Day 4: Cappuccino tyrrany, cracked-out bus drivers, and drinkin' wine, spo-dee-oh, drinkin' wine
The previous day, I'd been told that the hotel breakfast people would whip you up a cappuccino if you asked. So, today, I politely did. They said no, and pointed me to the regular coffee. I figured they'd gotten too many requests for cappuccino and had stopped doing it...until one of Rick's colleagues sat down at our table with a frothy cup of the stuff. She wondered aloud if I looked too young to choose my own beverage. Fooey.
Feeling like I'd exhauted the tourist possiblities of Scenic But Not Exciting Alghero, I hopped a bus to the nearby town of Bosa. The bus went down a well-known coastal route, the stuff of photos that you think MUST be Photoshopped or somehow faked. They're not. The driver shaved about 5 minutes off the nearly hourlong ride by speeding like crazy on the winding road. "20 DEAD IN ITALIAN BUS CRASH," I thought, in a cold sweat.
Bosa was sleepy but cute, with few tourists and only one real tourist street. Otherwise, we're talking side streets with Italian grandmas hanging the laundry in housedresses. Cool. I tried to see some "former tanneries," which turned out to be some seemingly empty, brick buildings. Everything else was under construction. I imagine this will be a different town in a decade or so.
I finally got my damn cappuccino at a locals cafe in Bosa, then caught the noon bus back, because there was even less to do than in Alghero! On the way back, the driver drove so badly I had to lie down in my seat...and this is after the Dramamine...
For lunch, I got myself an small pizza (mmm, vacation gluttony...but the Italian crust is much thinner, so it's not as bad as it sounds). Then, I sat in cafes, drank wine, and wrote postcards I did not mail. Then I satisfied another bit of pan-European nostalgia, the banana and Nutella crepe. Took my denied siesta for much of the evening, then got up at around midnight, when Rick came in, and we got to work on the bottle of local Bosa dessert wine I'd brought from my morning trip out of town.
If good wine was this cheap in the US, I'd be in trouble.
Day 5: I'll eat the seafood, and you eat the horse...
(Soul Coughing fans can feel free to sing the above title to the tune of "Down to This.")
I'd been harboring this prejudice that Europe has a nice train system. This, I've discovered, is not as pan-European as crepes and kebabs. In my travel journal, I described the Alghero train station (and the train that eventually pulled up) as "some East German, downtrodden shit." The train was all graffiti'd up and everything. This was but a pale example of how tourist traps often have pretty bad economies outside the service industry. I believe 20% of Sardinia is unemployed.
This time, I was headed for Sassari, the second-biggest city in Sardinia (which I believe is a bit like saying Warwick is the second biggest city in Rhode Island). It was busier than Bosa and more "real" than Alghero (like the difference between Brussles and Bruges) but also didn't give me a lot of reasons to stay past lunch.
I did visit Sassari's archaeology museum, but archaeology is just a bunch of broken stuff if you don't understand the text printed under it. The museum was so dead I tripped several motion sensor lights. Most baffling was the...children's play area? A table with anthropomorphic rubber ducks in little outfits, lined up in front of a pile of pasta. I'd have taken a picture, but a workman (the only other person in the museum?) was staring at me (because he couldn't believe someone was actually visiting the museum?)
I suspect Sassari is one of those "nice place to live, but I wouldn't want to visit there" places. It's a college town, complete with a lot of radical graffiti, and after a few (weeks? months? years? Sardinians aren't known for being friendly and open...) it would probably be a cool place to hang. It also had many butchers advertising horse, donkey, and baby goat, but I couldn't find a restaurant serving those things that didn't want to rope me into an expensive, 5-course, full Italian meal.
Feeling hustled on the lunch front, I tried to get a glass of wine while I formulated another plan.
Me: "Uno vino della casa, per favore?" <- same phrase that worked all afternoon yesterday in Alghero
Cafe lady: "No."
No? Do I look too young for cappuccino AND beverage alcohol? There was wine sitting right there. I collected many theories on why this happened, including
a) Goddammit, another tourist
b) Goddammit, another exchange student
c) This philstine is asking for the HOUSE wine? Pfft.
d) Who's this whore walking around without a man?
Anyway, I got a yummy takeout sandwich, wrote "Sassari is a little bitch" in my travel journal, and felt much better.
Our final night in Alghero, we met a bunch of scientists for dinner at the Jamaica Inn (the dessert and moonshine had been reliable two days ago, and it was centrally located). Chatted with Australians and a guy from Zimbabwe, and yes, we ate some horse. There is not much to report, actually. It's not bad, but it's not as good as beef.
Day What-The-Hell-Day-Is-It? Weren't we just ON this plane?
Security seized the knife, from a set of camping utensils, that was in my bag for cutting the last of my Italian cheese during layovers. (Huh huh. She said "cutting cheese.") As anyone who's been camping knows, these knives can barely saw through a dinner roll, let alone be used to hijack aircraft. I could do more damage with a pen. Whatever...
There was a giant African family on the plane from London to LA, and one of the kids got sick as we flew over Iceland. They actually got on the plane PA system and asked if there was a doctor on board. (There was). I thought we were going to have to land in Reykjavik. Instead, when we landed in LA, we were told to stay seated so the paramedics could come through...so this girl was sick for at least 8 hours. We decided to monitor our health closely for a few days to look for signs of any airborne African diseases...
I eventually mailed the postcards.
The End.
The previous day, I'd been told that the hotel breakfast people would whip you up a cappuccino if you asked. So, today, I politely did. They said no, and pointed me to the regular coffee. I figured they'd gotten too many requests for cappuccino and had stopped doing it...until one of Rick's colleagues sat down at our table with a frothy cup of the stuff. She wondered aloud if I looked too young to choose my own beverage. Fooey.
Feeling like I'd exhauted the tourist possiblities of Scenic But Not Exciting Alghero, I hopped a bus to the nearby town of Bosa. The bus went down a well-known coastal route, the stuff of photos that you think MUST be Photoshopped or somehow faked. They're not. The driver shaved about 5 minutes off the nearly hourlong ride by speeding like crazy on the winding road. "20 DEAD IN ITALIAN BUS CRASH," I thought, in a cold sweat.
Bosa was sleepy but cute, with few tourists and only one real tourist street. Otherwise, we're talking side streets with Italian grandmas hanging the laundry in housedresses. Cool. I tried to see some "former tanneries," which turned out to be some seemingly empty, brick buildings. Everything else was under construction. I imagine this will be a different town in a decade or so.
I finally got my damn cappuccino at a locals cafe in Bosa, then caught the noon bus back, because there was even less to do than in Alghero! On the way back, the driver drove so badly I had to lie down in my seat...and this is after the Dramamine...
For lunch, I got myself an small pizza (mmm, vacation gluttony...but the Italian crust is much thinner, so it's not as bad as it sounds). Then, I sat in cafes, drank wine, and wrote postcards I did not mail. Then I satisfied another bit of pan-European nostalgia, the banana and Nutella crepe. Took my denied siesta for much of the evening, then got up at around midnight, when Rick came in, and we got to work on the bottle of local Bosa dessert wine I'd brought from my morning trip out of town.
If good wine was this cheap in the US, I'd be in trouble.
Day 5: I'll eat the seafood, and you eat the horse...
(Soul Coughing fans can feel free to sing the above title to the tune of "Down to This.")
I'd been harboring this prejudice that Europe has a nice train system. This, I've discovered, is not as pan-European as crepes and kebabs. In my travel journal, I described the Alghero train station (and the train that eventually pulled up) as "some East German, downtrodden shit." The train was all graffiti'd up and everything. This was but a pale example of how tourist traps often have pretty bad economies outside the service industry. I believe 20% of Sardinia is unemployed.
This time, I was headed for Sassari, the second-biggest city in Sardinia (which I believe is a bit like saying Warwick is the second biggest city in Rhode Island). It was busier than Bosa and more "real" than Alghero (like the difference between Brussles and Bruges) but also didn't give me a lot of reasons to stay past lunch.
I did visit Sassari's archaeology museum, but archaeology is just a bunch of broken stuff if you don't understand the text printed under it. The museum was so dead I tripped several motion sensor lights. Most baffling was the...children's play area? A table with anthropomorphic rubber ducks in little outfits, lined up in front of a pile of pasta. I'd have taken a picture, but a workman (the only other person in the museum?) was staring at me (because he couldn't believe someone was actually visiting the museum?)
I suspect Sassari is one of those "nice place to live, but I wouldn't want to visit there" places. It's a college town, complete with a lot of radical graffiti, and after a few (weeks? months? years? Sardinians aren't known for being friendly and open...) it would probably be a cool place to hang. It also had many butchers advertising horse, donkey, and baby goat, but I couldn't find a restaurant serving those things that didn't want to rope me into an expensive, 5-course, full Italian meal.
Feeling hustled on the lunch front, I tried to get a glass of wine while I formulated another plan.
Me: "Uno vino della casa, per favore?" <- same phrase that worked all afternoon yesterday in Alghero
Cafe lady: "No."
No? Do I look too young for cappuccino AND beverage alcohol? There was wine sitting right there. I collected many theories on why this happened, including
a) Goddammit, another tourist
b) Goddammit, another exchange student
c) This philstine is asking for the HOUSE wine? Pfft.
d) Who's this whore walking around without a man?
Anyway, I got a yummy takeout sandwich, wrote "Sassari is a little bitch" in my travel journal, and felt much better.
Our final night in Alghero, we met a bunch of scientists for dinner at the Jamaica Inn (the dessert and moonshine had been reliable two days ago, and it was centrally located). Chatted with Australians and a guy from Zimbabwe, and yes, we ate some horse. There is not much to report, actually. It's not bad, but it's not as good as beef.
Day What-The-Hell-Day-Is-It? Weren't we just ON this plane?
Security seized the knife, from a set of camping utensils, that was in my bag for cutting the last of my Italian cheese during layovers. (Huh huh. She said "cutting cheese.") As anyone who's been camping knows, these knives can barely saw through a dinner roll, let alone be used to hijack aircraft. I could do more damage with a pen. Whatever...
There was a giant African family on the plane from London to LA, and one of the kids got sick as we flew over Iceland. They actually got on the plane PA system and asked if there was a doctor on board. (There was). I thought we were going to have to land in Reykjavik. Instead, when we landed in LA, we were told to stay seated so the paramedics could come through...so this girl was sick for at least 8 hours. We decided to monitor our health closely for a few days to look for signs of any airborne African diseases...
I eventually mailed the postcards.
The End.
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