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Batista on Spaghetti
Drugged on caffeine, and riding freshly oiled bikes, we struck out for Budoni - still into the wind. An hour later, just before noon, I walked into a Budoni grocery store and bought pizza and mandarino oranges. At the checkout, I remembered Jean's scrap of paper and pulled it out. The cashier had no problem deciphering the secret code; she led me outside, and pointed down the street. "Gelato," she said. On our way to find "Gelato", we passed a tourist office. To double-check that I was on the right track, I stopped in to get a second opinion. "Can you give me directions to Batista's house?" I asked the person behind the counter. A petite, blonde-haired woman, sitting on a chair next to the counter, laughed. "I think you're looking for me," she said and extended her hand in greeting. "I'm Christine. I came over to visit with the worker she speaks a little English," Christine explained. "I'm just on my way home to make lunch for my husband. Would you like to join us?" She had said the magic words. We followed her home and found the cashier's directions had been right on the money. In front of where Batista and Christine lived was a multi-coloured sign depicting giant scoops of ice cream. "My husband and I live above our sister-in-law's ice cream shop," Christine explained. We climbed the stairs to Batista and Christine's second floor apartment. "Would you mind running to the store and buying some non-carbonated water?" Christine asked me. "The water in the house isn't good for drinking." "What's wrong with it?" I asked, expecting it must contain a vile bacteria, thus rendering it unfit for human consumption. "There's chlorine in it," she replied. "It doesn't taste good." I wondered if that were the reason some people had insisted we take their bottled water when we asked to have our bottles filled. Shortly after I returned with the non-chlorinated non-carbonated water, Christine's husband, Batista, arrived. His paint-splotched coveralls broadcasted his occupation. He hung his paint-speckled cap on the corner of his chair, and seated himself at the table. Heaped in front of us were colossal mounds of spaghetti that Christine had already served. I wound strands expertly around my fork and, grinning, glanced over at Batista to show him how accomplished I was at eating spaghetti. I received a start. His spaghetti was gone! It had vanished into thin air. Unbelievably, he had inhaled his entire plateful before I had even taken one bite. The guy was a human spaghetti vacuum cleaner! "I guess I need more practice," I decided, as I checked Batista's face to see how much spaghetti sauce was on it (none), and sucked up my measly three strands. How the heck had he done that? "We've been married three years," Christine chuckled. "And I still can't believe how fast he eats spaghetti." I nodded. "I know it's a record I'll never beat," I said as Batista loaded up his plate for a second helping. I studiously watched him as he ate, noticing that at no time did his lips ever leave his mouth. "How did you come to live in Budoni?" Sharon asked Christine. "Batista's parents live in another village on the island," she answered. "They gave us this house." "They gave you this house?" I said incredulously as my carefully wound spaghetti slipped off my fork. "Yes," Christine answered. "And Batista's sister lives downstairs. They gave her the ice cream shop." "They gave her the ice cream shop?" I said, even more astounded. "That's amazing but can one actually make a living selling ice cream cones?" "Oh, yes," Christine assured me. "The island's peak tourist season is July and August. She makes her entire year's income in those two months." My eyes widened; I was still disbelieving. "In the summer," Christine continued, "the population of Budoni swells from its usual three hundred people to a bustling metropolis of forty thousand!" "Wow! That'd be something to see," I said. "But I prefer the off-season." Try as I might, I couldn't imagine the mainly deserted hamlet thronging with shoulder-to-shoulder tourists. I was still having a hard time believing that someone could make enough money in two months to sustain themselves for an entire year although, I had to admit, it sounded like a fine idea. "She makes all her money in two months?" I said, still questioning. "Yes. Two," Batista confirmed. "My sister only works two months each year selling ice cream to tourists." "But what a wild two months they are!" Christine chimed in. Hmmm. It still sounded pretty good. I imagined I could handle the temporary high stress if I had the next ten months to recuperate. I finished my spaghetti and looked at my watch. "Well, I hate to eat and run," I said. "You're welcome to stay overnight with us," Christine offered. Regrettably, for the first time since arriving on the island we were on a schedule and we were running behind. "We would, but we have to make some miles," I said, and immediately wondered: What has happened to our slow-down-and-live philosophy? "We want to be in Oristano by the weekend for the Sartiglia," Sharon explained. "My best friend lives near Oristano!" Christine bubbled. "I'll give you her name and address. She'd be very happy to meet the two of you." Christine wrote her friend's name and phone number on the back of Jean's paper. After thanking our hosts, we hopped on our bikes, and were off to the races. |
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