Sardinian Holiday

The fear of boredom and of insanity is a potent combination. It's been a while that I've been hopping from the UK to Catalunya and vice versa, and it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't travelled to a new country for, oooo, too long. My solution? Book a ridiculously last-minute trip to any place I'd never been before: Cagliari, Sardinia.


It was so last-minute that I didn't even really have time to coerce anyone to come with me, thus ticking another box on my 'never-done-this-before' list; that is, taking a holiday by myself. It's such a good job I'm a fabulous and interesting person - I couldn't possibly get irritated by my own company...

I looked forward to good food, and I was not disappointed. For lunch, I found a restaurant half-hidden down some shaded steps and almost overdosed on pasta. It would have been rude not to, with a deal of 7 euros for all the pasta you can possibly fit into one's tummy; furthermore, the Italian who served me invited me to a glass of mirto, which is a typical Sardinian liqueur of myrtle berries or leaves. It's delicious but very sweet.

It was time to do some sightseeing, and almost the very first thing I saw was a procession celebrating Good Friday and mourning for Christ on the cross. About three-score or so participants were dressed in white, a few others in black with their faces veiled in a terrible appearance of emptiness and sadness, and a young boy dressed as the Saviour complete with a plastic crown of thorns, which - to be brutally honest - I thought was quite creepy. The young boy was quite innocently swinging it in his hands but for me, knowing the implications and the story behind it, it was disturbing.



Wandering around Cagliari gave me such a feeling of satisfaction and peace, for all my preconceptions of Italians were being fulfilled! Sunglasses seemed to be permanently lodged over eyes, as if taking them off would reveal dark burning holes of nothingness, or perhaps of lasers - which would make more sense because then wearing shades all the time would at least meet certain safety regulations  regarding the protection of the ice-creams they were eating. Scooters were arranged in a mish-mash net in piazzas, and people insisted on saying 'ciao' at every available opportunity in that delightful sing-song tone that Italians are famous for. Pedestrians took their life into their own hands when they crossed wide roads, horns blaring and tooting in a not quite so pleasant way as people's voices.

I have also never known a place to be so full of churches. I truly believe it must be the gateway into Heaven or be the portal into Paradise. How could it not be with Sant'Anna, Sant'Agustino, Sant'Efisio, and Sant'Eulalia guarding the corners of every street whereas in Barcelona every street corner has a prostitute defending her turf? All these pious excursions exhausted me, I confess, so I decided to have a coffee and read my book before diving once more into the  breach and see Cagliari at night. It twinkled with lamps and bustled with people out for a stroll before dinner. It was altogether quite peaceful, at least in the smaller streets in the old part.



 After some much-needed sleep, I awoke on the Saturday morning to beautiful sunlight warming my eyelids. I lazily showered and attempted to dry my hair with the ridiculous breathy hairdryer which looked like the trunk of an elephant and was about as useful as a pair of butterfly's wings flapping desperately to rid the strands from moisture.

Giving up in a good-natured huff, I thought it was about time for breakfast. It was 11 a.m. Off I went to a cafe I'd seen the day before that promised books within. Not that I could read any in Italian but I enjoyed skimming the alien letters of titles, and I was content with my choice of dolce sarda and latte. The dolce are typical sweet pastry-esque things from Sardinia and were rather delicious. However, I almost choked on my coffee when a text arrived from a friend enquiring if I'd seen any lovely Italian men or just 'fatty lobster English' boys.

There was an archaeological museum in the vicinity so I grudgingly paid 5 euros for the privilege of seeing some bits of shattered pottery and religious artefacts. I felt rather cheated, even though I'd been momentarily amused by a statue of the Virgin Mary riding on what appears to be a hippo. Perhaps it got lost in the Bible and couldn't find Noah.

Speaking of random animals, the giant tower in the high part of the town is called the Elephant Tower after its imposing size (I imagine) as well as the statue of a creamy white elephant perched on the side next to the gates into what was the old castle. The most interesting fact I learnt here is that in ye olden days if you were unfortunate enough to still be in the castle once the gate had shut, you were rather unceremoniously - and fatally - thrown off the top of the wall. It also showed off trophies in the form as heads, as decapitation was a la mode. Clearly a welcoming city.

  
At the back of the tower were dizzingly steep wooden steps; so much so that I had to actually count them on the ascent to keep my mind occupied and so I didn't freak out and fall in an undignified manner. Or dignified manner; I didn't want to fall. Once I reached the top, however, all was worthwhile. The views from the top were absolutely spectacular. The city sprawled out beneath me in a haphazard terracotta maze through which the grey tarmac roads, carrying bug-like cars, viciously slashed. Pinnacles and spires of all the churches and the cathedral punctured the skyline, as if trying to draw blue sky down into their stone bodies. One dome looked like it had burrowed into a snakeskin hat, scales for tiles, and sunshine glinting off its reptilian surface. Down at the port ships cautiously crept into deeper waters, as though unwillingly sucked by some greater nautical power. Far off towards the horizon, mountains stretched towards white ice-cream clouds, in the end disappointed because they just weren't quite high enough.

Clambering down the steps wasn't as hard-going as going up, I'm pleased to report, and I didn't trip, fall, or otherwise fatally injure myself.

Even though I didn't manage to walk around the entire city, this is the memory of Cagliari I will cherish. To be up so high and smell the fresh sea-breeze, feel the heat of the sun and the coolness of the wind at the same time, was incredible.
The other memory will be of a wonderful little piazza in the old quarter, sheltered from the breeze, writing my postcards that were destined to be sent from Catalunya - for it slipped my mind that it was Easter. It seems such a trivial memory but, you see, I was giggling to myself practically the whole time. In my mind, I was replaying The Italian Job.

Palm Sunday, or the Blessing of the Lasagne.

Palm Sunday, or El dia de rams, is a very special day in the calender here. Although rather fabulous if you are to be on the receiving end, it's rather unfortunate if you're a godparent because tradition dictates that you shell out a potential fortune on a tortell (a kind of cake) or la mona (a chocolate figure). I've seen many in the bakeries, orientated towards young children, in the shape of Hello Kitty or a Smurf or whatever else kids are watching nowadays on the tele.... I've also seen the hugest Easter egg, which I'm dying to roll down a hill in true English fashion. Except that there aren't many hills in Girona so the closest thing I can think of would be the escalators in the train station, but even this would be problematic, for there are only up escalators. But I digress...

The other tradition is for the children to carry a palm leaf or cross to the church on Sunday, dressed in their very best, to have the priest bless it and so bring them good fortune for the rest of the year. And it truly was adorable - some of the students from the academy were there in their pretty little dresses or smart jeans, and they clung to their palm leaves in the hot sunshine, attempting to get the best place to be blessed. It all took place in the square by the church, priests standing on the steps and announcing the beginning of the ceremony to the congregation below, most of whom scarpered when the priest invited us to mass, demonstrating that while traditions are being kept alive, in Catalunya at least, religion is not as prevalent as once it may have been.

Children have the palms, then, but for the parents? The adult equivalent of bringing palm leaves to be blessed is instead bringing a branch of llorers, or bay leaves; they leave the ceremony safe in the knowledge that for the rest of the year their culinary creations, their spaghetti bolognaises and lasagnes will be blessed and holy. Proof that lasagne is divine.

Alas, I had no bay leaves to be blessed, not even packaged supermarket ones. What's a girl to do if even a bolognaise won't protect her? Brother Maynard, fetch forth the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

A Second-hand Experience

Who doesn't love rifling through other people's discarded stuff, diving onto dubious-looking sofas, picking up random objects such as busts of a pair of buttocks and making crass jokes about having a cracking pair of cheeks? (I defy you not to groan or tut at that horrifically obvious pun.) What is it about the second-hand world that instantly endows any object, tat or treasure, with a glowing aura of irresistible attractiveness? Rhetorical pondering aside, when you need something, more often than not you will find that thing in a second-hand place, and where better to rummage than the magnificently diverse city of Barcelona?

I spent my weekend there with one of my best friends who decided she needed a set of drawers to stash all the papers for her business. With the promise of 'just looking', I agreed to accompany her to a shop that was lurking in the area five or six streets away. It wasn't far, then, so off we toddled.

Inside was a treasure trove of books and paintings, an Aladdin's cave of mattresses, a pirate's wet dream of shiny glittery jewellery, and an impoverished 2011 Londinian rioter's paradise of flat-screen TVs...There was even a hulking big glass display counter; you know, the type of thing to shamelessly exhibit pies and pastries, withering for hours under the ghoulish light. How they got that in and out would have made an interesting story. And it was quite sad to see the empty cabinet; the metal naked and no longer polished. No more pies for you.

Looking around, we examined some nice wooden drawers, my friend asking for my (evidently valued) opinion, before deciding on a set that was in fairly good nick. Whereupon she purchased aforementioned drawers and begged me to help her carry them back. Duped! Tricked! Fooled! Oh, how could I have fallen for it.... But I did, and what could I do? It wasn't that far, was it?

It was. Jerkily walking down the street a few metres impressed upon us the gravity of the situation. Our backs were twisted in a sideways position, obliging us to walk like drunken crabs, and the height difference between us merely added pain to my stooping back and bandied legs. I half expected pedestrians to either recoil in fear and disgust or round up the troops and chase us with cries of 'Burn the witches!' Every so often we had to stop and de-twist our knotted spines, simultaneously swearing at the putos calaixos de merda!, an art form at which I'm becoming rather adept in Catalan. And nobody, not one person, not a single human being offered to help two young beautiful girls struggling with a heavy wooden object. Instead, they all looked at us with the face of pompous irritation that said: 'Feckin' get out of the way; you're taking up the entire pavement!' Chivalry is not only dead but rotted in festering shrouds of distaste for other pedestrians merely trying to take their putos calaixos home.

When we eventually arrived, after much sweat and many expletives (not necessarily in that order), we still had four flights of stairs to shove the damn things up.

We really could have done with a third hand.

An Inspector Calls (from Madrid)

On Friday, I had a rather interesting, if infuriating, experience. I was subjected to some uncouth official from Madrid on the phone treating me as though I was incompetent. That fact in itself is probably hardly surprising to most of you, but permit me to explain: the reason why I was so rudely spoken to was that I had answered the phone - may my eyes bleed and tongue be ripped from its root for this heinous crime - in Catalan.

Many Catalans have had to put up with a lot worse; I shouldn't complain. But it illustrates the point rather deftly that one doesn't even have to be Catalan to be discriminated against from those in central government; one has to merely speak the language and you are treated like filth, animals, or a mindless buffoon.....
I am now going to write up the transcript of the phone conversation as it happened on Friday 9th March 2012, and you judge for yourselves:

Me:            Hola, 'Speak and Spell'?
Official:      Cristina Canamases?
Me:            No hi és ara mateix però vindrà cap a les 5 si vol tornar a trucar... 
                 [Catalan for 'She isn't here at the moment but she'll be here at about 5 if you want to call back...']

Official:      No le entiendo.
                  [Spanish for 'I don't understand you.']

- short pause -

Me:           Cristina no está aquí ahora....
- interrupting -
Official:     Do you-ah speak Espanish?

- pause -

Me:           Sí. 
Official:     Vale, coja usted un papel y un bolígrafo y apunta unos números. Sabe usted els números en español? 
                 [Spanish - 'Ok, get some paper and a pen and take down these numbers. Do you know the numbers in Spanish?]


- pause -

Me:          Sí.
Official:    Tiene el boli y papel? 
                  [Do you have the pen and paper?]
Me:          Sí, sí que los tengo.  
                 [Yes, I've got them.]
Official:    Apúnte:  noventa i uno-nueve once-zero zero-doce. Repítemelo.
                 [Write: 919 110 012. Repeat that back to me.]
Me:         Nueve-uno-nueve uno-uno-zero zero-uno-dos. [919 110 012]

Official:   Es muy urgente que Cristina me llame en cuanto posible; hoy, me entiende usted? Muy  urgente! 
               [It's very important Cristina calls me as soon as possible; today, do you understand? Urgent!]

Me:        Sí, se lo diré.     
               [Yes, I'll tell her.]
Official:   Bién. Hasta luego.
               [Good. Bye.]

What you don't get in this transcript is the tone of dripping sarcasm and utter contempt, simply because my Spanish is a little rusty (especially when I'm not prepared to use it). Why he feels that I would be inferior to him is beyond me: I can count in three different languages, I'll have him know! If only I'd had the quickness of mind to say that to him; if only I'd had the audacity to say from the very beginning that I didn't speak Spanish and only knew Catalan..... but, I confess, I'm not good with confrontation. I do wish I'd told him where to shove the pen, though.

I also hope you'll notice the complete lack of manners and 'thank-yous' in that conversation. Obviously, I had no reason to be affable or give any thanks to him but the other way round, I think yes. Interrupting me? Treating me like an idiot who can't count? Making me repeat numbers back to him?! I hope one day he's savaged by a stack of paper-clips and staplers or strangled by the telephone wire...

In all seriousness, though, if this is how central government or, indeed, other people from Madrid treat the Catalans, then no wonder they want independence! No wonder they dislike those obnoxious, narrow-minded, culture-trouncing prats! What else can they expect when they immediately raise themselves (in their own estimation) above the Catalans?
I have to say I do love the Spanish language, and I know they all can't be tarred with the same brush. But that madrileño has thoroughly pissed me off.  

Visca Catalunya!

Parrots, sausages, and beans.

When one goes to a market simply to mooch around and paw at the various things on display, one doesn't often realise or appreciate the hard labour and gruelling starts the vendors have suffered to make (usually) a pittance. Before Sunday the 4th of March 2012, I was one of these people who fell into this category. Not any more.

My friend spent weeks preparing for this one day, slogging at a full-time job, then coming home to knit boots and brooches as Top Gear flickered in the background, or designing pieces of delicate silver jewellery which she then gave to her boyfriend to polish. After two weeks of very little sleep, and an offer of help from yours truly, the night before the big day arrived. We squashed everything into the car: stock, the stall, chairs, overnight bags, and there was just enough room for three of us to breathe. Our lodgings that night was a friend of my friend; I had never had the pleasure of meeting her, but we were acquainted very quickly, as she had to perch on my lap to show us where to go to park. It was a pleasant evening of wine and pizza and making paper bags - even confessing one is an 'arts and crafts retard' does not exempt one from work.

Sunday morning in Sant Llorenç de la Muga dawned chilly and without caffeine. (Two sharp intakes of breath - Sundays have mornings? No caffeine?!) 6 a.m. is never a good time, and without coffee the pangs of fatigue rapidly evolve from some sort of hideous mould into snarling beasts of grumpiness. Our toes were frozen to the point of pain. Add onto that setting up a stall which took about 2 hours in the end, and I was feeling slightly murderous, so it was fortunate that a bar was 30 seconds away...

After a while, however, the caffeine kicked in and the sun slowly crept over the horizon, chasing away the long shadows and draping itself softly onto the cheese stall opposite. More people began to arrive, knocking together bits of wood and lengths of metal. The occasional hearty bellow of laughter from a baker or one of the organizers smothered the relative quiet like a fat kid sat on a cat. As the morning waned into noon the customers started to amble into the main square. I have no idea when the things my friend sold were sold because I decided to abandon her and get to know the town.

Sant Llorenç is a beautiful place situated near Figueres in northern Catalunya. The streets and houses in the centre are of a light stone, and old-style lamps cling onto the walls to light the way. One of its unique features is that it seems to have a parrot able to wander freely, calling out a welcome of 'Hola' to enchanted passers by. A waterwheel and a wine-press lounge in a children's play area; while I was taking pictures some young girls were sketching the wheel - who knows, they could be the next Picassos!

Beer o'clock rolled around, as did the hour to lunch. It so happened to be the festival of mongetes or beans, and for 5 euros one could sample botifarra i mongetes (sausage and beans) and a glass of wine. I cannot emphasize enough the need for a well-organized queuing system here: my friends and I were first in line (after a whole palava of running out of botifarres) and were pretty much the last to be served. My suspicions are that we are simply too British for our own good in these situations, as all the Catalan people were served before us! Even tutting and glaring silently had no effect on the somewhat belligerent cook.

 The way to get attention, it seems, is shout and cry and huff noisily for all you're worth, possibly even throwing in a bit of dramatic ticket-waving. This may call for a Queue Appreciation Society.

At five p.m., in honour of the beans, there was a bean-spitting contest. To cite my friend: "I love the Catalans; they'll celebrate anything!" The aim was to hit a target by spitting out one bean; unfortunately, I was behind the stall at this point (making myself useful) and have gathered no photographic evidence.
It clouded over at this point and people started to scoot off in search of shelter and a cosy warmth. Yet we stayed firm, stretching the tarpaulin over the stall and eating our Nutella crepes.

Twelve hours we were there, from 7 till 7; twelve hours of chatting, knitting, writing, exploring, joking, selling, watching people go about their business.... All in all, it was a good day, but I truly take my hat off to those who tend their stalls as a main business. I would not have the patience or the willpower to battle the elements and the tough economic climate in which we are now stagnating. It's something I can now tick off my list though: 'got over being an arts and crafts retard'.

Whatever Happened to Glamour?

There is a distinct lack of glamour in my life.

This was made horribly clear to me as I lay in bed a week or two ago dying of a terrible fever surrounded by twelve black ravens singing 'When the Saints Go Marching In' at me. It was not a pleasant experience, even though it now amuses me to portray myself as a freakish Jesus-like figure surrounded by twelve weirder apostles, and it was rendered somewhat doubly more unpleasant by the knowledge that I was not only feeling as if a pack of abnormally heated racoons were nestled in my brain, but I probably looked it too. Ingrid Bergman never looked so horrific, not even when Claude Rain was slowly poisoning her to death in Notorious; at worst, she looked mildly and glamorously feverish as Cary Grant declared his love for her. In the state I was in, Cary Grant would have probably gladly put me out of my misery.

After this shocking epiphany - that at the moment nothing in my life has any more glitz or sparkle than a lonely empty fridge pushed into a canal - I decided to act upon it and launch myself into the 1940s with the cinematic aid of Casablanca, Gilda, Intermezzo, and Roman Holiday. How can one not be inspired by Audrey's chic simplicity, or by Ingrid's soft sophistication? How can one not instantly want to be Rita Hayworth's dazzling character, la femme fatale, with flowing locks and cutting wit? And because these films are black and white, they scream old-school style which is now almost utterly lost on the new generations. These films don't need the bright technicolour mask to distract the very distractable, the focus is all on the dialogue and actors. Not that I don't enjoy modern films, but, frankly, what would you rather see: Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in a beautiful, doomed romance sweepingly given up for a nobler cause, set within spectacular displays of verbal antagonism and without any hint of sickening love cliches; or Megan Fox on the receiving end of attempted murderous strikes by, essentially, a gigantic tin can? Marvellous special effects, I'm sure. But I'm not sure I can like a film purely for its 'special effects'....

 

And that's the great thing about the old films: they didn't have special effects. Or not really, anyway. So it was pure acting. The thing about a film like Casablanca is that, even if you haven't seen it, I bet you've heard of a lot of the lines: "Play it, Sam"; "Louis, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship"; "Here's looking at you, kid"....and they're not even the best ones. This film is stuffed to perfection with clever lines and amusing characters, so much so that they have sneaked in to our day to day culture and we don't realise it half the time. And it upsets me greatly to think that most people of younger generations have no idea who Ingrid Bergman or Rita Hayworth are.

 

So I have made another decision, based on the sole objective to educate the youth of today (and absolutely nothing to do with the fact I want more glamour in my life): henceforth, I shall use every creative cell in my brain to evoke the style and spirit of these wonderful films, wearing more dresses, arranging my hair in soft waves irresistible to the touch, red lipstick for all occasions! A resolution I fully intend to carry out starting today and keep going probably until the ravens return or I'm late for work, in which case perhaps a neglect to powder my nose may be forgiven.