The Sun Comes Out in Sardinia

Following our memorable gas station meal, Luciana dropped us at the airport for our flight to Sardinia. It lasted barely half an hour—we spent more time on the runway than in the air. It was drizzling in Olbia when we landed, cloudy when we went out to pick up the rental car.

Our sweet little ride in Sardinia, parked at Stazzo Chivoni
Gauss’s and my good friends know that we usually drive cheap old cars. Our newest is seven years old and has windows that we must crank to open. I was befuddled by this little Volvo C2 diesel—it took me two or three minutes to figure out where to put the key. The manual transmission was no problem, but reverse was in the spot where first is in both our cars, so I managed to kill it a couple of times backing out of the parking spot.

Then it was off to the hotel. Rain had begun to fall, and I hadn’t seen a good map of the city, so I got turned around and headed north when we should have been going south. It began to rain. Heavily. The hotel was supposed to be 7 km from the airport, and when we had gone 10 I knew we needed to reevaluate.

The car came equipped with a GPS that was confounding to both of us. We pulled into a parking lot and spent a good 20 minutes trying to figure it out. And like all good navigation systems, its database was lacking the very spot we needed to go, so the best we could get from it was a map.

By combining bits of information gleaned from the lousy map of Sardinia that came with the rental car with the GPS display and road signs, I was able to point us in the right direction, and we got to the Hotel Speraesole in Murta Maria. The rain ended, there was ample parking and the room was spacious and comfortable, so in the end we were happy.

Pane Guittau, the addictive bread of Sardinia
After settling in and resting for a short time, we headed downstairs for a light dinner of six appetizers and a bottle of white wine. Since we were in the middle of the Mediterranean, seafood was heavily featured: cold boiled shrimp in sweet and sour sauce; deep-fried whole little sardines; octopus and potatoes in vinaigrette; mussels gratin; little tarts filled with Sardinian cheese; and a mixed vegetable salad with perfect cups of pickled red onion containing chunks of tender, savory white fish. Accompanying it was a kind of tissue-thin, crispy bread made only in Sardinia. When made with olive oil, it is called guittau, without, it’s caracau. The stuff was addictive; Gauss and I joked that they put crack in it. We finally had to ask the waitress to remove the basket for fear we would eat the entire contents.

I slept well despite a wedding reception in the hotel that continued past midnight. When we awoke in the morning the sun was shining, and we headed downstairs for the breakfast buffet. It was simple but memorable: Nutella-filled croissants, hard rolls, scrambled eggs, prosciutto and salami. The best part was an urn filled with blood-orange juice, absolutely bursting with tangy sweetness. Gauss and I both filled our glasses twice.

After breakfast, we set out for Leo and Marzia’s place in Luogosanto. The roads were narrow but good, and the little six-speed Volvo was fun to drive on the curves and hills. Even though we were inland, the views were spectacular: rolling green hills, stone walls and houses, jagged rock outcrops.
 
Countryside in northwestern Sardinia, just outside Luogosanto
The main road through Luogosanto
From the little hillside town of Luogosanto we drove down the valley and then followed signs on a winding dirt road to Stazzo Chiavone, their restored bed and breakfast.

The front of Stazzo Chivoni

Hosts Marzia and Leo working on the gardens at Stazzo Chivoni




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

When in Rome...

Image
Gauss and I had been through Rome only once before following our ill-fated flight from Sri Lanka to Italy in 1982. My memories are hazy and few. Back then we landed at Da Vinci airport and had to get to Milano. Nerves jangled, we were not about to board another plane just then, so we took a bus to the train station. I recall rolling past the coliseum and being a little surprised that it was right there , although I was unable to muster anything resembling enthusiasm. This time we vowed to pay attention. I planned only one thing in Rome—a visit to the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican Museum. I made an online reservation a month in advance so that we would not miss it, printed the entrance voucher (NOT TRANSFERABLE printed across it in bold letters) labeled it with a Post-It, and added it to the folder of important travel documents. We had another aim for the day as well: to get Italian SIM cards for the cell phones we'd purchased in anticipation of the trip. Despite the seve
Read more

Italy, On My Own This Time

Image
In this blog I've covered past trips to Italy. This one is different. Since Gauss died last June, I've thought I should come back here, for several reasons. The first is to immerse myself in the language and force myself to speak it. Before he got sick, Gauss and I had planned to spend some time here after he retired. I'd been hearing him speak Italian with his parents for so long that I understood much of what I heard. But I've had difficulty generating speech on my own. He told me, "If you spent three to six months here, you'd be able to speak." Well, Gauss is no longer with me. I don't have him to lean on, so it's up to me to get around. And I'm happy to report that I've managed. In the ten days since I arrived, I've become more confident (or maybe more desperate!) so I just launch in, knowing that my Italian is lousy. But people are understanding me. Pasta with the Papagnos, first night here. Costanza had to reple
Read more

A Crappy, Crappy Day

The morning started with a bomb—a stink bomb, actually, at about 5:00 a.m. Gauss and I were awakened by some kind of wild yowls outside (not Spicy, he was asleep on the sofa) instantly followed by the pungent aroma of skunk. It was worst in the bedroom and kitchen, almost nauseating. We went outdoors to see where the smell was coming from, but out in the yard...nothing. Inside...BAM! STINK! Since I was up, I opened my emails, and the first one was a panicked message from the Paragon tenants—they had no water, hadn’t had it for a couple of days and now they were at the end of their rope. I made emergency calls to the well drilling company and to a neighbor, asking if the tenants could come by to at least get water from her hose. $1200 later, there is water again. Gauss had taken the train to work. I was going to give the car a rest and take the train to my well-deserved appointment with a massage therapist, but just as I was leaving, the phone rang. Gauss’ boss had forgotten to tell h
Read more