From the chaos of Milan’s Centrale Stazione, the train ride west to the village of Orta San Giulio nestled along Italy’s Lago d’Orta is only a serene hour away. The walk to the hotel pulling suitcases is, however, not so serene as my husband, Richard, and I dodge three-wheeled trucks called “APEs” and school children running home for lunch.
The room in the 17th-century villa/hotel il Giardino sul Lago shimmers with a golden light reflected from the lake and a gilded mirror so large that if it broke I know I would have 1,000 years of bad luck. Books, some hundreds of years old, tilt every which way on the shelves. The ephemera of centuries of collecting overflows on carved tables.
Below our balcony, the lake is bathed in a pearly blue light, which changes by the minute. Two brides glide dreamily by on the street below, followed by their slightly befuddled grooms. People come here from all over the world to be married and photographed with the otherworldly backdrop of Isola San Giulio floating in the middle of the lake.
Antonella de Palma and her partner, 78-year-old Cesare Bermani, who own the hotel are oral historians who have traveled around rural Italy collecting folk stories, some from witches who still practice their intriguing rituals in the most rural areas.
Cesare is also a renown ethnomusicologist, who has recorded hundreds of World War I songs and written a book using interviews from men who fought in the trenches and from the women they left behind. What to do with this priceless collection is a disturbing worry for them both, as universities and museums squabble over it.
A short flight from Milan takes us to the island of Sardinia and its vibrating capitol city, Cagliari.
Cagliari, pronounced “Cahl-yarry,” is a shocking change from the gauzy feeling in Orta San Giulio. There are trains and buses and seven-story high cruise ships going to and fro in the harbor. On the walk to our hotel is a sign on a lamppost, a desperate appeal. “Disaster! Pippi is missing!” Pictured on the poster is a grim, lost parakeet.
Cagliari has been settled for thousands of years. The Phoenecians, mysterious seafarers, were here in the eighth century B.C. and later the Romans. Luca Mura, who owns our hotel, Il Girasole, wants us to experience traditional Sardinian culture, which he reveals to us through his breakfasts. Every morning, he brings out savory platters of traditional foods: local cheeses such as pecorino, wild blackberry jam, puffy Sebadas and Pardulas filled with ricotta, grated lemon zest and saffron.
A crowded local bus takes us to nearby Poetto Beach where a wet tangle of women and their very happy dogs are playing in the sea. One, an overweight beagle wearing a life jacket, dabbles delicately in the water with his front paws from the safety of his owner’s arms. (Hey! He looks like one of Luca’s puffy Sebadas!) I am thrilled to swim with the dogs in the Sardinian sea where once, long ago, fierce pirates and Phoenecians sailed.
Who are these stony-faced African men who peddle trinkets at the beaches? All of them carry frayed, overstuffed backpacks. Is their whole life, all they own in the world, in those unravelling backpacks? They are treated with cool politeness by those they approach, but no one is buying. When they smile, the stony faces disappears and the little boys they once were breaks through.
Across from the harbor is an exhibit commemorating the 100th anniversary of the beginning of WWI. Glass cases hold faded photographs and letters home from long dead soldiers. A flickering 8 mm film shows young men dying over and over again on a screen set up in a side gallery. Who knew that 40 million horses, mules, pigeons and dogs also served in that war?
It is perfect, a small cove with boulders to sit on and clear warm water. Far off, Africa beckons. Four people are under a thatched shaded area playing pinochle, having a grand time. Slap! Down goes a winning hand and the table erupts into song. I sit on a boulder listening to them singing with my feet in the water, watching two snorkelers dive for lobster. A silver fish jumps from the water for no reason other than joy. There is no joy, however, for a young couple on the beach who seem to be breaking up.
“I thought you were perfect,” I hear her say to him.
Luca thinks we should see a bit of the interior of the island, so we take a train an hour north to Oristano. Settled in eighth century B.C. by the Phoenicians, Oristano is famous for its “Giants of Monte Prana,” found in 1924 by a farmer when he was plowing, making a discovery that “rocked the archaeological world.” Thousands of marble fragments were dug up and pieced together and three types of sculptures emerged: The Boxers, wearing leather gloves and skull caps; the Archers, with leggings and horned helmets; and the Warriors, carrying swords and wearing leather ankle guards. Archaeologists think the giants lined a ceremonial road to a religious site nearby.
We find our way to the center of Oristano, Piazza Eleonora, where a large family sits at tables set up in the shade. Four young women emerge from the crowd and parade arm in arm around the piazza wearing paper masks and carrying red balloons. One seems to have just been honored with a special degree; she wears a white sash with “Dottoressa” printed on it.
They march around and then stop. The new Dottoressa raises one of her sparkly high heels and smashes it down on a balloon to great applause. In other parts of Oristano, young people are doing the same, and the streets are soon littered with flattened balloons, confetti and discarded paper masks. I take one as a souvenir.
Later, back in Cagliari, others must have also graduated that day. Under our window, in addition to the usual music and shouting, people are shooting off rockets filled with confetti, which drifts colorfully by our window. It is still blowing around in the streets the next morning. Italians celebrate very well, indeed.
On our last day in Cagliari, Luca tells us he wants us to meet his wife, Stefania. We pile into his car and go to the university where she teaches. We knew she’d be beautiful. We say a difficult goodbye to them and they drive away, each pointing in a different direction to show us the way to the botanical gardens. We feel blue about leaving Sardinia and remember the extraordinary people we have met on this trip.
We think, wistfully, “If we lived here we’d be friends with them forever.”
Durango resident Esther Greenfield is the author of two books, Tough Men in Hard Places and Reading the Trees: A Curious Hiker’s Field Journal of Hidden Woodland Messages.
