Affitare una Barca (Renting a Boat)

"Little boats should keep near shore"

-Benjamin Franklin

It’s a beautiful, nearly windless day. We wake up early, pack the cooler and drive down to the Carloforte marina. We’ve rented a boat for the whole day and we’re excited to get an early start. We’ll explore the entire Isola di San Pietro from the sea.
We rent the cheapest boat available, a 6-person inflatable raft with motor and tiny sunshade. After completing several pages of documenti, we’re given the standard 3-second instruction speech (“Here’s the key, there’s the ocean”).
Jeff starts the engine and expertly navigates us out of the busy marina. I generally leave the driving to him, not only because he’s a better driver, but also because it gives me the freedom to criticize. If you combine my driving skills (not being able to find “reverse” in our rental car), with my impaired sense of space and direction, PLUS that recent little fender bender, it just makes sense for Jeff to do the driving.
As we leave the marina and hit the open water, we notice a slight wind has kicked up so we turn left and head north up the east side of the island, keeping the wind behind us. We’ll go around the island counter clockwise. The island is roughly triangle-shaped, with Carloforte located near the center of the eastern side.
The waves on the east side are calm, the sun is glinting off the water and the light, refreshing wind keeps us cool and happy. Within minutes, Jenna and Jeff see a huge swordfish jump and splash in the waves. It’s going to be an exciting day. Even the fish are excited.
The oceanfront villas get further and further apart as we leave the village of Carloforte. The shoreline is mostly beach grass and squat pines, with an occasional tiny beach used by the neighboring residents. We putter along, passing the area where, every June, the fishermen lay out vast nets to channel, trap and spear migrating tuna (a technique that has been outlawed elsewhere).
In less than an hour, we reach the northeast tip of the island and begin our tour of the north shore. The terrain changes and becomes rockier and more rugged. No houses here. Halfway along the north side, the rocks along the shore get bigger and bigger, and finally become one tall, continuous rock wall. We begin to see caves at the base of the shoreline, small at first, but gradually becoming bigger, deeper, more cavernous. The water inside the caves looks electric blue and inviting, so we drive our boat into one. Once inside, the air temperature immediately drops. We look down into the fluorescent blue-green water, and stare at wet black walls and ceiling. Our voices echo in the cave. The ceiling drips and we hear the droplets hit the water below. It’s eerie and magical. The cave is so narrow that we have to put the boat in reverse to get back out.
As we continue along the north coast the rock cliffs jut out above the ocean like fingers. Every once in a while, the shoreline takes a dramatic inland turn, opening up to a secluded cove. We drive into one of these coves and drop anchor to swim and fish, and later eat our lunch. I’d never actually “dropped anchor” before. The anchor is attached to a heavy chain that is stored in the bow of the boat. At the precise moment (i.e., when Jeff says), I lift and drop the (really heavy) anchor over the bow and get out of the way as the chain uncoils quickly, following the anchor. I keep imagining that cartoon character getting his foot caught in the anchor chain and pitching overboard.
Jeff and Jenna catch lots of pretty 6” fish, black with yellow stripes that look like they belong in an aquarium. The fish have a dangerously prickly spine, so Jeff removes the hook carefully and drops them back into the water. We jump from the boat into acquamarine water. Jenna does a cannonball. Jeff swims over to explore the rocky shoreline and later swan-dives from a low cliff. We eat my fresh-made salsa with crunchy tortilla chips, cotto e formaggio panini (ham and cheese sandwiches) and “insalata frutta” with local cherries and peaches. Jeff and I drink a few glasses of chilled white Sardinian wine. It’s a good day.
Afterward, we continue slowly along the beautiful and dramatic north shore of the island, and finally turn the corner to head down the angled west shore to the southern tip. The wind picks up here, and the waves get a little bigger. Jenna and I laugh and ride them like buckin’ broncos. We’re in the bow of the boat, to counterweight Jeff and the boat’s engine at the stern, because the boat is so light that if two or more of us are at the stern, the bow tips up.
The waves get bigger still and the boat rocks dramatically up and down and side to side. I turn around to look at Jeff. We both frown, and then Jeff launches into the Gilligan’s Island theme song, “A three-hour tour…” which thankfully makes me giggle. For those who didn’t watch 70’s television (Kerri), the show was about a simple boat trip gone terribly awry.
“Should we turn around!?” Jeff shouts, over the noise of the waves slapping against the boat, the blowing wind and the hard-working motor.
Now, this is the point in the story where I make a very, very bad decision.
“What, NOW!?” I yell back, “But we’ve come all this way!” After all, I reason, we’re only half way around the island and it just wouldn’t make sense to turn around and not see the whole thing.
“It’s probably just a choppy spot. It’ll get better.” I say encouragingly. This, coming from a woman who has almost no real experience at sea other than riding ferries. Jeff looks doubtful.
Jenna and I scoot as far forward as we can to stabilize the boat. I’m sitting on my knees, facing forward toward the oncoming waves, and Jenna is next to me, facing sideways. Jenna has an uncertain look on her face, and I can tell she’s worried because she’s not talking. I give her a reassuring look and tighten up her life jacket. We slip our hands through the rubber safety straps and hang on tightly
Jeff tries to steer the boat as close to shore as possible, but now the waves are hitting us from the side and rocking the boat in an alarming way. He continually turns the boat to approach the waves head on and avoid being side-swiped, and then turns to correct, but this is forcing us farther out to sea each time.
The wind (out of the southwest, which we find out later is referred to locally as the “sirocco wind”) is whipping our hair in front of our eyes, as Jenna and I clench our grip and brace ourselves for the impact of larger waves. The waves are manageable at first, and I’m thinking this should all be over any minute now. Soon though, as we ride up each wave rather than riding back down, we crash down. Flat and hard. The higher the wave, the harder the fall. Bam! Bam! The front of the boat slaps the water hard. The waves are so big now that, as the boat reaches the crest of a wave, my stomach gets that sickening “whoop-see-daisy” feeling. Like the moment after a rollercoaster crests the highest point, and you begin to careen straight downhill.
SLAM!
The boat is now pitching and lurching all over the place.
“Is this all you’ve got?!” Jeff yells jokingly, face to the sky.
I look over to see Jenna’s worried face. “Are we going to tip over?” she asks in a tiny scared voice.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. This will all be over soon. We’re fine.” I tell her calmly. But truly, I’m worried too, and can’t believe we got ourselves into this mess.
I glance over at the rocky shoreline and see how the rolling ocean swells that surround us are crashing against the huge boulders onshore with silent fury, white sea spray exploding into the air and then showering and dribbling over the rocks.
The waves hit us continuously. It’s all I can do to hang on. I decide it’s too dangerous up front and I tell Jenna to go back to the stern with Jeff where she can sit on the bench seat and hang on easier. The stern is little more stable and she’ll be safer. She yells, “No mommy! It’ll weight the boat too much in back!” This is true (she’s smart), but I make her go back anyway.
I sit on my knees as we coast up the next wave. Just as we crest the top, gravity forces my head to lift slightly off my neck and my legs to straighten out, but as we crash back down my butt slams down hard onto my heels. Ow.
I change position and crouch on my feet, squatting, but the next wave almost pitches me over the bow. I try to sit side saddle, but that won’t work either.
“Hang on,” Jeff yells, ‘This is a big one!”
The boat rides up the next wave and the bow tips up so far it feels like we’re heading straight for the sky. The engine makes a weird revving, prop-out-of-water sound as we leave the wave and free-fall to the water with a sickening thud that knocks the wind out of me, forces my jaws to clamp together, and causes immediate neck pain as my head compresses deeply into my cervical vertebrae. OW! Are there chiropractors in Carloforte?
After the next wave, and the next, and the next, I realize not only am I getting the wind knocked out of me each time, but it’s also just too painful to hold my head up and look straight ahead at the oncoming waves because my head is repeatedly and painfully lifted and then jammed down into my spinal column. It feels like I’m being picked up by the scruff of the neck and forcefully dropped onto a hard surface from 6 feet up. Over and over again. I get into “crash” position, with my head between my knees.
“You okay?!” Jeff yells. His face is determined. I know he’s trying to motor through this stretch as fast as possible. He’s an experienced sailor and I know we’re in good hands, but still…
“Yeah!” I yell back, but give him a look that says, “No, I’m not. I’m absolutely NOT okay”.
The boat lurches and tips and whips around wildly as I hunker down inside myself for several long minutes, head down, clutching the rubber straps, slamming down hard with each wave. My head is throbbing, my neck is painfully sore, and my entire body aches from trying to hang on and stay in the boat.
Finally, we reach the southern tip of the island. Jeff navigates carefully around the point, and we start to head north back up the eastern side, homeward bound for Carloforte. The sea swells are behind us now and for a few awful minutes they seem equally as big, but they finally start to diminish and we steer closer to shore. A few minutes later we come around another small point and see a white sandy beach with umbrellas and people. Hallelujah! Land ho! No other boats are anchored in the bay, but we want to stop and catch our breath for awhile, maybe swim ashore and get a beer at the beachfront bar. Relax. But after we drop anchor, we realize it’s still too choppy because the anchor is dragging across the bottom of the ocean. Disappointed, we realize we need to keep going.
The worst is over, though, and we drive a little slower now and stay close to shore. When we finally arrive back at the marina in Carloforte it’s 5 pm. We pack up our things and step onto the dock, grateful for dry stable land. However, my legs are wobbly and my head is dizzy and I still feel the waves tossing me around. We drop off the keys and return the boat a full 3 hours early.
For the next several days, Jenna and I compare notes on our body aches and pains. Luckily my neck pain clears up on its own.
It was fun exploring Isola di San Pietro from a different perspective—but I seriously don’t think we’ll be renting a small boat any time soon.

NEXT UP: Life Aboard Barca a Vela (Sailboat)

Sole, Spiaggia, Pomeriggio (Sun, Beach, Afternoon)

“Summer afternoon, summer afternoon, to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language”

-Henry James

At sunrise, there’s dew on the patio chairs and a cool breeze, but by 9 a.m. the temperature starts climbing to 100 degrees and we look for ways to cool off . We buy icepacks, a portable cooler and outdoor umbrellas. We wear our lightest clothing repeatedly. We sleep on top of the sheets. We take frequent brisk showers. We move the fan back and forth, from upstairs to downstairs. We experiment with keeping the doors and windows of our house open or closed during the day—Jeff opting for open, me opting for closed, but neither seems to make any difference.
We do “chores” like watering or laundry early in the day, otherwise it requires too much effort. Unlike most Italians, we’re unfamiliar with living without a clothes dryer but in this weather the clean laundry on the clothes line dries by the time a second load is finished. I breathe in the marine scent of my clothes, and have accustomed to the slightly scratchy feel of an air-dried towel. I look at a freshly hung load of laundry on the line with an odd sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, like looking at a pantry shelf filled with jars of my own home-canned tomatoes.
In the afternoons, when the air is still and the heat gets unbearable, most families are probably napping, but we escape to the spiaggia, knowing that we’ll find a breeze and a calm clear ocean to quench our thirsty bodies. We’ve discovered about 6 beaches on Isola di San Pietro, but our favorite is Spiaggia Girrin, on the south end of the island.
We slip into our bathing suits and flip flops and drive about a half-mile down the narrow, winding road from our casa to the centro at the bottom of the hill. Car windows down, I try to dry the sweaty, sticky film on my skin as we listen to the radio station “Inglesias” play Michael Jackson’s “Bad”. Past sherbet-colored houses in shades of strawberry, lemon and pistachio with their shutters shut. The streets are deserted and the small shops closed for siesta. We drive along the lungomare (seafront promenade), shaded by tall palm trees, past the marina with rows of stately “vela barca” (sail boats) and take the main road out of town to the south.
There are only about 6 main roads on the island, and unfortunately, most of them aren’t connected, and many are unpaved, so Jeff’s bicycling is sadly limited to about a half dozen out-and-backs. These are beautiful roads, with rolling terrain, but my husband needs serious mileage. The climbing is too limited and the exposure (wind, sun, sea spray) is too intense. He certainly won’t be able to launch his cycling tour business here, but he’s putting the finishing touches on his tours for Liguria next year, having road tested that area thoroughly. To satisfy his need for a project, Jeff is now working on our new friend Terry’s sailboat doing “bricolage” (a charming word for working with one’s hands). Jeff is refinishing the teak, repairing the shower, patching the dinghy and other “odd jobs”.
We met Terry while watching one of the World Cup games in town recently. He’s a friendly Irish chap, the spitting image of Paul Newman, blue eyes, gray hair—people even ask him for autographs. He recently sailed his boat from his home in Ireland, to Carloforte. He’s mooring the boat at the marina here for a year, while he travels back to Ireland, Thailand and other places.
He plans to visit Carloforte periodically, but the big news is that he has generously offered to let us stay on his sailboat for the month of August! It will be tight quarters for the 3 of us, but we’re excited about it.
So continuing the drive out of town, we pass the vast salt flats at the southern edge of Carloforte, which look like a wide shallow lakes, once used for salt harvest and now nesting ground for flamingos. The 2-lane road is paved and exposed, the vegetation here (and most everywhere) wild and untamed, a happy coexistence of pine and cactus, olive and palm, with an occasional splash of color from a pink bouganvilla or orange trumpet vine. Dirt side roads lead off the main road to various houses. We pass stone markers naming the various “localitas”. With the exception of the residences in the centro, the island is made up of dozens of “localitas” which are like small Italian suburbs or groups of houses with no house numbers. (Our address is simply “Localita Spiaggae”.)
Several “barraka” houses like ours dot the countryside, some updated with whitewash and abutting stone additions, and others crumbling, abandoned. Jeff is developing a theory (as yet unproven) that the barrakas are all oriented with their low front wall (front door and patio) facing east to take advantage of the cool morning weather, and their tall, mostly windowless back wall facing west, thereby providing shade for the front of the house, and absorbing the scorching afternoon sun.
Several newer Spanish-style “hacienda” houses are also in this area, like our first house on the island—white or pale yellow exterior walls, rust-colored terra cotta roof, green shutters and generous tile terraces.
We pass the ornate “cimitario” where all the important “Carlofortini” families are laid to rest, and the “sportivo”, an outdoor sports field.
We turn left at the sign for Spiaggia Girrin, and bounce along the dirt road to the parking area. We load up with beach essentials-- towels, books, sunglasses, sarongs, beach chairs, umbrella, and boogie board. Depending on how ambitious we feel, we may take the bag containing a soccer ball, paddle game, ptanque balls, snorkeling gear and pail/shovel. The heat makes us tired and lethargic, so we walk slowly up the hill to the bar on the way to the beach. My thighs stick together and there’s a film of sweat on my face. I’m a face sweater, it’s so annoying.
We hear the disco music just as we reach the open-air, wood frame bar. Bamboo slats lay atop the simple wood frame roof, which filters the sun and bathes the tables, chairs and customers in warm dappled light. “Salve” says Limbo (prounounced “Leembo”), the proprietor, who always greets us warmly since we have become “regulars”. He’s an attractive, easy-going man in his thirties, with short dark hair and a quick smile. Since he’s found out we were “Americano” he’s been practicing his English with us, while we continue to stumble along in Italian. When he’s not behind the bar, he sits with the regular customers, smoking, talking. The posted menu beside to the wood counter offers the usual bar food: café, aqua, birra, vino, Camparisoda, succo di frutta and various Panini with mozzarella, pomodora, cotto. We order our “usual”—a huge bottle of cold aqua frizzante (fizzy water) and a succo di frutta. With cool drinks in hand, we walk along the hot dirt path toward the beach. We can hear the ocean before we see it, which refreshes us instantly. Down the stone steps and onto sand so hot we can’t walk on it with bare feet. The beach is a gentle arched cove, with creamy white sand and rocky outcroppings on either edge. Umbrellas dot the beach in bright patterns and solid colors. Some people have sun shades (like tents) and a few just lay on towels, exposed.
In the distance, across the water to the left is the port town of Portoscuso (luckily we can’t see the enormous smoking chimney stacks). To the right is our small “sister” island, Isola di Saint Antioco and its port town of Calsetta, about a half-hour ferry ride away. Beyond Isola di Saint Antioco we can see the brown and green rolling hills of Sardinia. We’re only a few miles away from Sardinia, and from here it looks so enormous that it feels like the “mainland” but obviously it isn’t. We’re so far from any main land it’s ridiculous. I’ve never lived on an island before, and it’s disorienting to think that we are on this tiny speck of a land mass in the middle of the ocean. We’re actually closer to Africa than mainland Italy, which is a strange thought.
We choose a spot on the beach and Jeff jams the umbrella deep into the sand and expertly secures it with a supporting line extended out to a heavy rock. This we’ve learned from the one time when our umbrella was uprooted by wind and sailed freely down the beach, bouncing and crashing into people while we chased after it apologizing profusely, “Mi dispiace! Mi dispiace!’. We open our beach chairs, strip down to our suits and scurry to the water as fast as we can.
The surf is gentle here, barely a ripple on some days, and slightly wavy on others. The water color is clear pale green next to the shore, so clear that Jenna recently saw a foot-long fish swimming a few feet away from her. Further out, the water gradually takes on bits of blue, and green, changing to brilliant turquoise and finally dark blue in the distance. I try to photograph the amazing color of this water with my cheap camera, but I just can’t seem to capture the richness and subtle hue variations. I have never been in water this beautiful.
The temperature of the ocean is perfect and refreshing—it’s grown considerably warmer since we arrived on the island a few weeks ago and also seems to get warmer or cooler depending on which way the wind is blowing. Jenna plunges into the water immediately, but I take my time, enjoying the coolness slowly envelop my tired hot skin. The heat of the day dissolves and I feel a delicious sensation of ease. Looking down through the water, it looks like I’m in a swimming pool, so blue-green. I can see the white sand below my deeply tanned legs. I am a truly a dermatologist’s nightmare now, darker than I’ve ever been in my life. Jenna, too is a rich tawny brown, despite numerous slatherings of sunscreen. Jeff’s olive skin looks positively black. We’re not “tanning”--on the contrary we seek shade whenever possible--it’s just impossible to stay out of the ever-present sun for very long.
The beach appears to be full of Italians, either on holiday or local residents, it’s hard to tell. Most everyone has deep dark skin and brown or black hair, with the exception of a few blondes, Jenna among them. Her hair turns lighter and lighter each day. The occasional sunburn is the scarlet letter that marks the tourist.
All around us we hear Italian language, murmurs, excited yells of children. One day last week we heard someone speaking French. The other day, I actually heard someone speaking English at the market, and it was so completely unexpected and unusual that it sounded like a foreign language. We’re clearly the only Americans here.
A sailboat cruises by, sails fluttering, the crew looking at us, us looking at them. A family of four throws a soccer ball to each other in thigh deep water. The younger boy tries to hit it with his head, and is successful about half the time.. A little girl races full speed into the water, with a boy (presumably her brother) close behind, chasing her and yelling. Two boys fiddle with snorkels and flippers. A couple plays a “ping pong” type game in the water, with pink paddles and a small ball. A boy does a handstand in the water and his mother, close by, claps. A man in a tight blue Speedo walks along the shore, talking on his cell phone. A woman dives smoothly into the water and begins a slow, practiced crawl stroke far into the bay.
Jenna sits with legs out straight, next to the shore break, applying a thin coat of sand to her outstretched thighs. Today she’s playing by herself, but she’s recently found a friend (our landlord’s daughter Sara) and some days the two girls play together, using the universal language of children. After a few playdates, they’ve started talking a little more to each other, Jenna speaking as much Italian as she can, Sara speaking as much English as she can. It’s so good for Jenna to have someone to play with.
Jenna suddenly runs into the water and tries to bodysurf on a pathetic 8” break.
Jeff is laying face up on his sarong, partially shaded under the umbrella, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, asleep after reading about 6 pages of his book. He’s reading “Loving Frank” and doesn’t like it--calls it a chick book with too much ‘processing’--but we’re desperate for books here, so he reads mine after I’m done and vice versa. I’ve placed a huge book order with Amazon, but it will be a full month before it gets here.
A woman walks by with a firm, toned figure and I wonder if she exercises. How does anyone exercise around here? With the exception of daybreak and after 9 pm, the weather is too hot to exercise. Sadly, my morning walks have become a rarity. My yoga practice and daily swims just aren’t enough—and my butt shows it. Which is unfortunate, because it’s hard to ignore my butt with this daily swimsuit business.
Maybe it’s just my imagination, but Italians seem much more comfortable and less self-conscious with their bodies than Americans. Their body language is different—they seem more at ease. I watch a middle-aged, full-figured woman sprawled on a beach chair talking with a man. She raises her arms and puts her hands behind her head, arches her back and lifts her breasts—not in a comely way, but in a natural ‘this-feels-comfortable’ way.
Here, bathing suit tops are clearly “optional” for women and no one seems to pay any attention one way or the other. Bathing suit tops are also rarely seen on young girls under the age of 12 or 13. Not familiar with this custom, Jenna swings back and forth on this one. I don’t see a single “swim skirt” or “boy short” or swimsuit bottom that covers much more than a small patch in front and a very narrow triangle in back. Jeff calls it “rockin’ the butt cheeks” and it’s true—young, old, small, large, everyone is showing a LOT of skin.
A man with very hairy legs, wearing a very tiny bathing suit is sitting on the wet sand, facing the ocean, water lapping up to his ankles, seemingly lost in thought.
A slim woman in hot pink bikini walks past in calf high water, sand encrusting the entire lower half of her butt cheeks, and seems oblivious to any discomfort.
Everywhere I look people are sprawled out with seemingly no regard to sand sticking to them or bathing suits out of place. No one is picking at their suits, or putting their hand delicately over their belly, or holding in their stomach, looking self-conscious. In fact, bellies are rolling and jiggling all over the place, and no one seems to care. It’s all so wonderfully liberating.
The afternoon passes by and we finally pack up to go home. It’s still warm, but we like to spend the evening at home. In fact, as we leave the parking lot, there are several people just arriving, ready for refreshment after a long afternoon siesta.
We get home and take cool showers, Jenna and I opting for the outdoor sun shower, shampooing our hair on our private patio. I squeeze some oranges and make juice for Jenna. Jeff makes us Campari and sodas with lime, and we savor our drinks and enjoy the slight evening breeze. Later we’ll make dinner, and watch the first stars appear, and the drone of cicadas will provide musical accompaniment.

NEXT UP: Affitare una barca (renting a boat)

Negozi e Magazzini (shops and stores)

“Buy, buy says the sign in the shop window; Why why, says the junk in the yard”

- Paul McCartney

We’ve been in Italy for 8 weeks now, so we’ve learned a few things about shopping.
For instance, we’ve learned to adapt to the “siesta hours”, aware that most stores are open in the morning, closed in the afternoon, and then open again in the evening--although there are vast exceptions to this. The Post Office is sometimes closed on Wednesdays, but open on Saturday mornings. The grocery store is closed during siesta on Sunday only. And some of the smaller shops have a more “whimsical” schedule, so we’ve learned not to depend too much on the “posted hours”—which are really just a rough outline (similar to the bus schedules).
We’ve learned what all the various “rias” mean—pizzerias, gellatorias, librerias, pescerias, pollorias, maccelerias, pasticcerias--and enjoy coming up with our own ideas for shops we’d like to see: burritorias, hamburgerias, candyrias…
Mostly we’ve learned that shopping requires a sense of humor, because we’ve made plenty of mistakes and it’s a constant learning process
We’ve learned (after several frustrating attempts and a few lost coins) that getting a shopping cart requires a correctly inserted “deposit” (of either 50 cents, 1 Euro or 2 Euro), which is returned once the cart is correctly replaced in its proper location.
We’ve learned (after a few embarrassing situations at the grocery checkout counter), the proper procedure for buying produce: use plastic glove (no bare hands!), bag each item separately, place item on scale and enter produce code. A price sticker is then generated by pressing the final button, which is tricky because this final button varies from store to store. The price sticker is then affixed to each bag.
We’ve learned (after searching in vain) that certain food items are either rare or non-existent around here (peanut butter, maple syrup, tortillas, tortilla chips, Dijon mustard, soda water, fresh avocado, ginger, cilantro) so we’ve learned to adjust our food preferences.
We’ve learned (after spending twice as much money elsewhere) to plan our shopping around the fresh, economical weekly open-air market, which (in Carloforte) includes not only food, but also clothing, shoes, and household items.
We’ve learned (after a few uncertain stares) to display the proper fingers when ordering a particular quantity of items (thumb means “1”, thumb and first finger means “2” and so on) Incidentally, I never order “4” of anything, because my fingers can’t do “4”.
We’ve learned (after once buying what amounted to about a thimbleful of gasoline) to operate the self-service gasoline machine. And we’ve learned (after getting a hefty parking ticket) to operate that machine as well.
We’ve learned that in most stores, items are placed on the shelves according to a secret Italian organizational code to which we are not privy (alphabetical maybe?). Therefore, shopping requires an investigative spirit and a keen eye, as the jam may be found next to the plastic gloves, the dried herbs next to the cellulite remedies, or the clothes pins next to the floating toys.
We’ve learned that shampoo and lotion are at the grocery store, but razors are at the Pharmacy (a separate store). Baby food, teething biscuits and milk are also at the Pharmacy. And at the fish store, you can also pick up a bottle of locally made grappa.
We’ve learned that shopping requires patience, because time must factored in to accommodate the all-important conversazioni between shopkeeper and customer. Not wanting to be seen as the “impatient American”, and more importantly, wanting to LET GO of impatience, I smile serenely and move into my inner happy place, repeating my mantra “abbiamo tempo” (we have time) as I wait a full 10 minutes in line at the wine shop, while the owner talks and laughs with the group of customers in front of me.
So while we’ve learned a few things about shopping, we still have a long way to go…
One day shortly after we moved into our new casa, we decided it was time to buy some “essential” Sardinian supplies we’d been holding off buying. Our shopping list included, among other things, mosquito netting for the beds, candles, a sharp knife, cutting board, ice cube tray, cheese grater, vegetable peeler and some garden planters (to finally plant the cilantro seeds I brought all the way from Oregon).
At checkout, we piled our items onto the conveyor belt to scan. Everything was going along fine until the cheese grater was scanned.
“No,” said the checkout girl, shaking her head. She held the cheese grater in one hand and pointed to an area near the base of it. “No” she repeated, and promptly launched into a 30 second string of unfamiliar Italian words. “I’m sorry,” I replied in Italian, “I don’t understand. I only speak a little Italian.”
She held up the cheese grater again, ran her finger slowly along the bottom edge of it, back and forth, obviously illustrating her point, and then said in English (slowly), “Not pass code”
“Oh…okay.” I said, but really I had no idea what she was talking about. What code? The grater wasn’t a missing BAR code because I could see the sticker and it had scanned just fine. Jeff was busy bagging all our items, but then noticed that the checker placed the cheese grater off to the side of her and continued to scan the remaining items.
“What’s up with the cheese grater—aren’t we getting it?” he asked.
“I dunno” I answered, under my breath, “She said it didn’t pass some code”
“What?” he asked
Slightly louder, I repeated, “She pointed to the bottom of it and said it didn’t ‘pass code’”
“What code?” he asked
“I don’t know!” I answered.
“Some sort of cheese code…?” he asked, and we dissolved into laughter. Jeff, Jenna and I spent a few giggly moments speculating on what other codes we might encounter in Italy…was there a pillow code? A dental floss code? A comb code? But once we settled down, we realized, wait a minute, we really NEED a cheese grater.
“Excuse me” I asked her in Italian. “Is there ANOTHER cheese grater?” and she shrugged, looked doubtful and went into another 30 second string of rapid Italian, which included several phrases and hand gestures that seemed to involve leaving the store and coming back in again (or maybe we were supposed to go to a different store?). I frowned. “I need cheese grater” I said, finally.
She looked at me for a few seconds and then picked up the phone and called someone. Now we were holding up a long line of impatient Italians. “Mi dispiace” (I’m sorry), I said, giving them an apologetic shrug as if to say, “Hey, what can you do—it’s the cheese code.” We waited. Finally another employee came over and the two women talked at length, each examining the cheese grater, flipping it over, apparently discussing the factors for code violation. What exactly were they looking at? What was the problem? It was a just a cheese grater! Was it too sharp? Too dull? Was it missing proper documentii? Were there loose parts that posed a potential choking risk for children? Had there been unexplained cheese grater accidents?
Finally, the other woman left and returned several minutes later with a slightly different cheese grater. “Okay?” she asked us.
“Si, si, si, si si…” we murmured. We paid for it and left, confused but satisfied. Italian incidents like this have a delightful way of sticking with us: the “cheese code” is now our primary benchmark, as in, “Hmmm…..does this beach pass the cheese code, or doesn’t it?”

NEXT UP: Sole, spiaggia, pomeriggio… (sun, beach, afternoon)

Gatti (cats)

“One cat just leads to another”

- Ernest Hemingway

Within hours of settling into our new little house, the cats arrived. Some gray, some black, some tiger-striped, but all of them mangy and feral. They were so skinny they almost didn’t look like cats, but rather some other wilder, more dangerous thing. Certainly not housecats. Jenna was excited to have animals around, but even she was a little put off by their wildness and open sores.
One cat, though, caught our attention. Black and white, skinny like the others, but smaller, with a low swinging belly that could only mean one thing: either lack of exercise (which seemed unlikely, given the circumstances) or teen pregnancy. This cat could not have been more than 6 months old, just a kitten herself, but apparently this sort of thing goes on in Italy.
Despite our reluctance, Jenna finally talked us into feeding it, playing on our sympathy with a lengthy justification about “healthy pregnancy”. At first the cat hung back, cautiously watching. She seemed skeptical about the bowl of milk in front of her (Jeff, not a fan of milk, said “I don’t blame her”) but she lapped it up anyway and clearly wanted more. She preferred the next course of cold ham and prosciutto, tearing at the meat with her sharp teeth and gulping down bites like the wild animal she was. Then she darted away, but we could see her from a distance, using a delicate paw to clean her face in rapturous joy.
The next day, she succumbed to Jenna’s relentless, little-girl cries of “Here kitty” and came close enough so Jenna could touch her, just for a second. Then, Jeff and I both said at the same time, “Now go wash your hands”.
Despite our initial disgust, we reluctantly began to take a liking to the cat and looked forward to her daily visits. I know, I know, feeding wild animals is not a good thing, but it was impossible not to. She was pregnant and VERY hungry. Jenna fussed over her like a little mother herself, promptly naming her “Lulu” and asking constantly when I thought she was going to have her kittens. Lulu was so small, it was hard to guess. She visited us a few times each day, gradually coming closer, and not darting off so fast, but rarely letting Jenna pet her. She began to meow loudly when she was hungry. It was difficult at first, feeding only Lulu and shooing off the other cats, but with the help of Jeff’s shoe the others finally backed off, glaring at Lulu in jealous rage. Languishing on a healthy diet of leftover fish, chicken and beef, Lulu’s fur started to shine, her eyes cleared up, and her belly swung even lower to the ground. She started hanging around all afternoon, content to sprawl out on the shaded patio and nap for hours. I remembered the long tired afternoons of my own pregnancy and smiled. I figured her time may be close.
Then, two days ago, while Jeff was at the beach and Jenna was sleeping in the house, I was outside typing on the porch when I heard a strange noise, a cross between a squeaky hinge and a bird. I ignored it at first, but heard it again a few minutes later and thought it might be the sound of a kitten, so I went to investigate. I poked around nearby shrubs and looked under the woodpile, thinking of all the likely hidden places as I followed the sound. I finally traced it over to the “lean-to”, an open stone structure with slanted roof, that’s butted up against the hillside nearby. I followed the roofline and finally found a tiny glimpse of black fur, hidden in the gutter space which was covered by the overhanging terra cotta roof. I heard more squeaks and assumed it was a kitten, but I couldn’t tell if it was alone or with other kittens, abandoned or with the mother. Maybe Lulu was injured or dead, so I slowly lifted up one of the loose terra cotta tiles to take a peek. Immediately, I was met with the snarling, hissing face of an angry cat. “Back off!” her growl insinuated. I quickly dropped the roof tile back into place and slowly backed away, nodding and calmly assuring her, “Listen, sister, I know EXACTLY what you’re going through…” Clearly our little Lulu was birthing and needed to focus. She wanted nothing to do with distractions.
When Jenna woke up I told her the good news and she immediately wanted to go see. We managed to find a side view, where we could see Lulu, haggard and panting, squished in the narrow, littered space of the gutter. I had a quick, unreasonable urge to whisk Lulu off to a nice, clean, soft cat bed in a safe, calm room to finish all this birthing business. But I knew we had to let things be. The life of a wild cat is neither comfortable nor clean. It’s harsh and dark and dirty.
Jenna was able to see one tiny, squirming kitten in the darkness (which she thought looked more like a wet little pig), but we also saw, sadly, one tiny, lifeless kitten right next to Lulu’s face. Lulu again snarled and hissed at us, but with kinder, softer eyes this time, so we backed away respectfully. Our mild-mannered Lulu had turned into a fiercely protective little mama.
Throughout the day, we continued to hear the squeaks and tiny “mir, mer”s of kittens. We left a plate of food and some water close by, but she didn’t budge from her dark, cramped quarters. Ants covered the food in minutes. In the evening, Jeff was brave enough to throw some bits of meat right next to Lulu, and she hissed and chewed, hissed and chewed. He then happily reported back to us that he saw 3 squirming little kittens, each looking exactly like their mama. The lifeless little one must’ve pulled through. In the morning, we checked in on her. She looked exhausted and hungry, but the kittens were squeaking and seemed healthy enough.
That evening Lulu surprised us by sauntering over to the patio while we were eating dinner. “Man, what a day I’ve had” she seemed to say. Back to her old self, even rubbing against Jenna affectionately, she seemed to want not only food but comfort. We quickly fixed her a plate of food, which she wolfed down with alarming speed, and meowed impatiently for more. We fed her again. Then we all heard the kittens squeaking, and Lulu scampered off with a purpose in her step.

NEXT UP: More island adventures…







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Part III - Isola di San Pietro - Carloforte

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself”

- Maya Angelou


We drank in the town of Carloforte like a cold beer on a hot day. It was amazingly beautiful and we knew we had to stay. Giddy with excitement, we skipped over to the tourist Information office and began our inquiry with a sentence involving, “Parla Inglese?”
“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “Italiano”. We decided to take this as a good sign, and pressed on with, “We would like to rent a house or apartment in this city for one week or two week or many month. Yes? Where to go for this please?” She marked a spot on our map a few blocks away, and we walked along the main cobbled thoroughfare, Via Settembre, past lovely 2- and 3-story “mixed-use” pastel-colored buildings with shops on the ground floor and housing with shutters and wrought iron balconies above. We found the rental agency, which was also a combination phone store, lottery center and a few other services I didn’t understand. We were greeted by the proprietress, a cheerful, big boned woman with a great smile. She listened to us very patiently, as we sputtered and butchered one Italian sentence after another, using lots of hand gestures and pantomime, and frequently consulting our Italian dictionary. We were grateful for her calm demeanor and simple questions. As long as she spoke to us in very slow basic sentences, as one would to an imbecile, we managed to comprehend a fair amount of what she said. She then sat down and pecked at her computer for a few minutes, made some phone calls in typical rapid-fire Italian, and then finally managed to explain to us that only one place was available now. She pointed to a spot on the map, several kilometers from town. We were mildly disappointed, since we’d hoped to find an apartment in the centro, but it didn’t seem like we had much choice. She showed us some pictures of the rental on her computer (which unfortunately enhanced our disappointment) but she assured us it was “molto tranquillo” (very tranquil). We drove out to the place, expecting the worst, but were surprised when we drove up to a 2-story stand-alone house, much like a Mexican hacienda, with white washed walls, green shutters, terra cotta roof, and climbing, riotously pink bouganvilla.. If we stood on tiptoe, we could see a sliver of ocean from the wide, white-tiled drive-around patio in front. As we toured the large, fairly modern 4-bedroom house, we were happy to see there were also views of the ocean from an upstairs bedroom and the bathroom. We weren’t sure how we felt about being a car ride away from the “paese” (village of Carloforte), but we were relieved to finally have a kitchen and a place to unpack our suitcases. We paid for the week, stocked the house with food, and happily settled in. It wasn’t our dream house, as it had that annoying quality of being spacious yet feeling cramped, but over the next few days we came to appreciate the quiet freedom and privacy of living in a stand-alone house just outside the village. We could walk outside naked if we wanted to (and we did).
We made good use of the enormous patio with nightly games of World Cup-inspired soccer, and Jeff even took the opportunity to teach Jenna how to steer the car. I cut fresh herbs from the tiny garden to enhance our delicious dinners—hardy thyme, mint, fennel and rosemary. We even picked a few lemons from the lemon tree, though it may have “technically” been planted in the neighbor’s yard..
There was an outdoor kitchen/pizza oven where Jeff learned how to barbeque the Italian way: on a wobbly metal grate, under which he built a fire of brickettes and wood.
Speaking of lighting fires, one evening we lit some candles on the dining room table at dinnertime. We left them burning while we went out to the kitchen to clean up, and when we returned a few minutes later, the dining room table had somehow caught fire! We screamed and instantly doused it with water, but the fire had already burned a hole through the tablecloth, and left a black circle on the wood table. Mortified, embarrassed, having no way to fix it and no way to reach the owner, we later wrote a note and left a fair amount of money. I’d misplaced our Italian dictionary, so we kept the note pretty simple. It said: “Thank you for the house. We are sorry, VERY sorry with the table. We have a problem with hot. We would like to pay for this problem. Here is money. Telephone us for more money. Here is our phone numbers.”
Anyway, when we weren’t at the house, starting fires, walking around naked, teaching Jenna to drive or stealing lemons we explored the town of Carloforte and the island of Isola di San Pietro.. We’d travelled through so many new towns in the previous week, that for the first few days we kept asking each other, “What is the name of this place, again?”
On the east side of the island is the town of Carloforte, the only town on the island. On the south side are sandy beaches, rocky coves, and calm tourquoise water. The north and west sides are more dramatic, with bigger sea swells and ragged cliffs. The entire island is mountainous, but the terrain changes dramatically, looking one minute like a Sauvie Island field of dry grass, Queen Anne’s Lace and wild fennel, to a rich green Central Oregon pine grove with surrounding black rocky cliffs, to a desolate Arizona cactus grove, to a Mexican hillside with whitewashed cottages and palm trees.
We discovered that the island “Isola de San Pietro” was named after Saint Peter who, legend has it, was marooned here during a storm on the way to Karalis (now Cagliari).
The island has an interesting history. The king of Sardinia donated Isola di San Pietro to the people of Tabarka who lived on a tiny island near Algeria. Since the Tabarkans were originally from Genoa, they brought their Ligurian customs, traditions and speech when they colonized Isola di San Pietro and founded Carloforte in 1738. For years, the island was highly sought after (fishing, agriculture, climate, beauty—the works) and in 1798 a group of hoodlums came and carted off 800 residents as slaves, hoping to take over the island. Luckily, the slave people were returned in 1803 few years later (due to some serious pressure from Napolean) but the townspeople were freaked out, and convinced the king to build a wall for their protection. A wall was then built on a ridge above the sea, surrounding the entire village. By 1876, though, everyone had relaxed and decided it might be nice to live a little closer to the ocean, so they tore down half the wall and extended the village right up to the seafront. Half the wall is still visable today.
The village is designed well, with narrow alleys and an abundance of thriving shops and restaurants. We soon found a bookstore, a theater, pescherias (fish shops), macellerias (meat shops), pollerias (poultry shops), fresh pasta shops, pasticcerias (pastries), a beauty shop, a wine shop and several clothing stores. Jenna was especially excited to find the candy store, pet shop, toy store, DVD rental store and an abundance of gelatorias.
Several piazzas are scattered here and there, but the most central, pedestrian-only piazza has 4 enormous Ficus trees in each corner, with circular benches built around them to offer shade and a place to sit and talk, which is important because Italians LOVE to talk. Except during siesta, the piazza is generally lively, with adults sitting and talking and children running around in packs, yelling, kicking soccer balls, laughing and darting into the candy store for more fuel
Days passed in a lazy haze…I’d wake up, look outside at the robins egg blue sky, gaze out my bedroom window at the Sardinian sea, drink coffee, make Swedish pancakes for Jenna, pack a lunch, go to the beach, swim, read, explore the village, take Jenna out for gelato, pick up groceries, make dinner, listen to Jenna beg for more gelato, hang out, go to bed.
Despite the fact that the island is rather small (just 11K wide and 15K. long) and doesn’t offer the amazing plunging and summiting bike rides that Jeff had grown to love in Liguria, we all soon began to fall hard for Carloforte and decided to stay. We checked back at the rental office to inquire about longer term rentals (since we could only stay in the house we were in for a week), but after days of checking she told us the entire town was booked up in the month of August. She showed us pictures of a few small, expensive, dreary apartments that were available for other months, but nothing that we even liked.
Then, one day on a bike ride just outside of town, Jeff found an “affitasi” (for rent) sign beside an ancient stone house. He scribbled down the information, and later that day took Jenna and I to see it. Through the closed, sliding gate we could only see the back of the house, but it looked promising, and might even have a “vista mare” (sea view). We weren’t even sure if it was a stand-alone house, or shared and we had no idea how much it cost, but Jeff finally convinced me to call the phone number. Let’s just say that conversing in Italian is hard enough in person, but talking on the phone is MUCH harder. Talking on the phone is immediate and literal. At least in person, I can use hand gestures and hold up my fingers in a gesture of, “Okay, wait, wait while I think of a word”. (Plus, Jeff says that even in English, my communication skills require elaborate hand gestures). I stood in the middle of the quiet road, looked at the house, and dialed the numbers. A woman answered and I blurted out something in Italian like “My name is Tracie. I am American. I only speak a little Italian. I’m sorry. I see the for-rent house here. I am here. I like the for-rent house. Is house okay to rent for me and for my husband and for my little girl child please?” Again, I was amazed by her patience, and after stumbling around for several minutes, by some miracle we were able to communicate enough basic words to arrange a meeting at the house the following day at 11. At least that’s what I thought we’d agreed to, but I honestly couldn’t be sure.
The next morning, we drove out to the house and met Rafaella, her husband Salvatore and their 8-year old daughter Sara. We immediately fell in love with the house, its cool tile floor, exposed wood beam ceiling and stone walls. It’s called a “barraca” which is one of the typical, original stone structures built on the island. It’s tiny (about 14x16), but has been recently renovated and has a tight, efficient feel like a well-designed cabin. On the main floor is a combination kitchen, dining room and living room, as well as bathroom with shower, bidet and washing machine. Then up an open staircase is a comfortably-sized loft bedroom with old armoire and small casement window.
But the most wonderful thing of all about the house is the “vista mare”. From its position, up high on a bluff above the village, we looked out across the bamboo slat-covered front patio, past the daisies, rosemary, and outdoor “kitchen” with barbeque, past the field of scrub grass, and just beyond the ancient pine and olive trees and could see a large slice of the vast Sardinian sea. We wanted this place bad.
We asked if the house was available until November, and they explained that it was, except for the entire month of August. Oh well, we wanted it anyway. The next day, we met again and managed to work out a very reasonable rental arrangement.
We moved in a few days later and now proudly have a place to call home. Except for the month of August. Which we’ll figure out later.

NEXT UP: Life on a tiny island off the coast of Sardinia