THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 9, 1997 TAG: 9702080103
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY MYLENE MANGALINDAN, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 272 lines
IF YOU'RE SEEKING adventure among Italy's natives, stray away from the usual tourist haunts and head to the island. The island of Sardinia, of course.
Highly traveled as a European vacation spot, Sardinia sees few Americans. My fiance, Hutch Carpenter, and I impulsively agreed to venture to the island to enjoy its beaches and say we'd done something different.
Little did we know we had flung ourselves into the Italian unknown.
Yet, despite the outrageous car rental prices, the confusion of only Italian-speaking locals, we fell in love with Sardegna. Though less glamorous than the Italian Riviera, Sardinia's rugged hills and simple fields felt strangely familiar. Its peo le overwhelmed us with their hospitality. Their food and friendliness warmed us, leaving us mourning when we departed.
At first, we didn't know where to start. Both of our Italy travel guides carried sparse details about Sardinia. So we moved from one challenge to another, like a blind man reading Braille.
We booked poltronas, or reclining chairs, on a Tirrenia ferry from the port city of Citavecchia to Sardinia's capital, Cagliari. It was supposed to be our cheapest option. Not. Or rather, not cheap by our standards.
It cost 90,000 lira per person, roughly about $60, for a 13-hour ferry ride that ranks as the most uncomfortable, interminable night I've ever experienced. It was worse than any red-eye flight or camping adventure. Positioned closely together, the seats didn't recline fully. Long-legged passengers like Hutch had no room to stretch out. The savvy travelers staked out the raised platform used for storing luggage and spread sleeping bags out for a night of horizontal sleep. Plus, we felt awkward and guarded surrounded by strangers.
Forced to rise unnaturally early the next morning, I struggled to the ship's cafe for a caffe latte around 6 a.m. Hutch, who'd already been up and about, joined me for his third cup of espresso. Greeted by a brisk wind, we wandered outside to the ship's railing to gaze on the brown, craggy mountains.
During the night, we had crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea to the eastern curve of Sardinia, which guided us southward until we anchored in Cagliari. It was beautiful and peaceful. Being able to wake up gradually to a good caffe latte amid the sea and hills redeemed some of the voyage for us.
Having no definitive plan once we arrived ashore, we wandered in the direction of the bus station and stumbled upon a billboard advertising Terra Nostra. It's an agricultural program that promotes the island's products by pairing visitors and local farmers for lodging. The cooperative also sells farm produce and homemade goods.
We found the Terra Nostra office on the fourth floor of a gray building and communicated our request for a bed-and-breakfast to a smiling Italian woman. After struggling with broken English, a few badly chosen Italian words and hand signals, we landed the address of a host:
Mr. Carmine Meloni
Loc. ``Cirras''
Santa Giusta (OR)
0783/358787
She assured us that everyone in the town of Santa Giusta knew Carmine Meloni. He would be no problem to find, she said. And he would be expecting us.
We plunked down plastic for a Hertz rental car, which cost $100 a day to rent. We decided two days was the most we could afford then set out on the dusty and confusing four-lane freeway in search of beaches.
I drove first because the car was rented under my name, but I quickly relinquished my driving duties as it became apparent that Hutch didn't think I was doing a very good job. (Just like a man, I thought.) So we switched halfway to Costa Verde, what looked like a promising, secluded beach on Sardinia's western shore. We left the island's main artery to drive through small mountain towns until we descended toward the beaches.
The first glimpse was breathtaking: clear, blue water outlined by sand and lush, green vegetation. We left the asphalt road to follow a dirt path that looked like it might strand us somewhere. Our little blue Ford hatchback crossed streams and braved tough gravel terrain until we finally landed at the beach.
We stumbled upon a solitary beach hotel, a tiny resort. Privacy on the beach was easily achieved. A couple and a few nude sunbathers had the entire beach to themselves.
We left the beach after only a few hours of sunning in order to find our host.
Descending the mountains from the town of Montevideo, we spotted a gray-haired woman frantically trying to extinguish a grass fire with a broom. Another woman stood in the street and flagged us down. Jabbering in Italian, she rushed to Hutch's side of the car. We could only assume that she needed us to call for help. We nodded and left.
At the first building we saw, we pulled into a masonry yard. We tried to alert two bespectacled men to the fire, only a few miles away. One only looked dazed. The other understood Hutch's Spanish ``Fuego!'' and called the authorities.
He rejoined us and started asking questions. Hutch mentioned that he hailed from Virginia and that I was from California.
``AH!'' the man exclaimed, smiling delightedly. ``Americanos!'' He began asking how we arrived, how long we were staying and where we had gone. Using latent high school Spanish skills and a lot of exaggerated movements, we answered his questions.
We took a photograph with the friendly man, who owned the company, and headed out. We never did see a fire engine pass us on its way up the hill.
Taking a northern road to Santa Giusta, we passed through what looked like Sardinia's agricultural heartland. Orchards, hay bales and mowers whizzed by. The land resembled a fertile valley back home, though we were painfully conscious of the foreign address because of the different traffic symbols and signs.
We passed two signs for ``Cirras,'' which we had been instructed to look for, but we had no other address for our farmer host. We reached the town of Santa Giusta after passing a port and a long rural stretch of road.
We found a phone booth and called the number we had for Carmine Meloni. A woman who spoke only Italian answered the phone. After struggling on the phone with her, Hutch put down the receiver. She told him to meet her somewhere in town, but Hutch had no idea where. Confused and frustrated, we spotted two old men approaching us on the sidewalk.
We asked if either of them spoke English. The older gentleman piped up, stretching his curled, arthritic fingers toward me until they circled my wrist.
``I speak English,'' he answered brusquely. Speaking slowly, as if to a child, we asked him if he would call Carmine Meloni and translate for us what the woman, presumably Carmine's wife, said. Squeezing himself into the red phone booth, he called as we had asked. No answer. We assumed she had left already to meet us at our designated spot, which Hutch couldn't understand. The whole situation was absurd. But funny.
Suddenly the old man took charge.
``Meloni? He lives here!'' he told us. He motioned to us to follow. His companion spoke to him, waving farewell to us. Our ancient guide shuffled along the sidewalk with his arm curled next to his body. We trailed him. He explained that he had served in World War II so he had spent time in a prison camp in the United States, where, ironically, he had learned English.
As we headed toward the Meloni residence, we picked up a friendly mechanic. Dressed in a dirt- and grease-stained jumper, he accompanied us briefly toward our destination and confirmed animatedly to our elderly guide that the Melonis did indeed live down that street. Smiling, he left us after a few minutes and waved. ``Ciao!''
After a mere four or five blocks, we arrived at a wooden double-door entrance. A young boy answered our knock, listened to our guide and ran inside. A woman and two other boys soon joined us. She rattled in Italian as her husband, a short man in jeans and a white T-shirt, came forward. He nodded and told us Carmine was his fratelli. We had stumbled upon Carmine's brother!
A quick phone call soon remedied our confusion. Carmine would pick us up at his brother's house and lead us to his farm. Our guide nodded off our thanks and left us to the Meloni brother. He ushered us inside where we were invited to sit at the family kitchen table.
Surrounded by three women, a young teen-age girl, two men and three boys, I suddenly felt shy. Hutch had left to retrieve the car, leaving me alone with strangers. A visiting cousin from Cagliari, a beautiful and glamourous young woman, put me at ease. Because I knew no Italian and she knew the barest hint of English, we signed with our hands and motioned our way through conversation, with the help of a map and various props.
Explaining that Hutch and I came from the United States to visit Sardinia, she exclaimed, ``Bellisimo! Sardinia es bellisimo!'' In response to my questions about various sites around the island, like the Roman ruins and the beaches, she unequivocally responded ``bellisimo!'' or ``bella!'' Everything was bellisimo! But her enthusiasm infected me, too.
Encircled by the young boys when he returned, Hutch found himself being educated about the Sardo ruins, the island's agriculture and its beaches through a book that he leafed through with much assistance. We happily pointed to areas we wanted to visit during our island stay. The teen-age girl shyly offered me her postcard collection, a stack of tourist destinations around the island. Although I declined, she insisted, putting them into my reluctant hands.
Our visit passed quickly. A smiling, bearded man, our host Carmine, arrived to escort us home. We thanked the ``other'' Melonis and left with a crowd gathered at the door to wish us farewell.
A short 15-minute trip outside Santa Giusta ended in a long gravel driveway beside a white house. Our farmer hosts, Carmine and his wife, Giovanna, greeted us with homemade white wine, pink pastries and biscotti.
They presented a study in contrasts. Tall and perpetually good-humored, Carmine sported a deep tan, bronzed from daily exposure to the sun. More serious by nature, Giovanna obviously called the shots in the family. She was the one who outlined the costs of our two-day stay and managed logistics like when we wanted breakfast and dinner. Although pale and petite, she was no wallflower.
But she was the best cook we met in all of our Italian travels. For that first dinner, we sat down to a feast. Giovanna and Carmine grow and produce all of their own food, so we sampled canned celery in olive oil, eggplant, artichokes, pickled tomatoes wrapped around olives with capers inside (most of these had the zing of paprika). Following the Italian tradition, our primo, or pasta first course, was homemade ravioli. For the segundo, or second course, usually a meat dish, we had corniglio (rabbit) with herb potatoes that melted in our mouths. A Sardinian red wine accompanied our meal. Dessert featured formaggio, or cheese, with a ravioli pasta outside topped with honey. We also had fruit and homemade fruit liquor.
Carmine insisted on refilling Hutch's shot glass with the liquor. They played out this little drama each night when Carmine would offer the bottle to Hutch and he would pretend to protest, holding up both hands. Carmine would raise the bottle repeatedly and motion more until Hutch would pretend to concede, tilt his head in acquiescence and enjoy more of the homemade liquid.
Although we couldn't speak Italian and they spoke just a little English, our dinner conversations were fun. Part charade, snippets of Spanish, maps and books all helped bridge the communication gap. We learned much about their simple lifestyle.
Carmine operated the farm by himself. He harvested the fields, fed their pig Kika and did most of the heavy-lifting chores. Giovanna helped with some of the field work like feeding the chickens and rabbits, tending the rose garden and picking vegetables. She did most of the cooking, canning, preserving, baking, fermenting, jarring, bottling and freezing. Her family owned a vineyard and other property in a neighboring region. The grapes from their land went into the wine and liquor that she made.
We enjoyed staying in their modern house, complete with leather furniture, a spacious kitchen and a guest bedroom. Plus, it was a bargain. For lodging, the use of a shower, breakfast (featuring the best coffee I ever had, as judged by a coffee snob who receives her beans by mail-order from a California roaster), afternoon snacks and dinner, we paid roughly $30 each. Dinner alone in a restaurant would cost that much!
We spent our second day exploring the ruins at Tharros, an ancient Roman and Carthaginian fortress located on a peninsula jutting into the Mediterranean. From a tower, Roman guards probably fell into a sweet trance watching the serene blue waters while standing on lookout for enemy ships. Now, the tower - remarkably well-preserved - acts as a wonderful vantage point to view the former Roman colony.
Vestiges of the outpost outlined the water drains, the cooking spaces in walls and the clearly marked paths between buildings. A solitary Roman column stood in the middle of a barren, stone walk while work crews cut the grass that had grown between the stone steps.
After imagining ourselves in the ancient baths, strolling the dusty stone walks, we headed for the pristine white beaches. Hutch followed winding, single lane roads to secluded shores. With all our time at the beach, we came away bronze.
Late in the afternoon, we hit the Sardinian autobahn again. Like a NASCAR driver, Hutch coaxed our little Ford to higher speeds on the road to Barumuni, another famous ruin farther inland. Barumuni looked like a dark volcano emerging from the ground. Some of the conical tower walls had collapsed over time, forming circular stone ``benches.'' Interestingly, we noted that we were the only Americans to sign the visitors' book at the park entrance. There were Italians from the mainland, Germans, Austrians, English, Scottish and French tourists. We discovered later that Europeans often vacation in Sardinia, but the peak months began in June.
Hutch and I made a pact to skip lunch so we could enjoy Giovanna's next meal. We weren't disappointed. She served us more preserved vegetables for an appetizer. We also had a meat shell pasta dish along with a chicken dish. More homemade red wine accompanied the conversation, which lasted long into the night. We learned more about our host couple, including the fact that they were rockers. Giovanna enjoyed listening to Queen while Carmine preferred Pink Floyd. They also thought living on Sardinia was a bargain, compared to the rest of Europe or the United States. They insisted that we tell all our friends and family about Terra Nostra and agritourismo.
We left our hosts reluctantly the next morning. We bought a small bottle of fruit liquor from Giovanna to bring back for Hutch's father. As a gift, they presented us with a bottle of their homemade white wine. Those bottles presented a problem for backpack travel, but we appreciated their kindness.
We explored Cagliari after returning the car. We lingered over an excellent lunch in a back-alley restaurant, Trattoria Gennargentu, just off the main street dividing the city. Because we had arrived early, we stayed long enough to enjoy some red wine and observe the locals who dropped in for lunch. On a quest for the perfect plate of carbonara, which he'd craved since we left France, Hutch asked for his old favorite even though it wasn't on the menu. I had a wonderful plate of seafood risotto.
We wandered through the shopping district before trekking uphill to the Bastione di San Remy. Two marble staircases led to the top of the Bastione, a tower overlooking the port city that led into the castle district. We blended in with all the young teen-agers ``hanging out'' on top of the tower. Except we fell asleep on some benches, like a pair of vagrants. We had picked a perfect afternoon for a park nap. Palm trees shaded us while a light breeze and the sun regulated the temperature. It brought alive our beach memories and steeled us for the 13-hour ferry ride back to the mainland.
Even before we boarded our ferry, we regretted leaving. We had fallen victim to the legendary longing for the island. Mal di Sardegna, the native sickness that inflicts those who leave the agricultural island, had found new victims. We could only agree with the Meloni cousin. Sardinia is truly bellisimo. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo by Hutch Carpenter
The Island of Sardinia boasts a wealth of Roman ruins.
Photo by MYLENE MANGALINDAN
The Roman and Carthaginian ruins at Tharros overlook the
Mediterranean Sea.
KEYWORDS: TRAVEL ITALY