The weather during the ferry crossing from Livorno to Olbio did not bode well for traveling by motorcycle. I arrived at 10:30pm to a dark town and damp air, and turned north on the coast road, behind a car loaded with camping gear and two mountain bikes. They turned onto a dirt road in the direction of a campground, but I dared not follow, it was steep and rutted and slick with the day's rain. The road was black with night and the sky was black with night and low clouds. I could smell the rain and the sea, but hills and buildings and darkness hid the water from me. A campground appeared around another corner. The caretaker didn't understand what I wanted. Why not? I had a motorcycle and a tent and I arrived at a campground. It didn't seem difficult to understand. Or maybe he was just unwilling to accept that a woman on a motorcycle would be camping in a tent. Finally I convinced him to take my passport and 20,000 lira. He raised the bar and I chose a spot beside a big camper next to the bathrooms.. Before I'd finished setting up my tent the car with the bikes appeared--two German men who spoke in loud voices that seemed to come from their stomachs. They set up their tent quickly and efficiently and then talked loudly in the bathroom, their voices echoing over the noise of their electric shavers. The rain pattered lightly on my tent and then I was asleep, not waking until daylight with the geese and the dogs. The sky was blue and heavy with white puffy clouds turning gray at the edges. I quickly broke camp -- easy with only the tent, inflatable mattress and my toilet kit -- and made sure my rain suit was near the top of my bag. The Costa Smerlda is an extemely wealthy stretch of beach, in the gray morning bright silver fingers of water reached toward chips of ragged rock crawling toward the mainland. A few lonely fishers stood in the still inlets as the sun rose and warned me that this day could bring many things, even intense heat. I shed the liner of my heavy leather jacket and rode on, anxious to pass the resorts. A black Lotus pulled out of one driveway and followed closely before passing. Later, someone told me that along this road there were only six private properties, all of them with more than 30 bedrooms and a lot of land. The sun was pounding on the landscape all around me, ragged white rocks biting into the sky. The blue green sea sparkled. When the road took me inland the white dirt sparkled. The land was like this--sparkling with heat. The bluegreen of water, the whitegray of the rocks, and the greengray of manzinita and sage clinging precariously to the earth's crumbling surface. On a hill above me loomed an ancient circular structure made from rock. It was the Circle di Mumbi, an ancient "Nuragic" site built about 1500 B.C. I stopped at a tourist information booth and got the scoop from a very knowledgeable woman who spoke good English. Sardegna is one of the oldest inhabited places, and there is evidence of Bronze and Iron age communities here along with the Nuragic people who spanned both ages. They built concical forts and buried their dead in underground crypts. Like the Egyptians, they were aware of the cycle of the stars and built astrological sites to align with different significant astrological happenings. * * * The Guzzi ate up the road as it came, smooth, black asphalt winding into gentle hills, and back again to the sea. This is the most beautiful motorcycling road I have ever experienced. Here, there are no worries about potholes and reverse-cambered curves. Or dogs or horses, tractors, carts... any of the obstacles I experienced on my last two trips, to China and to India. The occasional bicycle tourist, somebody on a moped, cars that move over to let you pass... I love Italian drivers. They are fast but predictable. I love the roads because they are smooth and tilted so that one can speed around them like a racetrack. I followed the rain west through Santa Teresa Gallura at the very extreme north of Sardegna where the French (formerly Italian) island of Corsica was visible. White motorboats and sailing boats crisscrossed the straight called the Bouche di [Mouth of) Bonifacio. I rode past campgrounds and resorts and "agrotourism" farmhouses, more tiny towns, Ciuchesu and others not on the map, and tried to have a coffee at Castelsardo but the restaurant at the top only served people who were having lunch there. It was on to Sassari then, where I was to meet my friend Aldo's brother Franchesco and his family, where I would stay for the next two nights. I found the duomo and called Franco, then got into a conversation with a Senegalese woman dressed in orange and yellow with a matching turban. She flashed a smile, sparkling white and, in English, asked if I was calling America. The Senegalese are as common in Italy as in France, the men selling trinkets in town squares, the women doing who-knows-what, maybe working in factories. I remembered my four months in West Africa and the wonderful spirit of these people. I still think I'll return one day, perhaps not by bicycle as I did before, with my brother Jeff. Franco, who looks very much like his brother Aldo, arrived with his friend Marco in a Jeep and I followed him on the wet streets through town. They live in a big house on a hill, and tonight I watched the sun set from their garden. Today we went to the Sassari archeological museum, where some of these photos were taken. Then to Alghero, a heavily touristed beach town on the northwest coast. But at this time of year there are fewer tourists and many locals strolled the promenade by the 14th century tower built to protect themselves from Saracene (North African) invasions. Alghero is at the north end of the Coral Riviera, and many shops there display the peachy-orange jewelery made from the organism. Marco spoke very good English. An agricultural student from a small town forty minutes into the hills from here, he had studied in the United States and explored the possibility of going to UC Davis in California. He'd also studied in Barcelona where he learned the Spanish Catalan dialect which is also spoken here in Alghero because the Catalan's invaded, won, and stayed here some few centuries ago. This culture is still present, the Catalan dialect is spoken by the older people, and Catalan dress is still seen--long black skirts and black scarves. It seems ridiculous in this weather, so hot for black. I bake in my black leather jacket, even with the breeze. It is a little strange, hanging out with a couple of 30 year old men. Italians of this age live with their parents if they're not married, and neither are. Franco has a lead on a woman, and checks his cell phone constantly. Both are very comfortable. The Mura's are well off, Senior Mura is a retired pilot, and their home is full of antique furniture and books. Marco lives in a hill town more than a half hour from here, and works in his father's flower factory there. He will be going to Amstelveen shortly, where he'll experience the flower market. I have a difficult time explaining the 'reverse' auction of the flower market there. Tied to a clock, the price goes down as the time runs out and bidding is intense during the last minutes. These are strange things to be speaking about with a young Italian man, I think, but the world is becoming so small. < previous | next >