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February 28 Tuesday Bicycle touring Italy Sardinia from Sili Sardegna to Baratili San Pietro Sardegna Rimedia and Raff invited us to stay another day so we can go to the town festivities today. Sharon wants to see more of the Sartiglia in Oristano, but we would have to get there four or five hours before it started to get a good place to see. I don't feel like waiting that long and besides there's rumored to be lots of food at the town progressive dance that goes from house to house. Sounds like a good chance to sample local cuisine. I opt for the small town. We leave our touring bikes at Riemedia's eldest brother's new house. Very nice. We sample more pastry with cream, still warm from the oven. Great. And our first of about thirty different Vernaccias today. We walk around town listening for strains of Sardinian accordion. After several forays in wrong directions we finally catch up with them. Good thing it's a small town. People leave a chair outside their house if they want the group to stop. The group dances. The house owners serve treats. We had pastries, doughnuts, cookies, candies, oranges, sandwiches, wine, pop (either Coke or the vile stuff called Crudino), and Vernaccia, Vernaccia, and more Vernaccia. Some very tasty lemon liqueur Lemoncina. When the entire town circuit was complete we went for a barbecue at someone's house, along with about seventy other people. There was barbecued pork chops and rings of sausage. Rimedia asked me what I wanted to drink. Spying a Coke bottle on a side table I asked for that. Off she went. When she came back she said, "No Coke, only wine or water." What? A short time later I found out the Coke bottle was actually filled with wine. Oranges for dessert. Singing -- some song about caca is all I understand. Then some song where each man had to tell something about his wife. Everyone is so amicable. One guy is 'singing' through a cardboard tube into another guy's ear and rather than turn around and grab the tube or smack the guy, he just covers his ear with his hand. Later, another guy gets the tube and accompanies the accordion, guitar, and triangle with a whack on someone's noggin every once in a while. Everyone peacefully goes along with it -- one guy going so far as to even removing his glasses and holding them behind his back while the whacking goes on. Remove your glasses. Let the whacking commence. Thoroughly stuffed we go back to Rimedia's to rest and watch TV. One of her six year old nephews draws an assortment of animals and dinosaurs. He's a little budding Michelangelo. Somewhat rested, Rimedia's dad shakes my hand with great admiration in his eyes because I lasted through the town dance Vernaccia festivities. Raff doesn't look too good. What I didn't tell Rimedia's dad is that I poured most of mine into Raff's glass each time we got some. When it started to look like Raff wasn't going to make it, I watered the shrubbery with it, left it on windowsills, and one time on the dashboard of someone's truck. We walk to the town square for more dancing -- that same accordion, beat and dance step over and over and over. We wear an extra coat provided by Rimedia to ward off the night air chill, although the Vernaccia is doing a pretty good anti-freeze job. We go back to the barbecue host's house for spaghetti. Everyone is tired of pasta. "Basta," means 'enough' so I say, "Basta pasta." Lobster is with the spaghetti. Just as I sit down, two guys come over and say to me, "Let's go." Raff says, "Where?" They tell him, "Shut up. Sit down." I go out with them. We get in a car. They tell me we are going to get some wine. I say fine. On the way we pass a just-arriving guitar player. "Get in," they say to him. "No," he says. "Fsck you. Get in," they say. The guitar player sees me in the back seat and wags his finger while saying, "Don't go with them." "No, no. Fsck you. Get in," they say. The guitar player starts to walk away and then comes around to the other side of the car and gets in. "Break some balls," they say. "Fsck you. Let's go." They turn to me and pointing to the guitar player, say, "Don't mind him. He's drunk." But then again a lot of people are today. The guitar player gives me a shrug like they're crazy. We go to a local Vernaccia producing warehouse. There are huge barrels of the stuff. They get an ice pick and shove it into the guitar player's jeans between his legs. The guitar player doesn't move. They all laugh. "Break some balls!" the guy says. They pour us each a glass. I drink a sip. Smooth. Better than most we've had today. I look around for a spot to chuck the rest, not knowing how many glasses of the stuff I will have to endure. Like I said there's a lot of barrels here. The guitar player tells them I've had thirty glasses already today. "True?" they ask. Solemnly I nod yes. "Finish it," they say. "Come on, or else," and he makes a slashing motion across his neck. I turn my back, pretend to drink it, then set it, still full, on a cask and head towards the door. We get back in the car and return to the spaghetti dinner. There are many worried frowns as we walk in. "Nouvo amicos," I say. Sharon says they were worried when I went with them. They are out looking for me. "Aren't you worried?" they asked Sharon. "He can take care of himself," Sharon told them. She asks me if they knew any other words besides 'Shut up.' "Oh, yes. Fsck you," I say. Jay is building a house for himself and said we could sleep in the basement. Saw two guys from Catel working on the outskirts of town. We pulled our fully loaded touring bicycles to a stop and asked if they knew Marcos and Mario. "No. There are 200 people in the company." "Well, say hi for us." "What does he look like?" "Tom Sellick." "Tom Sellick? Okay." |
