Long Night

 After Wednesday, both of us were ready to come home. But Seth had to present Thursday morning, and he was the first in his session. While he faced the crowd, I went shopping. I was on the hunt for scarves, but found this for my sister-in-law. She loves all things calico. Behind me there was a garbage can and a stool as well.

 The best deals were in the Chinese shops where they spoke only Chinese. The language of the Euro seems to be pretty universal though.  I am a slow shopper and a great debater with myself when it comes to dumping money down the drain. Sometimes I spend without regard, but that is usually based on emotion. If I am angry enough, I'll walk away from anything. Neither method is balanced.

 As I walked down this sidewalk, that truck popped itself right up on to MY shoulder. The front tire popped up on the sidewalk at my side and I had to run or be squashed. Maybe I would have been safer in the street.

When I returned to the hotel, Seth was back and the presentation had gone well.  We went to lunch at a great restaurant tucked in an alleyway. Most of the shops were on main roads, but restaurants were tucked every where and the best ones were the hardest to find. Once you left, you could never find it again.

 This is prosciutto on melon. The pig is slaughtered and the leg thrust into a vat of salt for one year. It is then thinly sliced and eaten raw. Knowing that now, I don't think I could eat it. It is silky and gummy, not to mention extremely salty. The ravioli was fantastic. It may have been the most classic meal I ate. The ladies next to us ordered several courses complete with salad, pastas, and white wine.

 

Six members of Arma dei Carabinieri, one of seven police agencies in Italy, came in for lunch. They pack some heavy heat. I think my heart rate went up, but the owner was very friendly and familiar with them. It is nice, or alarming-one of the two, to see such a foreboding and authoritative figure display personability.

 Picture curtesy of Wikipedia

 

Wouldn't you know it? Burgerlandia. Italy is a language of vowels. Everything ends with a vowel and if it doesn't, no one can pronounce it. Seth's name would be Seta. Mine would be the same. Brian wouldn't stand a chance.  Gee whiz!

 Lots of traffic,

 itty bitty cars (we actually did a double take when we saw a normal minivan),

 crazy parking.

Everyone seems oblivious to the laws of the road, or they just ignore them. There are a few probably unwritten rules to note however: 1- Fastest wins, counts for pedestrians too. Walk fast and in a group. 2-Anywhere is fair game for parking. Remember the truck on the sidewalk. In between trees and on the grass too. And, don't put the parking break on. It will burn out when someone bumps your car on purpose to fit theirs in. Think Mr. Bean. 3- Fold your side view mirrors in when not in use. They will get ripped off.  4- When in a taxi breath deeply. Oh and apparently, taxi drivers will stop for pretty women to cross the street. Brian made that observation and I dare confirm. Our taxi driver did just that.

We took a taxi to the event Thursday evening.  The driver whipped up the streets and swerved around the pedestrians. His pace was furious. Seth videoed part of the ride and his lead foot lightened at the sight of the camera. When traffic slowed his speed, the driver would sit on the bumper of the car in front of him. When waiting for a left hand turn onto a small side street from a main thoroughfare, the driver stuck his nose into the first of two lanes of on-coming traffic. The other car hit their brakes and the taxi driver moved into the second lane causing a car to brake hard. At that, our driver replied in the most sarcastic tone "Grazie." Oh yes, thank you for stopping when I left you no choice.  Apparently, Italians do not use sarcasm. Brian was surprised by it.  Not half a block later, he hit his brake for a female pedestrian with black hair and the most frightened expression and defensive body language. Maybe our taxi rides were exciting because we rode with the most impatient or exotic people....

Thursday night, the conference held a social dinner at Convento di San Giuseppeon Via Paracelso. The doctor gave me his ticket before he left. An authentic Sardinian troupe was hired to "entertain" for the evening. Entertainment included the making of hand-made pasta, cheese making, spit cooking, weaving, singing, dancing, nougat kneading, ice chipping for a traditional lime gelato, sauce seasoning. Brian was a delight as he engage the people and they loved him for it. They told him stories and Seth and I listened on. Him with his Spanish. Me with a bit a French and less Italian. We both understood enough to understand some. The Sardinian culture is an old one and these people cling it to. Sardinians had the Italian language thrust on them only three hundred years ago. It sounds like a long time ago, but if you consider that their language development dates back to the Romans in the second century B.C., it is still new. Many Sardinians identify more with that heritage than the Italian culture. In fact, it is more than likely that this man's grandparents only spoke Sardo.  Cultures and histories are complicated and fascinating. The love for their heritage and traditional ways create a weaving of past and present. There is something rich here which I am at a loss to articulate.  

The Launeddas player. Do you recognize him? No. Go back here.  He is the featured artist! He loves his art. He made these instruments and explained to us the history of this instruments dating back thousands of years. His circular breathing is fantastic and he says "easy."  

 Fire pits for veal to be served at dinner

 Smoldering meats

 Brian made pasta with the ladies. Handmade. All for the evening's meal.

 This was a convent. Rumor tells us it is still occasionally used as one. But tonight the wine flowed freely.  It was a beautiful place, inside and out. Star jasmine vines grew up the wall and in through the open windows. The lighting was almost candle like. It added to the richness of the culture.

The night ended with a bus ride home. The driver kept to the center of the street, controlling all lanes. The smell of wine crept like a wave from the riders behind us. Carson exited the bus. Then it was our turn. It really felt as if things had come to an end, yet we were stuck in a land far from home for one more day.