternoon, when the singing was over, the four of us waddled back to Rimedia's home to rest up - we still had to make it through the evening's festivities! When I walked in, Rimedia's father solemnly shook my hand, admiration in his eyes. He was congratulating me for lasting through the town's Vernaccia celebration. No small feat. Some people trained years for the event. Raffaele, on the other hand, didn't look so hot. I didn't tell Rimedia's father that I had poured most of my Vernaccias into Raffaele's glass. (Partway through the progressive dance, when I realized Raffaele wasn't going to make it (his rubbery legs and slurring words were clues), I began to secretly water the shrubbery with my Vernaccia.) Raffaele - poor guy - looked as if he were about to change his name to Ralphaele. Once we were rejuvenated, we ambled over to the town square for more of that irrepressible accordion and repetitive dance step. The night air was chilly, but liberal quantities of Vernaccia made for an exceptional anti-freeze. Rimedia attempted to teach me a different traditional dance, but my two left feet prevailed. Around 11 pm, the dance finished. We ambled back to the afternoon barbecue host's house for a late night meal of spaghetti and lobster. After two huge platefuls, we were full. "Basta pasta," I sighed - enough pasta. Everyone agreed, and we sat there, contentedly holding our bellies. Two men strolled over to where we were sitting. "Let's go," one said to me. "Where?" Raffaele asked, rising to his feet. "Shut up. Sit down," the one said. I was feeling no pain from the day long Vernaccia sampling, good food, and party atmosphere. Frivolity was in the air. And since everyone knew one another, I had no reason to fear the two. So, as Sharon and the others sat watching, I got up and followed the two men outside. "Get in the car," the English-speaking one said. "We're going to get some wine." I got in, and off we motored. Partway down the street we met a guitar player walking to the party. We screeched to a halt beside him. "Get in!" they commanded. "No," he replied. "Screw you! Get in!" they shouted. So much for affable, I thought. The guitarist peered into the car, saw me, wagged his finger, and warned, "Don't go with them!" "Screw you! Get in!" they ordered again. The guitar player opened the back door, set in his guitar, and slid into the back seat next to me. "Break some balls! Screw you! Let's go!" the driver roared. Then, turning to me, he pointed to the guitar player, and said, "Don't mind him. He's drunk. But then, a lot of people are today." He let out a maniacal laugh, and we roared off down the street. Minutes later, we pulled up to the local Vernaccia warehouse. The driver unlocked the warehouse door and we went inside. Enormous wooden casks lined each wall. The place was an alcoholic's wet dream. The driver chose a barrel, and poured us each a glass. The Vernaccia was good - smooth - better than most I had drunk that day. But, realizing how many barrels I may have to sample, I glanced around for a spot to chuck the remainder. "Screw you! Drink it!" the driver ordered. When I was slow to down it, the guitar player interjected, "He's already had thirty glasses today." "True?" the driver asked, his eyes narrowed slits. I nodded solemnly. A silent second passed. "Screw you! Finish it!" he suddenly commanded fiercely. When I still didn't raise the glass he threatened, "Come on, or else" and made a vicious slashing motion across his neck. Hoo boy. I was a little worried. But I always figured I'd live long enough to fart in the face of the devil, so I turned my back, pretended to guzzle it, then strode purposefully towards the exit. The men followed and we returned to the spaghetti house. When I entered, other party-goer's faces betrayed worried frowns. "Nuovo amicos," I said light-heartedly, relieved to be back amongst true friends. "Did your new friends know any English words besides, 'Shut up'?" Sharon asked when I sat down. "Screw you!!" I answered, to her surprise. "Raffaele and Rimedia's four brothers are out looking for you," she whispered. "They were more than a little concerned when you went with those guys supposedly they're not considered trustworthy when they're sober, let alone drunk!" I shrugged, swallowed hard, and farted. Take that, Lucifer. |
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