Caffé degli Spiriti, a terrace bar with a breathtaking view where we hung out every night. |
It was our last.
Having started on the Northern most end of the island,
traversing Southwest down the West coast and then across the island East, we made our way to journey South to Caligari, the capital city of
Sardinia. We’d stay in a b n b in the medieval quarter.
Street
graffiti and churches were everywhere in this ethereal space overlooking the
city.
“Don’t
write on the walls,” declares one post. “Please write poetry,” notes another.
By
an old church, we meet a few cats.
An
elder woman pulls out a bucket and fills it with water for one of them.
We
keep on walking.
“She
is lovely. It does not look like the sun
has gotten to her,” notes an elder woman on the street, commenting on the teenager's white
skin with an amiable laugh.
Smiling,
we keep wandering, sitting for a drink an early dinner taking in the majestic
night, with the bella luna shining over the medieval quarter.
The
next day, make our way into the Marina, one of the four of the quarters
dividing the medieval district. These
include Castello, where we are staying, the Marina, Stampace, Villanova.
It
was odd sleeping the night before. None
of us quite have our barring. Its hard
to know where we were as we slept, much less woke, in another strange place, a
room that looks like some place from childhood, wood beams over head with
windows opening to a view of another city, seemingly lost in time.
But
we made our way, exploring. With a hint
of Lisbon, the streets are intriguing.
The messages are everywhere. I
find myself wandering through the Castello section of town without the girls.
“Via
Carlo!” declares a painted message under and anarchy sign, seemingly referring to Carlo
Guiliani, the anarchist killed during an anti-globalization demonstration outside
the July 2001 G8 summit in Genoa, Italy.
But there are many Carloses. I could
be missing one.
"Racism
and Fascism is not the response" declares another sign of the times.
I
find myself standing by a sign by a graffiti declaring: “Racial chic is the new
egocentricity.”
I
ask for a better translation.
“Radical
chic is the new king,” a woman suggests snapping a shot for me.
I
keep on walking looking at a street art installation on Via Giusseppe. A couple
of guys are sitting there eating water melon.
"Lotto marzo sciopero" signs are everywhere, supporting movements for self determination, march an strike a lot.
"Lotto marzo sciopero" signs are everywhere, supporting movements for self determination, march an strike a lot.
A
few cats sit in the ruins of an old building.
I
stumble into a bowl full of water someone has put out for them.
And
I keep on meandering, reading the signs, wondering about people’s lives.
The
girls text me that they are done with their siesta.
So
I meet then on the way to the Archaeology Museum.
People
are writing in cafes.
Others
are looking out.
Many
more are napping.
The
heat of the day is devouring.
The
museum offers a respite.
The
arts of the Nuraghe people are thrilling.
There
is nothing new notes Caroline looking at a few of their small, expressive
statues.
The
shape of time takes countless turns, as the art of the Nuraghe turns to the
Phoenicians to the Roman empire which took over. As languages overlap along
with the iconography we’d come to know with images such as the ChiRho Page in
the Book of Kells, we see the roots of here, formed between superimposing the first two letters—chi
and rho —of the Greek word ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ.
Upstairs we find actual the Giants of Monte
Palma we’ve been chasing around the island. Here they are. Oh to have
been the discoverers who found them. Maybe one day we will all be
archaeologists.
The museum is full of stories of plagues and saints
who fought the pestilences, wars and peoples and rituals.
And out we walk into the sun.
Its even hotter now as we make our way to the old
Roman Amphitheater from
the end of the first and the first half of the second century AD., along the southern hillside of Buoncammino.
It looks like a bit of a ruin after years and
years as a quarry.
For a while there, gladiators battled animals,
the classes separated by station.
But today, the heat of the millennia wears on
me as I look.
The girls have given up and are sitting in a café.
That was the best cappuccino I ever had, notes
Caroline.
The sun finally starts to sit at the Caffé
degli Spirits at the Bastione St Remy.
We’re
about to leave Sardinia.
Oh
Sardinia, oh Sardinia.
Musicians
are everywhere.
Bands
are performing.
Kids
are playing.
And we are out. Ciao Sardinia! |
No comments:
Post a Comment