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Mix-Up
Leaving the festival, we skirted the horses in the post-race area. "Make room for the Germans!" someone shouted as we approached. They must have been looking at Sharon - surely, not me, the Moroccan. When we had arrived in Oristano earlier that afternoon, we called the number Christine had given us for her friend, Rimedia. Rimedia told us she was coming to the Sartiglia later that afternoon, with her boyfriend, Raffaele. Perfect. We arranged to meet them at 5 pm by the water tower. But when the appointed time arrived the Sartiglia was charging full swing, and Sharon and I were in the crush of front row people pinned against the track rail by hundreds of other rabid spectators. Even if we had wanted to leave, we wouldn't have succeeded. By the time the Sartiglia finished and we threaded our way back to our waiting bikes, it was well over an hour past our meeting time. "Rimedia must have given up waiting for us," I said. It was already twilight. Full darkness was quickly descending. "We should cycle out of town and find a camp spot," I urged, concluding that was our most prudent course of action. "I'll phone in the morning and apologize for the mix-up," I added hastily. Sharon thought we should still go to the water tower and check "just in case." But I had no compunction to meander back through the milling crowd to check for someone I was certain wasn't there anyway. Light was fading fast. I started to pedal out of Oristano. Sharon had little choice but to follow (I had the tent!). A few kilometers from Oristano, in near total blackness, Sharon spotted an outline of a clump of trees. "Looks like home to me," I said. We wheeled our bikes off the tarmac and pushed them into the bushes. |
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