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Sardegna - A Travelogue of Sorts
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Sardegna - A Travelogue of Sorts Days 1 & 2 Off to Sardinia, wherever the hell that is. The Italians have a missile test range there. I don't think I want to say any more than that.
On the plane to Roma. International flights are when you
really start to grasp the concept of "cattle class." At least I was sitting
next to this really pretty So, anyway, there we are - fat, dumb and happy. Somewhere over Nova Scotia, or maybe Greenland. The Captain gets on the horn; "I hate to bring this up," he says. Uh, oh. Turbulent air, we are going to have to buckle up. Or, we have come up against a head wind and are going to be a tad late. Or perhaps the birthday of one of the flight attendants. No biggie. No such luck. The plane is broke. Now, this is not what he says, of course. Something about a failure in the back-up pneumatic system, or some such thing. Bottom line, we have to turn around. Have yet to figure out the logistics of the situation, but we get to go all the way back to Atlanta. They did have to dump about 10,000 gallons of fuel over the Atlantic, so you know it was more than the pilot forgetting his favorite pair of sunglasses. We made it back to Atlanta. Waited around for a while, of course. Off the ground again around midnight. And the blond was in a different seat. [What can you say?] This time, the plane made it to Rome. Customs and immigration were painless. Got it knocked, right? No such luck. All we have to do is recheck bags and get to the next gate. Except that every single check-in counter is backed up with some bozo (or bozette, as the case may be) obviously trying to sort out the world tour itinerary for the Rolling Stones, or somebody. And, I have noticed, Italian ticket agents cannot complete the most simple transaction conceivable without making at least one phone call (to who, do you wonder?), AND walking across the floor for a quick conference with someone else who evidently doesn't know how to do it either. Cagliari, finally. Pick up the luggage, rent a car. A short drive on the coast highway (using that term rather loosely). Not too bad, except for the maniacs on scooters, motorcycles and even bicycles who have decided to make a third lane. Now, here you have to know that this is Italy. The roads are not wide enough for a single Ford Expedition -- and yet here we have a Fiat, an Alfa Romeo and a damned Moto-Guzzi all running abreast. You should also know that this might be the windiest road I have been on in my entire life. Almost all of it was second gear.... Bottom line. I make it to my hotel at nine-thirty in the evening of the second day. Finalmente. Dinner time. Carta Musica is a Sardinian specialty. Godzilla had to roll this stuff out. Bread the thickness of a credit card. Delicious with a little olive oil, a dash of salt, a bit of rosemary. Followed up with Pizza Prosciutto Crudo e Funghi. Delicious. A bottle of the house red. Chilled, even, and wonderful. And then the waiter walked by with an order of mussels for another table.... --- And now it is four in the morning and I am fighting the time change. Slept some, will try again. Day 3 Having located the range headquarters at Perdasdefogu, my primary mission for the day, I decided to use that point as the start of a great circle route around at least this quadrant of the island. Yesterday, I was thinking that the eternally twisting roads might be a local anomaly. Today, I found them to be a universal truth. I think the longest stretch of straight road I saw all day was about 100 yards. I drove until my hands hurt. This road, which I must say was well maintained for the most part, would make one hellacious Formula One racing course. Brake, downshift, turn, accelerate, upshift, brake, downshift, turn. Just about as fast as you can read it. All day long. Sure wished I had brought the Lotus. Could set some land speed records for sure. Day 4 Sardenga is a harsh place, for those of you who have not been here before. Although there is some indication of a brief ascendancy some four thousand years ago, when the Sards might have been a part of the "Sea Peoples" who marched unsuccessfully on Egypt, for most of its history Sardinia has been a minor colony of other powers. Rome, of course, for which it served as a major producer of wheat, and later for the city-states of Pisa and Genoa, for which it served as a political pawn. Created as a kingdom, with Corsica, by the hubris of one of the popes of Rome, Sardinia got to play in the drama of the Hapsburgs. Last incorporated with Italy in 1847, Sardinia has been, and remains, a red-headed stepchild. The greatest effect of this has been that, for millennia, everything of value has been drawn from the island, and not a bloody thing has been brought in. Rather like the poor damned sheep dog I saw yesterday, gaunt and haggard, panting in the sun. On the other hand, it should be more. I stood on high plateaus and looked over the top of a world. A vast diorama of canyons and rocks, magnificent buttes and small sheltered valleys. In fact, the country looks amazingly like the American Southwest; somehow in 3/5 scale. In one place the Badlands of New Mexico, in another the high country around Flagstaff, Arizona. Never quite the desert, but certainly all the mountainous regions. And all in 3/5 scale. It could be a fine place to live, if one did not have to live off the land. Not much wealth there, if you trust the witness of the few scrawny sheep and goats and the rather emaciated cattle I saw as I drove. Fresh water is probably a problem. The countryside is dotted with little towns and villages, although not nearly as many as you would think for a place inhabited for at least four thousand years. Actually, that is another major aspect of this place -- it is damned near deserted. I don't know what the population is here, but I can see that it is very, very small. These towns and villages are, for the most part, rather mean and nasty looking. Some small number of cinderblock two-story buildings -- houses and shops. Not enough paint to go around. Narrow and twisting streets and alleys. Little in the way of prosperity here. Day 5 Today went better. The Italians took us on a long tour of the test range. Actually, quite impressive. And a special lunch. The centerpiece of which was something called Porceddu, a spit-roasted suckling pig. Delicious.
It is right at 52 kilometers (31.2 miles) from range
headquarters to our hotel. Today I had a challenger -- one of our German
colleagues (who is a motorcycle racer on the side). I have to admit that I
never passed him, but Dinner also went well tonight. Table of four (take my word for it; never seat more than six at one table). Keep it simple. I had a rather nice Calamari Fritta. [Right down his alley...] Day 6
It has been beastly hot for the most part. Not sure what the
official temperature was, but the thermometer in the car registered 44 C /
111.2 degrees F at one point this afternoon. I drove up to the meeting site
this morning and just sat in the car with the A/C running on high until
everybody else showed up. Fortunately, I drive very fast, so had about
twenty minutes We are, in Sardinia, just making the transition to air conditioning. And a painful thing this is. I have two air conditioners in my room at the hotel, and both are anemic. And centrally controlled. They turn them on about seven-thirty in the evening, and off about the same time in the morning. You walk into your room after a long day at work and it is like an oven. Off with trousers and on with shorts and back downstairs to the bar. Get the girl to turn on the ceiling fan. A large bottle of Ichnusa, the local beer (and a rather nice beer it is). Probably one more before you go back up to the room. The air is now on. Not cool, by any means, but the edge is off. Strip down, turn on the fan, and you can nap. An unimaginative perhaps, but excellent, dinner. A plate of mussels. A Pizza Quattro Formaggi. Wonderful, wonderful. I had him toss on a few slices of Proscuitto Crudo. A man could do so much worse. Day 7 Our last night in Sardegna. Hot, still. I just checked with the concierge. As near as I can understand, they will turn on the air conditioning in another half hour. Or not. Today worked out to be another free day. What can I say? Slept in, quick breakfast, then a leisurely drive down the coast. I even let a couple of cars pass me. Must be slipping. In any event, it was a delightful drive. Villaputzu, Muravera, Castiadis, Villasimius. Pretty country. Wonderful coastline. Every four or five kilometers, there is another little dirt road leading to the sea. Little Renaults and Fiats and Citroens parked in the dust, making the tracks very narrow indeed. I am glad to have made this trip. Day 8 Up at a quarter to five. Drive SS125 to Cagliari. Would not have believed it, but the road can, in fact, be tighter. Just flat incredible. Into Cagliari. Found the airport. Dropped the car. Got on the plane. Made the transition in Rome, but probably only because the plane was an hour late departing. (CLUE: Two hours, minimum, for a transfer between domestic and international flights....) Welcome back to the United States. How come I don't feel very welcome, and this is MY country? Might have something to do with the congenital idiot in Security. You would think that they could calibrate the metal detectors to react to the mass of an Uzi, but to ignore the half ounce of metal in my suspenders. You would think that. No such luck. So the buzzer goes off and I get to go to the bad people area to be more closely searched. Doesn't this make you feel so damned much safer when you fly?? Ranks right up there with the plastic flatware they expect you to eat with on the plane. Now, the human hand is a miraculous thing. Your fingertips can perceive gradations somewhere around one-millionth of an inch. No shit. On the other hand, the back of your hand is just about sensitive enough to distinguish between a refrigerator and a feather. Notwithstanding this, our fearless Transportation Security Administration agent proceeds to tell me that "I am now going to pat you down with the back of my hand." Why on Earth, if this fool thinks that I need to be patted down to check out something suspicious, would he do so with a pair of boxing gloves on his hands? Do something, even if it is wrong. Makes you want to puke. Through all of this, I managed to return home. Time to hat out again, I think.
But, on the way: Carta Musica (Sardinian Parchment Bread)
2 cups all-purpose flour In the bowl of your KitchenAid mixer, or reasonable facsimile, mix together the flour, semolina and the salt. Gradually add the water until you have a nice smooth dough -- it should not be sticky. Do not overwork.
Place a baking stone, or a regular baking sheet (upside down)
in the oven. Heat the oven to 425 degrees F. Gives you about half an hour to commune with a bottle of good wine and some nice music in the background. If you have not heard Eros Ramazzatti, this might be a good time. [Please do this. Chances are you will not regret it.] Theoretically, this bread will keep about two weeks in an airtight container, although I would consider this somewhat of a waste. In any event, when ready to serve, brush or spray lightly with a good quality extra virgin olive oil, sprinkle with fresh rosemary and coarse salt and broil lightly for a minute or two. Just enough to warm up a tad. Will start just about any dinner you have in mind. Very well indeed.
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