Zinging

I have started this several times now and have gotten stuck on how to do a Portland blog. I haven’t traveled to any exotic places lately, or eaten wormy cheese. I am, instead, finding intrigue in the daily life of living back in the United States after being away for 18 months. These are the things that I think about, not the next grand adventure, and so I have to start a fresh blog that is completely different, but that is a big challenge. I know that it is rather commonplace to say that living overseas gives you a new perspective on life in your own country, but certain things are repeated because they are true. At the risk of sounding snobby, it is a little like climbing the Eiffel Tower. You think, “I don’t need to do that. Everyone who comes to Paris thinks they need to go up the tower. I’d rather spend the afternoon looking for the out-of-the-way spots than succumb to another tourist trap.” But, then, you give in and go up, and it is fantastic, and you think, “There is actually a reason why everyone goes up in the tower.” There are two age-old truths here: that you don’t appreciate something until you experience it for yourself and that many people have already discovered what, for you, is a new discovery. To that end, I have always scoffed at people who said that living abroad enlightened them with regard to American culture, and thought it sounded rather erudite. But, now I am experiencing it for myself, and it is enlightening, but also a little uncomfortable.

I think that there are certain things worth exploring about this transitional period and thought that, perhaps, that is the best theme for my Portland blog. I am approaching it as a sort of regular column with my musings on life in America as a 30-something living in Portland, Maine and figuring out what I miss about Italy and what I missed about the U.S. So, I have called in “New American Musings,” though that might not stick. I am open to other suggestions . . .

As I said, I have tried to start a Portland blog several times and gotten stuck because I have so many things zinging through my head about what it has been like to move back. So, I think that is the best first topic: the zinging itself and where it originates. Being a food-centric person, as well as one who is interested in the basic elements of a culture and how people function within it, I will begin with what it was like to go to an American grocery store for the first time upon my return. For contrast, you can read my story entitled, “Making Thai Curry in Sardegna,” about learning the ropes of the Italian grocery shopping experience. Now, I’ve got to learn the reverse.
We moved back to Maine in March and arrived before all of our belongings, which were coming via ship, plane, and truck both from San Diego, where we had stored things that we had long forgotten the identities of, and from Sardinia. With a kind of survival kit lovingly packed by Chad’s mom, we moved into our rented house in Portland in the middle of the month and waited for our stuff. We dined on a picnic table salvaged from the garage, using place mats as seats on the old benches, which would otherwise have left prints of old paint on our pants, and used our sets of two: two plates, two forks, two knives, two glasses, marveling at the simplicity of cooking with one pot and a frying pan. I have gotten ahead of myself a little bit, as none of this was possible without a trip to the grocery store. Portland has its local Hannaford store on the Back Cove, which was redone just as we were leaving Maine nearly five years ago and it is often ogled over for its selection of wonderful breads, fresh produce, and a myriad of ethnic foods. So, we were excited to check it out and buy some basic supplies to make our first dinner in our new place.

Without getting too bogged down in the details, I will summarize by saying that I made it through the store in a sort of wide-eyed daze that seemed a bit like what I imagine it might be like to experience a strong hallucinogenic drug. The store was a carnival of sensory experience with mounds of fresh produce from all over the world, self-serve stations filled with a dozen types of olives, and a deli case filled with meats of all sorts – ground, sliced, bone in or boneless, skin on or off, free range pent-up? or whatever you call its opposite, not to mention those that were marinated in one of three different sauces, skewered on kebabs or stuffed with a variety of goodies. My head was spinning before I even made it to the dry goods section. There, the canned tomatoes took up nearly half an aisle – stewed, diced, whole, peeled, crushed, organic, imported. . . “Who cares! I just want some damned tomatoes,” I thought. At this point, Chad began to see the glazed look on my face of a Sooz-turned-automaton just trying to hang on through the pin-ball machine of the store and out through the nearest escape hatch, having collected as many goods along the way while being battered back and forth by the innumerable choices.

In Sardinia, I was dying for the selection I had once had in the U.S., where I could buy Mexican, Thai, and Greek foods all at the same store in any variety and quantity I desired. But, now I wasn’t sure I could handle the variety. The biggest store in Palau, where I shopped, would fit in half of the produce section of this store. No wonder Americans are so stressed – one can only handle making so many decisions each day and most of them are used up before you run to the store at the end of the day to pick something up for dinner. What power can you possibly have left to navigate such a carnival.

In addition to the having been overwhelmed by this variety, I emerged, outside, at the end of it all, having never interacted with a single other human being. Not even a friendly checker, as we had avoided the day’s-end long lines and headed through the self check-out. Had I tried to purchase a bottle of wine, which requires an ID, I might have actually talked to another human, but I did not. Chad might even argue that I didn’t interact with him, as it was all I could do just to focus on surviving the shopping experience. We were able to do the self check-out because, despite the enormity of items available, we had successfully stuck to a short list of basic supplies in an effort to get out of there as quickly as possible. Even so, to get these same items back in Palau, I would have had to talk to at least four people – the butcher, the produce vendor, the cheese lady, and the checker. These were the people that, though my Italian was never perfect, always said hello and helped me to find what I needed. Here, I thought, back in my own culture, where I am perfectly equipped to have conversations with anyone I please and can intelligently discuss complicated issues without having to come up with hand gestures to help me in my explanations, I had not a single interaction in my whole shopping experience! What is wrong here! Have we modernized ourselves right out of human interaction? I suppose everyone is too busy virtually interacting with each other on the blackberries and cell phones or on My Space or Face Book, but what about the irreplaceable face-to-face interactions of humans satisfying their innate, animal, social needs.

Thus was my introduction back into shopping in America. While it may seem silly to focus on a grocery store experience, it is something that nearly everyone has to do in every culture around the world and it has the power to shape your human experience. In this case, it brought to light more all-encompassing aspects of American culture than I had anticipated and made me think hard about the way that we American functions. I realize that I am comparing two things that are unequal on several levels in that I lived in a small town in Sardinia and now live in a medium-sized city in America. I do not intend to compare the US to Italy, as many of my observations about American life are likely to be similar in the urban areas of Italy as well. But, it doesn’t really matter. The observations are the same. The point is that I never quite realized the impact that these small daily events, such as grocery shopping, both illustrate the culture of a group and define it at the same time until I saw it as if I were an outsider.

So, I am faced with a dilemma: do I continue to gripe about things and try to find another way to shop – there are several small neighborhood grocery stores, but they are specialty shops and few carry basic things like meats and produce. Otherwise, I would seize this opportunity happily and forgo the big weekly grocery trip that I have now adopted into my routine. But, this would, in some ways keep me in a culture in which I no longer live and inhibit my attempts to assimilate into my "new” culture. Or, I can charge forward and embrace the variety and efficiency that an impersonal shopping experience affords, thus better experiencing what the masses do. Then, I can be a grouch with them about the same things in the same way and thereby feel a part of things, for better or for worse. At the moment, I have chosen mostly to do the latter and to buck up for the big weekly shop, though I have incorporated a run around the Back Cove prior to shopping to calm my nerves. I can look at my weekly shopping trip as a kind of sociological experiment and deal with it more easily as a study in common experience. Although, I recently heard that there is a new neighborhood market opening up that will have produce and meats – a one-stop dinner shopping spot which is sure to require human interaction and have a smaller selection of items to choose from. I will have to decide whether I’ve had enough of my cultural experiment and can now choose the alternate path. Or, perhaps, by then, I will have adapted and shopping at the big store will be a breeze.

I hope you have enjoyed the first edition of my “Musings”. You will notice that there is a comments section where you can post your thoughts, or just say hello and let me know what you are up to. I would love to hear from you all in either case.

22 Marzo

As it has been awhile since my last blog, I have yet to capture a few other significant adventures in the month of February. Shortly after returning from our trip to Romania, we went with the

same crew plus a couple of other friends to Oristano, a couple of hours south of Palau, to see S’Artiglia, one of the many festivals of

Carnevale and tauted as one of the best.  On our way there, looking for a place for an afternoon amble, we stopped at the small town of Leonardo dei Siete Fuentes, so-called for the seven springs in the hillside above town, its name also reflecting the Spanish-Catalan influence in this part of Sardegna. We found a charming walkway starting from a 

centuries-old stone church and continuing along moss-covered rocks dripping with moisture through oak groves sheltering picnic areas built of giant slabs of granite, surely a welcome cool place of respite in the heat of the summer. We filled our water bottles before leaving, only to later find out that these springs are famous for their radioactive, diuretic water – we would, apparently, shortly be lighting our own way to the nearest restroom.We spent the night at the Agriturismo L’Orto in San Vero Milis; it was the best combination of local production and modern convenience we’ve found in Sardegna – heated rooms and hot water! amidst beautiful orange groves, the best-known product of this region. This provoked a lengthy discussion about starting a sort of agriturismo-style lodge in the U.S. upon return in order to live the country life and spend days making cheese and tending the garden.

The morning of the festival, we awoke to pouring rain and, over a lingering breakfast in the main house, imagined how miserable it would be to stand outside all day for the festival under these conditions. But, it soon began to clear, and by the time we arrived in Oristano, the sun had returned.  The festival began with the dressing of the lead rider in the town hall. The tradition goes that the virgins of the town bind his head in many cloths

and then affix bridal veils to his head beneath a carved wooden mask, a process that takes many hours due to the degree of ceremony.  He is then carried to his horse and placed upon it, as it is unlucky for his feet to touch the ground once he has been dressed. His mission is to spear a silver star hanging at the entrance of town with his sword while galloping through on his horse.  If he succeeds, he brings good luck to the town for thefollowing year. This is a tradition that apparently goes back 400 years and was originally a wedding celebration.

He is followed by many other riders who attempt to accomplish the same thing, all dressed fantastically in the Aragonese costumes complete with wooden masks and saddle blankets 

covered in elaborate ribboned rosettes of all colors. For the event, the streets had been covered in sand andgrandstands set up above the location of the star for ticketed spectators.  We, on the other hand,

took turns hoisting each other up or elbowing our way to the front of the crowd to catch a glimpse of the riders’ attempts. Apparently, this is followed by a series of horseback acrobatic displays, but, needing to return in time to help out with the evening’s Superbowl festivities on the base, we left before this part of the festival. Chad managed to stay up virtually all night to sadly watch the Patriots end a perfect season with their one final loss being the championship.

Back in Palau, the Carnevale festivities were much quieter this year with the absence of the Americans. We did manage to see the parade on Martedi Grasso (Fat Tuesday) with its many 

wildly-dressed teenagers and reveling onlookers. While last year, the party continued late into the evening, this year things were nearly wrapped up by 8 o’clock. The most humorous of the floats this year was a mini-submarine bearing an American flag and a tin cup on the back soliciting offerings for the poor remaining 

La Maddalenians. On the cup was written, “Lacrymi dei La Maddalenini” (tears of the La Maddalenians). There is much apprehension regarding what will happen with the economy here in the period following the base closure.

At the end of the week, Meredith, a friend from Bowdoin, came to visit – our very last guest. We had a wonderful time taking Manny for long walks, punctuated by frequent bird-spottings by Meredith, and touring around Palau and La Maddalena. And, finally, at nearly our last opportunity, we headed south to tag the southernmost tip of Sardegna with a visit to Cagliari. The first afternoon, we stretched our legs with a walk in the Foresta dei Sette Fratelli; seven must be a lucky number, as these were the seven peaks and we had just been to 

the seven springs. It was a much lusher, boreal forest than in northern Sardegna and full of chirping birds to satisfy Mer. We spent the night in an agriturismo north of Cagliari which wound up being a bit further down a long, dark dirt road than we’d anticipated, but where we had a 

delicious meal including capretto (baby goat) and agnello (lamb) from their farm. The agriturismo was also an environmental education center that provided courses and excursions for students and there were many trails in the surrounding hills which we explored the next morning. Then, we headed into the big city. Cagliari had the feel of a mainland Italian city with its bustling streets and diverse population such that it was easy to forget we were in Sardegna. Chad left us on our own here and headed back to Palau. We were to return by train the next day.

We walked until we dropped that afternoon, exploring the walled Castello district with its many guard towers and narrow cobblestone streets, as well as hunting for the alleged Phoenician tunnels beneath the botanical gardens to no avail. The next morning, we took the bus out to the salt flats and lagoons near Poetto beach to hunt for flamingos and other migratory rarities. Unsure exactly of we were going, we got off at what looked like a likely spot and found the flats, but couldn’t manage to find a way across the dyke that separated the main road from them. However, just as we were feeling disappointed, Meredith spotted flamingos across the way with her expert binoculars and, afterwards, many other interesting marsh birds.  So, it was not a wash after all. A couple more hours of city exploring, some lunch and a gelato later (liquorice for me – a first), we got on the train, thus ending our southern tour. There was something romantic about riding through the Sardegnan countryside, looking out the window at rolling hills filled with sheep and shepherds’ houses while listening to opera on my ipod– perhaps an improvement on D.H. Lawrence’s experience.

Back in Palau, we prepared for the last shipment of our things to leave and, after a matter of just a couple of hours one morning, the house was nearly empty. Afterwards, we dug out our landlord’s furniture, bedding, and some basics to use in the kitchen to make it feel a little more homey. The chaos of moving is, I suppose, a good thing in terms of accepting leaving a place as it makes things feel enough different and enough less comfortable that it is easier to leave. With little left at home and things mostly reorganized for the moment, Meredith and I spent her last day in Sardegna in Santa Teresa, about a half hour from Palau, bird-watching and picnicking on the beach. It was a welcome reprieve from the sadness of our echoey house. 

 And then, she was off, and we were left in our place to enjoy the last weekend in Palau and to, delightedly, see the first of the spring wildflowers – purple crocus and yellow daffodils – poking up between the coastal rocks. Spring is a beautiful time in Sardegna and I am sad to leave with just a tease of its show. The final stretch of the weekend was spent cleaning out the house and packing up the car to transfer over to La Maddalena. We had gone back and forth about whether to stay in our house until the very end or move over to a temporary apartment in La Maddalena, and decided that, for simplicity, we would close up in Palau and move over along with the other few remaining Americans on the base. This, also, made it easier to leave, as it felt like, when we left Palau, life as we knew it in Sardegna was finished and it was time think of what was ahead in Maine. I couldn’t leave without a last early morning walk on the beach with Manny and one last dip in the Med after a run up the railroad tracks. On our way out, we also passed by Pietro and Lucia’s, the caretaker of our condo and his wife, to have a café and say goodbye with promises to come again when we return for vacation. And then, we waved goodbye to our home in Palau.

Now, the days left in Sardegna are dwindling and this will, as such, be the last blog from here. I am writing from our temporary apartment in La Maddalena. It feels strange to stay here, as it is the same apartment where we stayed when we first came to La Maddalena a year and half ago. The owners, Daniele and Pina, were wonderful hosts to us then, so we decided to stay with them again for the last stretch. Walking the streets around the apartment, I have been reminded of my early feelings upon arrival in La Maddalena - wonder at our luck to be coming to such a place and eagerness to get to know this small island community. Now, the shine has rubbed off a bit and we are able to find things to gripe about like the always-speeding cars on the very narrow streets, the stray dogs that follow me in a train when walking Manny, and the tap water, the color of weak beef broth, which has again taken its toll on my stomach despite my careful efforts not to ingest any of it. I realize, however, that I have generated most of these complaints in a subconscious effort to begin to distance myself, as it is much easier to leave a

 place by focusing on its flaws, thereby further illuminating the place to which you will go. Just think - clothes dryers, potable water, and houses with heat! (although heat is a luxury of our temporary apartment and one which we greatly enjoyed during a recent cold snap that left brina (frost) on the plants outside our door). Daniele and Pina have made us feel welcome and looked once again after our final week here with little touches like a bowl of fruit and cookies awaiting us upon arrival and a recent gift of a bottle of Mirto for a dinner party we had last night.

I did, however, miss Palau immediately upon moving over to La Maddalena, and found myself back there several days this week. Andrea, our landlord, invited us over for dinner one evening and prepared a wonderful traditional feast complete with home-made wine and porceddu (roast suckling pig), a Sardegnan specialty we are sure to miss. We had tearful goodbyes and made promises to return as soon as is possible. On Friday, I went to the Palau market for the last time and made the rounds to visit many of the local vendors whom I had gotten to know over the last year and a half – the butcher, the fishmonger, the hairdresser, the wine shop proprietor, among others, exchanging addresses and best wishes along the way and trying not to feel too melancholic about our departure. I had lunch at Paola’s, a marine biologist whom I had befriended, and said another tearful goodbye when I finally headed home late in the afternoon. It is “dolce-amaro,” bitter sweet, to leave; I am grateful to be sad, as it makes me appreciate the people and experiences that made my time in Sardegna so special, but I still wish I had a little more time to enjoy them.

On Saturday morning, after several recent failed attempts due to windy weather, we were finally able to get out to the island of Spargi, the third biggest in the La Maddalena Archipelago, with our friend, Massimo, who is a guide for the park. Andrea, a friend of his

who caretakes a house on Spargi, came over to get us in his gommone (an inflatable rubber motor boat) and, after a bit of a struggle to get our scared pup into the boat, we skimmed across some of the most tranquil, flat water I’ve seen since living here, and in a short time arrived at Cala Corsara, the beach we could see from our house in Palau.  Once ashore, we began a 

beautiful hike up the ridge along old military roads to the lookout tower,

battling the thick macchia (scrubby dense vegetation) along the way.  Our legs are still recovering from the beating they got - through our pants. The view up top was spectacular and we documented it with a group picture captured by the self-timer on 

our carefully-balanced camera. On our descent, we saw old farmhouses and military barracks and watchtowers breaking through the dense green below, and also the white house where Andrea was working and towards which we were slowly battling in what we dubbed “La Guerra della Macchia” (The War Against the Macchia). And, finally we emerged at the beautiful oasis we’d seen from above and followed the rising smoke to find the fire that Andrea had started for our afternoon picnic. We dumped the rocks out of our shoes, picked spines from our socks, and stretched out in the sun while the sausages sizzled on the fire, smelling the sweet scents of burning juniper and elicriso. Fresh fruit and sliced fennel, bread and cheese, and a bit of homemade wine all accompanied our salsiccia for a delightful seaside picnic well-earned after our battle against the macchia. After lunch, we went on an easy walk along a well-cleared path (much to our relief) up to Punta Banditi, the site of another old military watch point. At lunch, Augosto, another caretaker of the house, bet me that I would find a bar at the top of the point to have a café, but I was skeptical.

I was happily proven wrong upon our arrival and enjoyed a hot café

 with a beautiful view in a small rifugio (a sort of camp) tucked in the 

 rocks that several of the guides had fashioned. Fueled by a dose of caffeine, we proceeded to Petraiaccia, a series of fortresses constructed during WWII which were completely hidden in the rocks in order to avoid detection from the air by enemy planes.

It was a fantastical playground of caves and hidden staircases completely integrated into the wind-sculpted rocks. And,

 from there, we returned to the dock in time for a sunset return trip to La Maddalena. That night over dinner, we commented on “un giorno tremendo” (a splendid day), and then slept the heavy sleep made possible only by a day spent outdoors.

Sunday, we decided to have a small gathering of American friends at our apartment in La Madd to enjoy each others’ company before everyone’s departure. After preparing Zuppa Gallurese, a local specialty of layers of broth-soaked bread and cheese baked in the oven like lasagna, for Thanksgiving, a few friends here asked for a lesson on how to make it. I had gotten tips from many locals: the perfect soft sheep’s milk cheese to buy, to leave the bread out to become stale, and to make a broth from veal and sheep bones (the refuse of which made Manny very happy), and the proper mix of spices to add including surprising ingredients like star anise and cinnamon. Inspired by requests for a cooking lesson, we hosted a small gathering with loads of good food brought by all and finished off by tiramisu, another specialty I’ve learned to make while here, and Daniele’s home-made Mirto. It was a grand festa which concluded a fantastic final weekend here made magical by blue skies and sparkling Sardegnan sunshine.

One perk of living on La Maddalena has been the ability to hop on early-morning boat trips such as that to Spargi with Massimo. I had also been begging Pippo,

the husband of Liliana, who worksin Chad’s office, to go fishing with him sometime, and, finally, in our last week here, we arranged a trip. We left from Porto Massimo early enough to see the warm morning light on the horizon and took Pippo’s little fishing boat out to the island of Razzoli. As one who is alert to the idea of serendipitous or not-so-serendipitous events, it seemed perfectly fitting because I had just finished translating a story that Massimo wrote about the lighthouse on Razzoli and my curiosity about the island had been peaked.

Pippo is not only a fisherman, but an avid student of human and natural history in the Archipelago. On the way out, he showed me a piece of an amphora he had collected while diving on a sunken Roman military vessel off one of the islands, and taught me how to identify the elegant white birds fishing on the rocks.

We tied up the boat in a small cove and set off for a walking tour around the island with the dogs in tow – Manny and his two 6-month-old hunting dogs, Speedy and Gonzalez. The rosemary bushes were in purple bloom and the elicriso scented the air in the growing breeze. Razzoli, unlike Spargi, had been used for cattle grazing over the years, helping to clear some of the macchia, making trekking much less painful. We arrived at the lighthouse, which I learned was the first one in Sardegna, and inspected the abandoned building now held up by rusting scaffolding – one of the many projects begun and then forgotten by the Italian government, according to Pippo. Pippo told me about the lighthouse keepers’ families that once lived there - four families in all, each of which had their own garden plot and grazing area, the walls of which were still visible amidst the macchia.

From there, we looped around to a series of small beaches protected by the Catene (Chains) of Razzoli, a long peninsula creating the Cala Lunga at its base, and then back to the boat for a picnic in a spot sheltered from the wind. We had planned on fishing in the afternoon, but the wind had picked up and white water blew off the crests of the waves. Instead, we made a short tour of the surrounding islands and then returned to Lily and Pippo’s house for a café and some research on the birds we’d seen on our island tour. Pippo had mentioned a particular bird, the Beccaccia, which could be found in the springtime on Razzoli, where it stopped over on its migration from North Africa. He described this bird of the woods with its camouflaged coloring and furtive nature, but I couldn’t come up with the English name for it. Upon looking it up, I discovered that it is a woodcock, the strange bird that I saw do its mating dance in spring in Maine, flying high up into the air and then spinning, fluttering downwards to the ground. Yet another fitting but unexpected link between the present and our future in Maine.

After a blustery afternoon on Razzoli, a café and a short nap to refuel, and a hot shower to warm up, we headed over to Palau to have one final dinner with the remaining other Americans from the base at Robertino’s, a favorite for local seafood. It was a fantastic final spread with good company and we barely wrapped things up in time for the 1030 ferry, feeling strange to be rushing to catch a ferry to La Maddalena in the evening rather than from it. The next morning, we met the same crew for café at Circolo, the Italian Officer’s Club, where the American officers regularly meet each morning.  There were many goodbyes, but also promises to see each other soon, as a few friends from La Maddalena will be on the east coast and within visiting distance. One of the challenges of military life is that you are always meeting new people and then, all too quickly, telling them goodbye. This time, we are lucky to have friends who will still be living relatively nearby back in the US.

Later that day, we were all packed up and loading our things into a taxi to leave the island. In a kind of farewell gesture, the sun broke through the clouds after a rainy, gray morning and provided the perfect setting for our last ferry ride across to Palau, which we celebrated with an Ichnusa (the local Sardinian beer) on the upper deck.  On the other side, we were greeted by Giovanna and Giovanni, our landlord's daughter and her boyfriend,

who were the farewell emissaries for their family and waved us goodbye as we pulled away from the port. We passed by the entrance to Faraglione, our condo complex, and along Acapulco Beach, both of which we had not visited since moving out the previous week. It was probably best given the emotions of leaving and seemed right to see them again only in passing on our final drive out. From there, all of our travels went remarkably smoothly. Meridiana, the airline from Olbia to Rome, let us virtually walk Manny onto the plane at the last moment of boarding, much to our surprise and Manny’s delight. That night, we stayed in Fiumicino, not far from the airport, at the same hotel where we had stayed on our way here a couple of summers ago. With Manny in tow, we sought out a place for dinner where we could eat outside and managed to convince the proprietor at a small pizzeria to set one of the empty plastic tables on the patio for us, despite his protestations that it was far too cold (it was at least 50˚F). After some gelato and a good night’s sleep, I took Manny for a romp on the beach to wear him out before the long flight and was taken aback by a neon pink sunrise at the end of the beach – a final send-off from Italy.

At the Rome airport, despite being told that Manny would not be able to fly into Boston because the temperature there was too cold, a very helpful attendant hesitantly stuck the check-in sticker on his crate to get him through Atlanta and on the plane to Boston. After 11 hours in flight to arrive in Atlanta, we were greeted in the customs area by a quick viewing of our pup, still wagging his tail, but we had to leave him shortly to catch our flight north. At the gate, we watched in anticipation to assure that his crate was loaded onto the plane and, after every single other bag was loaded, up bumped Manny’s crate and we, much relieved, boarded the plane. Finally, somewhere around 3am Sardinia time, we emerged into the baggage area at Logan Airport to find Chad’s dad’s smiling face and open arms, a most welcome sight! We could also hear Manny barking from down the corridor – a welcome sound after nearly 18 hours in his crate. I rescued him and ran across the traffic lanes in the pick-up area to find a patch of green grass – a little piece of heaven for poor Manny. The physiology of dogs is truly remarkable!

That brings us mostly up to the present. Aside from the wonders of such things as magical machines that you can put your clothes into and they come out dry, and water running out of the tap that is clear and drinkable, not to mention how many people here speak English, I am happy to say that it just feels good to be back in New England. Our first morning, we sat on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee in front of a fire and watched snow come down over the Piscataqua River while catching up with Chad’s parents. Being amongst the familiar and good friends and family is an indescribably comfortable feeling and, at least for now, overwhelms homesickness for Sardegna.

We had a short trip up to Portland, as well, to see the house that Chad’s parents scouted out for us and to get a feel for the city again (and to have a much-craved sushi lunch), and left reinvigorated and confident about our decision to live there.  Then, I headed to St. Louis to 

 family and Chad went to Rhode Island to go through the formalities of leaving the Navy. Now, we have returned to await the arrival of our many shipments of things by air, mail and ship, and prepare to start anew in Maine. For now, we continue in the Leap Year state of things, being neither fully here nor there in both location and mind, and are just trying to digest it all in the transition and to prepare to reshape our lives as Americans once again.

24 Gennaio

The weather gods are smiling upon us today as it is unusually calm and the sky is crystal clear so that I can see the crisp white snow atop the Corsican mountains. I am happily sitting outside where it feels a bit less stark compared to the inside of our house which is missing most of its furniture after our first day of packing out yesterday. We’re not too bad off since the apartment was fully furnished before we arrived and most of the things were up in the attic storage space for us to bring down. But, we’re still waiting for our landlord to bring over a sofa. At the moment, we have a single chair and small wooden table in the living room, so it isn’t the coziest place. Hopefully, that will be rectified tomorrow morning.

Things here are racing to a close as we have now begun to pack up and have sadly already said goodbye to many of our friends. Tomorrow, there is a closure ceremony on the base, which will make things feel more official, though I think there are a grand total of about fifty people remaining to attend the celebration. I suppose, as more friends leave and life here becomes lonelier, we will be more eager and less melancholic about leaving ourselves.

Of course, we are trying to pack in as much travel as possible as well and have just returned from another weekend trip. Aside from Turkey, this was perhaps the most culturally different place to which we have traveled. We spent the weekend in the tiny village of Miklosvar in Transylvania, Romania at the guesthouses of the Count Kolnoky. Apparently, his family, royalty under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was exiled during the Communist period and lost their property. Recently, the Count has returned to Transylvania to reclaim the family castle, hunting lodge and guesthouses and is slowly renovating each property.

Our journey to get there was a bit longer than we’d anticipated, starting with a very early flight to Rome, then another to Bucharest, and then a more than four-hour van ride to Miklosvar (not the simple 3-hour transfer advertised by our hotel). But, along the way, we were able to learn a bit about Romania from our driver, Josef, who met us at the airport clad in grey woolen pants and sweater and a well-worn fur cap. He taught us a few words in Hungarian, which we learned was the language spoken in Miklosvar, rather than Romanian. The only word that stuck was “Koszonom,” meaning thank you, and we used it prolifically. In the more central part of Romania near the airport, Romanian was spoken. Because it is a Latin-based language, we were able to recognize many of the words on the signs along the road. Hearing it, however, was an entirely different story. The scenery along the way included a strange mix of turn-of-the-century buildings with elaborate wooden carved adornments with desolate communist bloc high-rise apartment buildings – and the occasional horse-drawn cart pulling a load of wood down the road.

After our long journey, we arrived in Miklosvar, a tiny village made up of colorful square Saxon-style houses along a single main street punctuated by old hand-cranked wells that were still very much in use. The chilly air and low evening fog over the snow covered streets made for a bleak and eerie scene. However, shortly after we arrived, we were shown to our guesthouse just down the road from the main lodge and found it to be the perfect cozy respite. Inside, we found creaky wooden floors and heavy ceiling beams, a thick down comforter on our hand-carved bed and a traditional tiled Russian woodstove which provided wonderful radiant heat. The lodge was similarly appointed with traditionally carved and painted cabinets and multiple woodstoves and fireplaces. Our dinner that night was down in the wine cellar where we were served soup from a large steaming terrine followed by platters of veal, potatoes and red cabbage topped with a rich sour cream – all carried by women with arms that looked like they had kneaded a lot of bread. There is a sturdiness to everything here from the solid square houses to the thick-legged horses to the dark, stoutly built locals. I suppose the mode of living necessitates a certain amount of heartiness both in build and in character. Sadly, we were not able to communicate with any of the people we came across in town, so it was difficult to get a sense of their friendliness or lack thereof.

Because of the difficulties in communication, one of the services that the guesthouse offered was to provide guided tours – by English-speaking locals. Each night at dinner, we were presented with the next day’s options. We decided to spend our first day in Brasov, about a half-hour away, in order to see a few historical sites. Before heading to bed, however, we retired to what became known as the “Brandy Room” to taste the guesthouse’s caraway brandy fireside and peruse some of the information on the area. Apparently, along with potatoes, home-brewed brandy is considered a culinary staple in this region.

The next morning, after a snug night’s sleep and a curious breakfast including the more familiar muesli and yogurt along with a garlicky eggplant spread and plates of sausage, cheese, tomatoes and strangely-pale green peppers, we headed off on our tour. We stopped first at a fortressed church built by the Teutonic Knights in the 12th century. It was not just a fortressed church, but a refuge for the entire village when it came under attack. We learned that their major adversary was the Turks and that Romania was a major region of conflict between the Ottoman and the Austro-Hungarian empires. Inside the fortress walls were rows of apartments to house the villagers, places to store water and food supplies and a church in the center. The history here is complicated and involves many ethnic groups including Romanians, Saxons, Turks, Hungarians, Seklers and Gypsies. I read a brief history of the interactions between these groups in one of the guesthouse books, but it was too much to absorb and relay. From there, we went into the city of Brasov. To gain some perspective, we rode a cable car up Tampa Mountain and looked down at the walled city below, nestled in the valley of snow-covered hills. Our guide, George, pointed out Brasov’s main square where we were going to have lunch upon our descent. Again, it was cool and moist out, and we were happy to tuck inside for a hot lunch. After the usual soups and plates of meat and potatoes, the highlight of the meal was apple strudel with a brandy-soaked crust. Then, we were off to see the Black Church, so named because it was burned by the Austrians in 1689 and the smoke blackened the inner walls as well as a painting of the Madonna, the background of which was turned from blue to black. It was adorned with an impressive collection of Ottoman rugs as well – apparently the second largest collection in the world. We walked through town afterwards and window-shopped, converting the local currency, the Ron, into Euros to get a sense of local prices. Though Romania has been a member of the European Union for a year now, it has not yet adopted the Euro. The people with whom we have spoken have universally said that they think EU membership will bring good things to Romania, but that progress will be slow. Currently, the economy is fairly depressed with most people living very simply in a not-so-forgiving climate. Apparently, the government is corrupt and has not done much to improve general living conditions for its citizens, but that is already starting to change.

At the end of a long day of traveling and absorbing many new things, we returned to Miklosvar for a short rest before dinner. This also included a visit to the guesthouse sauna, which we found to be warmer than it was hot, but sufficient to get the blood flowing. We enjoyed more soup followed by Hungarian stuffed peppers and more potatoes for dinner before the post-dinner fireside brandy where we visited with a few of the other guests and anticipated the next day’s sleigh ride.

The next day, we met another guide, Michael, who took us to what really were one-horse open sleighs waiting for us just down the street. They pulled us through the rolling snowy hills, jingling all the way. The mist from the nearby river made everything quiet and mysterious such that, were it not for a slim line of skeletal trees, it would have been difficult to tell the difference between the hillside and the equally white sky. We stopped at a track going up the hill to have a walk through the woods and look for animal prints in the snow. We found fox, deer and dog prints as well as those of wild boar, the target of hunters at this time of year. Recently, the land in this area has been reclaimed by the older families by looking at the old Austro-Hungarian parcel maps and is now being used again for farming and grazing. When we returned to the village, we visited the Count’s old hunting lodge, now empty, but set to become a sort of cultural center for the village in the future. A bit chilly from the sleigh-ride, we returned to the guesthouse lodge and warmed our toes by the fire before consuming another hearty meal. In need of a good walk, I set off into the fields to explore. Along the way, I watched a woman draw water up from the well and a horse-drawn cart pass by with a load of wood, and thought how similar life is here now as it was a hundred years ago. It gives you a better sense of the youth of the United States and its culture to see a place with such a traditional way of life.

We sadly reached our final day in Romania and had to make our way back to the airport in Bucharest for an evening flight. We had time, however, to stop at the beautiful Peles Castle outside of Sinaia. We marveled at the ornate building and gardens outside, but that was as far as we got. The king was visiting and, apparently, did not want any visitors that day. Afterwards, we walked through the town of Sinaia, where we had a surprisingly difficult time acquiring souvenirs despite the fact that it was touted as a tourist village. And then, we were off for the long drive to Bucharest with George at the wheel driving our minibus like a racecar along the narrow, potholed streets.

And that brings us back to the present where we are looking forward to just a little over a month remaining here and then it’s back to Maine where we welcome small conveniences like a clothes dryer, central heating, and stores that don’t close for riposo, but will certainly miss the beauty of this place and all of the culture that we’ve been able to observe here and around Europe. Mostly, we look forward to seeing many of you soon and finally being able to tell our tales in person.

31 December 2007

It is the last day of 2007 and we are anticipating a feast at the base on La Maddalena this evening to welcome in the New Year. 2007 has been quite a year filled with many adventures and it is likely to remain a memorable one for many years to come. Sadly, we will not likely make it until midnight this year, as we are both recovering from a nasty bout of the flu which made the rounds amongst the group of friends we went skiing with over Christmas. So, we’ll all be in good early-to-bed company tonight. Maybe we’ll hear the fireworks in our Nyquil-induced dreams.
The ski trip, despite the spread of a nasty virus, was fantastic. We were somewhat primed for the wintry weather by a sudden turn of seasons in Sardegna in mid-December where the high over a period of a week or two was only 7C (44F). I know that sounds pretty wimpy, but it feels cold when all you have is one portable heater and the wind comes right through the windows such that you can see the leaves on your indoor plants blowing in the breeze. Up in the Dolomites, however, it was truly winter and glistening frozen ponds and snow-capped peaks welcomed us into the Tyrolean region. It is easy to forget that you are still in Italy, as streets are named things like Amberstrass and every town has two names – the old Austrian and a newer Italian name added after the war. The architecture of white stucco houses with heavy dark beams and overhanging roofs reminded us of Garmisch. We arrived at the Hotel Adler in the small village of Villabassa in the late afternoon after an overnight ferry ride and a long drive north and discovered that the Residence, the part of the hotel where we had booked a room, was a bit further away from the main hotel that we’d thought and we realized that the temperature outside would make it a chilly walk to and from breakfast and dinner each day, especially after skiing. So, Chad set off to inquire about a room in the main hotel and we were soon set up in the Junior Suite compliments of the proprietor, a friend of a friend who has a house in Sardegna and whom I had tutored in English at the beginning of the summer. They were quite posh accommodations – complete with two bathrooms! Little did we know that, later, this would provide a comfortable respite for a flu-addled Chad. That night, we met up with nearly a dozen friends from La Maddalena who had all just arrived, and had the first of many fantastic dinners at the hotel with many more courses than our stomachs had anticipated.

The next morning, we opted for an early start to get to the mountain and rent skis for the week. After the gathering of the troops over breakfast, followed by the rounding up of proper clothing and provisions for the day and the stuffing of children into new snowsuits, we set off to Kromplatz in a caravan of cars. And, sometime midmorning once we’d finally all gotten fully equipped, all the skiers rode the gondola up to the top of the mountain for the trip’s first run, leaving the sledders and snowboarders to the lower slopes for the day. The views were beautiful with natural snow on the peaks (though artificial on the slopes) and bright sunshine. We greatly enjoyed the sun over lunch on the outdoor porch of a mid-mountain restaurant where we ate all manner of sausages, spetzels and knodels. Then, we were off again, for a few more runs before calling it a day. This was the basic routine of our ski days, each of which brought increased speed and confidence for me after a tentative start and little previous skiing experience. I actually reached the point where my level of fun surpassed that of my fear.

Our ski day was then followed by returning to the Adler to take a very eager pup for a walk through the fields across from the hotel and then stopping by the nightly gluwein stand in the piazza for a mug of the local hot mulled wine by the fire. We realized how maladapted our poor pup was to the cold when we noticed him doing a little two legged dance on the icy ground as we waited for the carolers to start one evening. From there, we retreated indoors to the delightful Hotel spa to warm up and relax tired muscles. This left us just enough time to clean up before the multi-hour, multi-course dinner that ended each day and from which we all departed full and exhausted.

Aside from the skiing, we also had a chance to explore a couple of the towns in the area in the afternoons. Brunico, at the base of Kromplatz, had a wonderful Christmas market with booths full of various local crafts including gingerbread hearts, carved wooden ornaments, and colorful woolen capes and clogs. We even heard Tyrolean horn players performing on the longest horns I’ve ever seen. And, of course, we found steaming mugs of gluwein to keep us warm while perusing the market. Another afternoon, we headed into Cortina d’Ampezzo to see the famous glitzy resort town there. We had heard that people liked to show off their furs and high fashion there, and found this to be more than true – even the dogs had fur-trimmed jackets! We decided that Brunico was more our style.

The visit to Cortina was after a day of skiing there. The scenery was unbelievable. We thought that Kromplatz was beautiful, but at Cortina, the lifts take you through jagged channels in the rocks that are sparkling with fresh snow, up to nearly 3000 meters at the top. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. It was interesting to note the difference in style between the two mountains as Kromplatz was much more modern with fancy gondolas and big mountain restaurants, while Cortina had many of the old-style open chairlifts and little lodges. There were also many more Italians at Cortina than at Kromplatz, which was to our advantage since Italians like to sleep in the morning and we were there bright and early. Just after we finished lunch, they started rolling in. Not so at the Austrian-dominated Kromplatz, which was crowded by 9am.

After our day at Cortina, we returned to the Adler for Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, this was the night that Chad succumbed to the flu, but he did manage to emerge after dinner for caroling and gluwein around the hotel’s Christmas tree. Christmas Day, the group met up for one last day of skiing altogether (except for a still-feverish Chad). It was a beautiful, sunny morning with few skiers on the slopes, although we did see one in a full Santa suit! We headed back after lunch to have our Christmas gift exchange in the hotel’s cozy card room, followed by an outdoor fire with more hot gluwein in the piazza. Dinner was a grand feast complete with roast Christmas goose, a first for most of us.

And, that brought us, sadly, to the end of our stay at the Hotel Adler. We left the next morning to make our way toward the ferry. Midday, we stopped in Bologna, hoping to explore the famous Quadrilatero food district, but, as it was riposo and the day after Christmas, most of the shops were closed. It was great window-shopping ,though, which was easier as we had Manny in tow. The architecture in the city was beautiful with many brick buildings, a rarity for Italy, and narrow winding streets off the main piazzas. One of most unusual things we saw was the sarcophagus of St. Dominic, the namesake of the Dominican monks, which was perched high atop an elevated monument outside the Basilica. Then, it was onwards to the ferry and home to Sardinia, returning in the wee hours of the morning to our chilly, dark house.

We decided to have Christmas part II once back at home so that we could open each other’s presents there. We made a shellfish stew on “Christmas Eve” reminiscent of the Olcott tradition of haddock chowder and watched Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special in front of the fire. The next morning, we opened presents in our pajamas and had Norwegian apple cake a la Andrea and fresh squeezed OJ a la Tom. We lingered over the pile of loot for several hours thereafter, enjoying many new goodies and reliving Christmas Day now that we were at home. We did our best to recreate the traditions of our families, but still missed them quite a bit and spent the afternoon catching up with parents and siblings via phone. And sometime late in the day, I became the latest flu victim in the family - Merry Christmas!

And, that brings us back to the present, to celebrate the end of 2007 and the coming of 2008 (and with it, hopefully the return of health for both of us!). The arrival of January means that we will be saying goodbye to many of our friends here who are leaving before the closure of the base. So, we are hunkering down for the last couple of months and preparing to return to the land of English-speakers, baseball, and apple-pie come the end of February. Hopefully I’ll get in at least one more travelogue as we try to squeeze as much out of Sardinia as we can before we go. Meanwhile, happy 2008 to all.

28 Novembre

It is an unusually balmy day here with mercurial smooth seas and misty warm air such that we cannot see the new snow on Corsica which fell earlier this week. It is hard to believe that, just two weeks ago, I was nestled around the heater in our living room with Andrea and Charley while hail pelted the ground and the wind blew the rain through our not-so-well-sealed windows. Now, the winds have died and the temperatures have climbed a little, but we are still waiting for a few warm, sunny days to do some much-needed laundry as we are, in the Italian tradition, without a dryer. That aside, the return of the wet season has given rise to a wonderful greening of the landscape here such that it sometimes feels more like spring than fall, though the chilly nights and the re-lighting of our lone bombola heater remind us otherwise.

The chill seemed appropriate for Thanksgiving, known by Italians as the Festa Ringraziamento (Festival of Thanks) or, for the more culinarily-minded, the Giorno di Tachino (Day of the Turkey), which we celebrated with many friends here and from which we have finally recovered. Chad made DadO’s famous oyster-walnut-sausage stuffing, truly a meal unto itself, and I finally successfully made Zuppa Gallurese, the traditional layered bread/broth/cheese dish of this area of Sardegna that I’ve been trying to master. The secret was a special type of Sardegnan bread and homemade lamb and veal broth, the bones from which Manny delightedly munched on for several days afterwards. After our grand feast, we had nearly a whole turkey’s worth of meat left, requiring a team of bone-pickers to clean the carcasses before the rounds of desert began.

Weather and feasting aside, this has been the season for visitors, starting with Gwynne (a friend from graduate school) and her parents. They only stayed a few days in Sardegna, but we managed to pack in a wine-tasting excursion and a fantastic dinner at a local agriturismo among other adventures. This was shortly on the heels of Chad’s parents’ visit such that, after the guests were gone, I enjoyed a lovely girls’ weekend at the spa to appropriately relax. The spa overlooked natural hot springs and the site of the ancient Roman baths of Fordongianus on the river below. I returned much rejuvenated, having soaked and steamed for enough hours to turn me into a human prune.

After just a few days back at home, Chad was off to the U.S. for a job interview in Portland, where we will be heading come spring. We are still getting used to the idea of living in a place that has true winter and where snow isn’t just something you see in the far off mountains but that you shovel by the pound to reach your car in the morning. The morning of Chad’s departure, while hiking with Manny on a headland just south of the airport, we watched his plane fly overhead while also watching a nasty storm come in from the East and just barely managed to outpace it in order to return to the car undoused. Along the way, Manny also had a close encounter with a herd of dogs protecting a herd of sheep up the path from us such that we quickly altered our course and safely proceeded away from the clanging sheep bells and barking dogs.

Our next adventure here was to the Festa dei Vini Novelli which celebrated the new wines of the season. I recently learned that the grapes harvested in the fall are put through a quick fermentation process that keeps in a bit of the gasses to produce, in just a matter of months, a light fizzy wine known as the new wine of the year, or “vino novello.” In the tiny town of Milis, about two hours south of here on the west coast, they have an annual festival to celebrate the new wines and, for a small fee, you can purchase a souvenir glass in a handy wine pouch, which you wear around your neck. Then, you can fill your glass at each cantina’s booth with a taste of this year’s product. It was quite a jolly affair such that we had intended to purchase a few bottles for the upcoming Thanksgiving feast but, by the end of all the tastings, forgot to actually buy any. Lucky for us, our local wine shop carried a few of our favorites from the festival. We had yet another wonderful agriturismo experience that evening closer to the coast of Oristano, where we had fresh fish caught by Mimmo, one of the proprietors. The next morning, his wife, Giovanna, served us fresh yogurt and homemade cake flavored with orange zest accompanied by giant hot cappuccinos, which we drank by the fire in the breakfast room. This fueled us for our windy hike out to the headland just down the coast. Our friend, Rachael, and her dog accompanied us for the weekend and the two dogs had a ball racing around the watchtower and the tip of the peninsula and then following Chad up to the top.

Happily, we relaxed all day Monday, as it was Veteran’s Day and Chad was off from work, before heading to the airport to pick up Andrea and Charley after their brief visit to Rome. We had a wonderful visit with them and, despite some chilly, wet weather, managed to get in a beautiful hike on Caprera to the watchtower with Massimo, a friend who is a guide for the park, as well as a drive along the panoramic road around La Maddalena. Sadly, then, the weather began to deteriorate and we had a series of chilly, rainy days, one of which included hail pelting against the windows, scaring our jittery pup. But, we made the most of it and visited the nuraghe of Arzachena, drove out to Punta Sardegna, and had a grand roadtrip down to the Capo Falcone peninsula to see the Pisan watchtower and the old tuna fishing town of Stintino with its many colorful boats tucked into its harbors . According to the rainy weather, lunch was usually the day’s centerpiece and we found many cozy restaurants where we sampled insalata di mare, prosciutto with pecorino cheese, gnochetti sardi, and zuppa gallurese amidst the occasional pizza and hearty salad. And, we ended each day back at home with a fire in the fireplace to warm us back up after our wanderings. As Charley and Andrea had quite an early start on Sunday and quite a long day of traveling to follow, we decided to stay at Le Macine, a small agriturismo in Loiri, just south of the airport in Olbia. After arriving to find the place dark and with no one home, we were a bit concerned, but a friendly woman soon came hustling out and explained that she had been without power during the storms and was scrambling to get ready for us. Soon, we were in our cozy rooms set up with a bottle of wine and glasses for the four of us. She explained that we would have to eat in the kitchen as the heat hadn’t been on in the main dining room and it was quite cold. So, we sat around her little table in front of the fire, Manny at our feet, and had fantastic homemade ricotta ravioli, pomegranate salad, and suckling pig roasted with branches of myrtle. She also served fegato (liver) which we politely tasted and then tried to feed to Manny, who turned his nose up in favor of the accompanying fried artichokes. This was all a welcome feast after a blustery (in the Mediterranean sense) day of walking around Olbia, looking in neat old churches and down skinny cobblestone streets. After a bit of exploring, we headed up to Cabu Abbas, an old nuraghic site just outside of the city and sought refuge behind the old stone walls of the complex after being blasted by the winds. The vista was worth the exposure, as there was visible snow on the mountains down south and the sun was glistening on their white tops. Just before sunset, we headed south to San Teodoro, famed for its large lagoons full of an array of birds including pink flamingos! With the clearing skies, the sunset was beautiful and richly colored over the mountains behind us and was a perfect ending to a week of adventures before relaxing back at the agriturismo.

The next morning was beautiful and bright and so we set off for a hike on Capo Figaro, just north of Golfo Aranci, the major ferry port. This was, of course, after Chad kindly awoke in the wee hours to deliver Andrea and Charley to the airport, while I slept on and awaited his return. The hike was beautiful and afforded views of more snow-capped peaks and hidden bays along the peninsula in the shadow of the dramatic Isola Tavolara. And then, we returned to our quiet little house after a very full week.

After many guests and weekend trips, we had planned on staying at home for the long weekend after Thanksgiving, but saw good weather in the forecast and decided to take the chance and head south to the mountains of Barbagia, where we’d been in the spring and had been wanting to return to in order to hike to the Gola su Gorrupu, known as the “Grand Canyon of Sardegna.” So, after a day of recovery from Thursdays feasting, we packed a few clothes and some picnic supplies for our hike and headed out on Saturday morning under glorious bright sunshine. Unfortunately, the warmer weather during the week had melted the snow that we had seen from Olbia, but the scenery was still quite striking. The hike to the gorge was incredible, taking us along a wooded path that eventually led to a stream bed and to the very narrow passage in the rocks known as the “gola” or throat of the gorge. Limestone boulders lined the gorge, their bright white contrasting against the deep greens of the surrounding vegetation. Some of the trees were actually changing color, making it look autumnal. It was quite a hike and helped us to work up a good appetite for our agriturismo dinner that night. Along the drive on the way back, the colors of the sunset were spectacular, causing us to pull off the side of the road several times in order to try to capture it on camera, but the pictures only hint at the scale of the drama of color and mountains. We had stayed at Agriturismo Didone in the spring and, upon arrival that trip, had came upon Giovanni butchering the lamb that we were to eat that night for supper. Dinner that night was fantastic, and Giovanni and Katy were very gracious hosts, such that we were eager to return there and see them again. This time, rather than lamb, we had what Giovanni described as “la pancha,” or the stomach of lamb and pig, both of which were a bit difficult to look at, but tasted very good. We didn’t make much of a dent in the serving and had to explain that this was our first time to try such a dish. Giovanni replied by saying that perhaps it takes a bit of getting used to.

The next morning, we awoke to rain and puzzled about what to do with our day. At first, we set off to see the famous Grotto Ispinigoli, which supposedly contained the world’s second biggest stalagmite at 38 meters, but, upon arrival, we saw a sign that said, “Next showing: tomorrow.” We wondered how long that sign had been there. The view from the entrance, however, was beautiful and we got to see the clouds moving out over the mountains to reveal a rainbow and the promise of what looked like it could be quite a nice rest of the day. From there, we set out along the Strada Orientale Sarda, a twisty road along the mountaintops that was built in the 1850’s by coal miners, an incredible feat for the time. In search of yet another cave that we’d read about, we headed off the main road down an even twistier, more narrow road to a trailhead through the Codula Illune (Valley of the Moon). This road should really have been named the Strada dei Animali as it was full of cows, goats, sheep, and pigs, causing much distraught howling from the back of our car. The valley did feel quite lunar as we hiked amongst large boulders along the river valley until the water disappeared underground into part of the large underground cave system that originated at the coast. Along the way, we discovered a sort of shepherd’s camp tucked in a cave complete with a covered porch outside and a wooden ramp from one level to the next. While enjoying another picnic on the rocks, we watched dark clouds moved in and warily contemplated driving back on the twisty roads in rain, but we somehow beat the rain on foot and even for the drive back and returned to a beautiful sunset in Palau.

I forgot to mention that, on the morning we left, we were discussing how to make fresh ricotta cheese with Giovanni and he then disappeared briefly, returning with a bottle of warm sheep’s milk which had had undoubtedly just obtained. He also produced a small jar of something called “calio,” which I later learned means “to curdle,” and comes from the stomach of a cow. This, he told me, was the REAL way to make ricotta – using lemon juice was for the inexperienced. So, as I write this, I am waiting for the milk to curdle in yet another Italian cooking/science experiment.

I think that brings me up to the present. This has been quite a busy period, but it is all in an effort to pack in as much as we possibly can before we have to leave here in February. There will certainly be a sustained period of absorption of all of these experiences long after we depart, as things are happening too quickly now to fully take them in. That said, we are looking forward to December’s ski trip up to northern Italy with friends and will likely put together the next travelogue edition shortly after we return in the New Year. In the meantime, we hope everyone has wonderful holidays with friends and family, will miss being with you, and very much look forward to hearing about the feasting and visiting to come.