Images of some of the best days ever. |
July
16
Lazy
day in the country.
Good
mood has returned.
The
teenager plays guitar.
I
do yoga and read and edit all morning.
Later,
we go swimming at Vignolo beach, the bluest waters.
The
little one wrestles and battles with me.
I’m
prisoner c37.
A
drink at Jakita, a bar on the beach.
A
late dinner that takes for ever and ever and ever.
The
country is lovely.
July
17th
We
say goodbye to Agriturismo Nuraghe Tuttusoni, our little agiturismo, bidding
our hosts goodbye. I look Sea and Sardinia in Italian over breakfast.
And
make our way out in search of the bluest waters we can find. But it’s hard to
match the first day. Past Sassari, we
drive to Stintino beach. Arriving we see
waves of the dreaded beach chairs and umbrellas, the signs of an overcrowded
beach. There isn’t a place to park.
Maybe
we should try another beach, notes the teenager.
We’ve
driven all this way.
After
two and a half hours of driving, its noon.
We need to stop. I pull into a
restaurant, L’Anchora Porticciolo, where we park. The attendant wants us to rent a dreaded
umbrella for 25 Euros. But we stop for a
snack at the bar. And find our way to
the water. Its light aqua. Not much
beach, but beautiful waters if we can get there.
There
has to be a place beyond the umbrellas, notes the teenager, keeping walking.
Beyond the rows of boats and teenagers in bathing suits that pull up their
behinds, and rocks, we swim up to a beach where we all swim out to a dock,
where the kids are jumping off.
And
play for the next few hours.
Caroline
waves me in.
Matteo
and Fatima are at another beach, 15 minutes away, with parking and lots of
blue.
OK.
Lets
go.
“You
see I am a populist,” notes Matteo sitting eating a steak, drinking a Sardinian
beer, at the beach bar, I Fenicotteri, at the next spiagga. Alzeimers is
setting in, notes Matteo. My phone is
gone. I already have it, I concede, offering a bit of solidarity. Fatima and I
talk about bathing suits. I feel like
mine is too revealing. Buttcheek inside
or outside that is the question. We talk
about her plans for an ethnography of critical Islam. It’s a system of control, notes Matteo. So the conversation meanders to how they met,
parents, kids, writing, books that have not yet been written, drafts and
fragments of ideas, Trump, the future of the world, etc. The future is Chinese and then machines,
notes Mattteo.
Alghero,
a seven century old town, and former colony of Catalonia, is only 45 minutes
away. But it’s a medieval town. Driving,
much less, parking is never that simple in small medieval towns. Still,
Caroline goes to find our host and we find the address for a parking. The
medieval streets are filled with lanterns and shops, outdoor restaurants and
piazzas.
Arriving,
Matteo is waiting for us outside. He
just parked in the streets.
Fatima
is in a crisis. One of her volunteers is
falling apart so she is at the bar.
After we drop off our bags and shower, we go meet her.
Do
you think that baseball cap is augmenting your look, wonders Matteo.
The
commentary is unending.
Ridicule
from all fronts.
We
wander to La Bajada, a bar nearby to check on Fatima.
Caroline
has a Negroni, Matteo a mojito, myself an Aperol Spritz, Fatima an OJ, and a beer
for the table.
They
go down fast. Anthony B., our lost friend from travel tv, always had Negronis
in Italy.
The
little ones are hungry. So we wander to the restaurant near our apartment.
Tables
fill the piazza outside at La Posada del Mar on Via Adami.
Ordering
is a time for me to show off my impeccable Italian, perfected over decades.
Everyone
is impressed with how fluent and conversational I am.
Spirits
are high.
Matteo
and Fatima still do not have a place.
They
like to toy with finding the cheapest place possible over the next few days,
looking out on their aps, before going to negotiate. Sometimes they get the
best deals; sometimes they end up without a spot to sleep.
We
enjoy risotto and shrimp and vino bianco and an after dinner digestive called a
Milton. Matteo says he’ll write it down.
But I do before memory eludes us.
“Rivers
of champagne will pour,” when Matteo’s dad dies.
The
little one is ready for gelato. She stands, bumping into a flower pot,
stumbling on her head.
Everyone
is very impressed. A grand retreat. Arrivederci, we wander out after gelato.
Its
like a dream out there.
Three
hundred years after the Spanish left, it still feels like a town in Catalonia.
Still,
we meander and meander through the night, taking in the colors, to the majestic
waterfront.
And
back. The teenager wants to stay out. We wander till eleven bidding our amici
adieu.
L’Adventure
continue. Its all like a dream, blurring through the days. We’ve not even been
here a week. But it feels like ages. When we arrive at out house, the neighbors
are still outside in their patio, eating and chatting. The cactai sit looking
at the moon.
July
18
We
wake in Aleghro, sleeping in, drinking coffees and making our way out past our
La Posada del Mar by 11:30 to find Matteo and Fatima in a coffee shop in
overlooking the water.
Drinking
coffee, Matteo and Caroline chatted about European aristocracy and Fatima and I
talked with the girls about organizing and social change. “Rights are not
culturally relative,” declares her hat.
Matteo
starts to sing an old Camper Van Beethoven song we listened to in 1987.
“There
will be good guys and there will be bad guys, there will be cops and
criminals. And if you don’t live in
America, then you’ll probably be living somewhere else….”
“You’re
dad meant much more to me than my father,” he confessed, a kind of brotherhood
through the years, that we’ve only rarely discussed.
University
graduation is today
Kids are celebrating, confetti everywhere.
We
stood out talking about everything, getting a boat for the day.
All
day, we meandered out to rent boat, people sun bathing on the rocks below.
The
Italians know how to do it.
Its
like the beach at Ortigia, Sicily.
These
waters lull and seduce you into a hypnotizing haze.
And
the day continues, our boat careening past Capo Caccia, past breathtaking
cliffs, reminding us we are all very very small. So beautiful. The ocean could
gobble us up in a second, grotto after grotto swimming all between rocks ten
times larger than us, the waters clashed into the walls, sound echoing from
wall to wall, enveloping us.
And
we boat back for a lovely meal overlooking the water, chatting about movies and
politics, wandering through the lovely city into the night.
Bella
luna in the distance, eternal summer grasping us.
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