Paolo, a
Fashionable Garibaldi, and Maria Elena
This
is a continuation of last month’s story: “Sardinia - Part I, Arrival”
Sardinia - Part II
La Maddalena
…
But it seems that when one angel disappears, another soon
arrives. This was our experience soon
after we walked down the boarding ramp of the LST-style ferry in La Maddalena about forty-five minutes
later. Totally new to the place, we had
no idea where our hotel,
Albergo
Garibaldi, was located. Oh, I had
the address, but was short a city map which would have been an immense
help. Somewhere in the maze of traffic,
jumbled streets, and the commotion that greeted us, it lay hidden. It wasn’t long before I was tired of the
clicking and snagging of my suitcase wheels in the cracks in the granite
pavers. I’d already made a few inquiries
but was greeted with blank-faced, puzzled expressions that translated, “I have
no idea”. Our three-star hotel was
apparently short of a shooting star. It
was in a bar doorway, however, that our luck changed. Pointing in the direction we’d just come
from, a patron rattled-off a barrage of directions that beyond the direction he
was pointing to and reference to a marina, was incomprehensible to me. We’d read of the pulls and influences of the
varied languages in Sardinia. They
ranged from remnants of Phoenician, Catalan, French, Sardo-Corsican, and
Italian, each with its distinct dialect.
God knows I’m no linguist, but here evidently was a language ratatouille. An about-face was easier than attempting to
decode the instructions. At least we
were all familiar by then with where the potholes and snags were. Re-oriented, our foursome pressed on,
retracing many of our recent steps. It
wasn’t long before we pulled off to the side of a piazza, next to an old
customs house, to get our bearings, to where we knew not. Like someone in a raft firing a flare for
help, I was in the process of calling the hotel for assistance. Just then, like an angel, the same man who’d given
us  |
| Looking for Angels? |
directions earlier from the doorway of the bar appeared out of the
blue. Bars certainly come in handy that
way! God-sent, I handed him the
phone. After a brief chat, he indicated he’d
bring us to our hotel. In our
experience, this unselfish willingness to help total strangers has been a
recurring Italian theme. Maybe we’ve
just been fortunate, but on many an occasion, locals have stepped-up to offer
their assistance and gone out of their way doing so. We thought the toughest part of our arrival
had been solved but the slog had just begun, and all uphill. It seems we’d chosen a hotel positioned high
up in the “burbs” of La Maddalena. The cost had been right, the altitude above
sea level way off. We eventually got there with credit toward a cardiac stress test, sans the treadmill.
It
wasn’t long before we were out and about, this time
unburdened by seven weeks’ worth of luggage.
We made a few pleasant discoveries almost immediately. We like to break-up an evening with drinks at
one place followed by dinner somewhere else.
This way, we get to experience more of a new place and extend the pleasure
of a night-out. There’s no telling what
we may uncover … new friends, new delicacies, sometimes life stories from the
myriad of people sitting next to us at table only too willing to share. Speaking of delicacies, we were on the
lookout for one unique type fare, what we soon learned was a forbidden, illicit
food. This forbidden food wasn’t an
apple from the “Tree of Life” but a kind of cheese. It is known as casu
marzu in Sardinian (framaggio marcio
in Italian) which literally
translates to “rotten cheese”. Turns out
it is a traditional Sardinian sheep
milk cheese, derived from pecorino, that contains live insect larvae, alive as in crawling maggots. Stay with me
here. Can’t be all that
bad, after all, didn’t Maximus use them to clean a wound in the movie
“Gladiator”? The larvae are deliberately introduced to the
cheese, promoting an advanced level of fermentation and the break-down of the
cheese's fats. The
worms eat the cheese resulting in a creamy consistency. That’s at least how it was presented to
us. I don’t really want to consider how
it’s done. Sounds just yummy! We’d seen it once in a video.
The cheese is associated with shepherds who
tend their flocks high up on solitary plateaus. It would not appeal to many, for it would take
a stout-hearted, brave soul to eat cheese covered with maggots! Maybe covered is an exaggeration though. Not so brave, my plan while no one was looking, was to clear the larvae
from the cheese before digging in. But when in Rome …, why not just once. Well, there was none to be had in La Maddalena, no speak-easy to whisper
its name so the Carabinieri can’t
hear you. With that aside for the
moment, we stopped for drinks at Il Club
on the marina adjacent to the yacht-set glitterati. Our waiter, Andrea, took special care of us
as well as a special interest. The rush
of the August tourist horde had past and he had time to linger at our table. He only added to the atmosphere of the evening out under Mediterranean stars and our willingness to return again other nights.
By
far a real treasure was discovery of Osteria da Lio (Leo with an “i”).
We didn’t find it per-say,
I was brought there by our angel escort earlier. How could we pass-up a two-hundred-year-old
establishment where who knows, even Admiral Horatio Nelson may have frequented
in the early 1800s (he’d been to La Maddalena then). It welcomed us with an entryway adorned with
a hanging vine that served as an awning.
Crowded, we sat outside at first awaiting our turn inside while Sarah
and Esther served us Sardinian Ichnusa beers (Ichnusa was Sardinia’s name at the time of Christ) and wine through a window- opening in the wall. It was a treat, with friendly locals just inside the door by the bar playing something that looked like dominos, but wasn’t, and others enjoyed a kind of happy-hour snack spread out atop the bar. Yes, it was rather a small place. The walls were arrayed with old photos. A special honor was reserved for another local historic personage, Giuseppe Garibaldi, while others depicted sailing ships and family members, possibly a “Leo” among them. Another surprise, following ours swordfish and sea bass meals with pasta and salads, was the after-dinner drink, Mirto. Similar to our discovery in Sicily, and then again on Ischia, different locales seem to have their own version of a digestivo. Maybe island life is somehow conducive to a locally brewed concoction, something you can count on even if deliveries from the mainland are somehow interrupted.
This one was also delicious, its mild flavor derived from the blueberry-like berries of the myrtle plant with the aroma of sweet herbs. It is hard to describe the flavor of this reddish-brown liquor, but it is pleasant enough that we bought a bottle soon after (we only had swigs of it later in the airport when Maria Elena realized she had it in her carry-on and we had to ditch it before going through security). After all, aren’t herbs good for you? Dessert was also special. It featured another Sardo treat called Seadas. Think of Seadas as a warm pocket pastry filled with melted cheese and coated in honey and you’d be right. Four forks quickly did it in.
In
the days that followed, we became familiar with the town. We were familiar enough to quickly broaden the
scope of our travels. We took bus and
trolley rides around the area. One special treat was a visit
to Caprera, a nearby island once owned by Italian national hero, General
Giuseppe Garibaldi. He’d once been
exiled there, later to depart to lead an army of national unification, only to
finally return to Caprera to live out the last twenty-seven years of his
life. It was there that we had the
opportunity to tour his home, now a museum.
In the final days of his life, Garibaldi had his bed moved to a room
where he could see neighboring Corsica.
Why, I’m not sure, but it had something to do with the fact that he’d
been born in Nice of Italian parents, which at the time was controlled by the
Italians. He’d been unforgiving and
resentful of those who eventually returned the territory to 
French control. In this room, the original calendar and clock
mark the date and time of this living legend’s death, 2 June 1882 at 6:20 pm.
Another
indulgence, unique to Sardinia, was a boat trip aboard the Marinella IV to
a group of islands known for their pristine beaches sheltered along breathtaking
picturesque inlets. One in particular was Spiagga Rosa that featured pink sand
similar to beaches in Bermuda. It proved
too popular, however, and today this beach is roped-off by land and sea with a
local guard for added security. It seems
tourists would leave with souvenir samples of the sand, thus threatening to
eradicate this signature resource. Crossing
the gangplank to board Marinella IV at
Cala Man Giavolpe in La Maddalena, the thought occurred to
me, what had become of the other three Marinelli’s,
this being the fourth? I soon learned
there was nothing to worry about, at least not with this captain. It seems that Comandante Gabriele purchased the Marinella IV outright while the previous three had been wrecked! Apparently Marinella is a popular name, worthy of being repeated, or might I
say rebuilt ... comforting indeed and reinforced by the noted absence of any
life-preserver drill. Oh well, he
probably did this every day and was certainly current. Wasn’t he?
Cruising
the dazzling island shorelines beneath wispy clouds was
unforgettable. Many
were interspersed
with forests dense with pinea trees, while
beigey-pink rocks rose on edge as if they were the protective plates on the
backs of prehistoric Stegosauruses. They
seemed to be everywhere, serving as Sardinia’s equivalent to the Dolomite
Mountains of northern Italy or the mysterious stone architecture of
Stonehenge. Many of these stones, timeworn
from the crafty handiwork of wind and water appeared like monuments, easily
capable to being christened with names like the “cathedral”, the “lions”, and
the “citadel”, just as constellations of stars are given names. Like plants, many appeared to jut from the
sea, with many more visible just beneath the surface of the clear water. Navigating them, our deft boat captain, a
sixth-generation seaman, demonstrated his thirty years of personal experience. The cruise brochure
over the side. People
aboard these other craft, some with designs that harkened to Phoenician days,
would stop whatever they were doing to watch, anticipating, I’m sure, a
collision that I suspect could not happen with this captain at the helm. I doubt there will ever be need of a Marinella V! It was as if a game of “My hull it bigger
than your hull” were underway. I’m sure from
observing their reactions to his close approaches that these potential collision
victims were unfamiliar with his skills.
We’d get so close to them that our captain would attempt to console them
over our ship’s PA system. The reactions
from the Italians both aboard our ship and those in Captain Gabriel’s
crosshairs were evidently humorous. No
one got upset, no one was hit, there was never a need to don any lifejackets,
wherever they were.
It
was a beautiful day, sunny and warm with a light breeze as
we swam in various anchorages like the Condé Nast prefect beach at Ilso Santa Maria and again at Passo degli Asinelli, or played lizard
lying on the fine salt-colored sand only to retreat in search of shelter from the sun under
shore-side trees. The
water was a transparent sapphire blue, so clear it gave the illusion that boats
were floating in the air. I must admit
there was no illusion about the water’s temperature. There is no mistaking cold, cold like the
Gulf Stream that washes the Maine coast, and it was that, but regardless, all four
of us eventually took the plunge. My
hesitation probably made it worse as I ever-so-slowly made a pageant of walking
out into deeper and deeper water. I’d
not come this far to not take the plunge.
Back in town, we played obligatory tourist with a stop at the cathedral, Santa Maria Maddalena. In La Maddalena, Mary Magdalen is honored,
not only with the main church named after her, but an entire island. The much-maligned Mary Magdalen through the
centuries has been repeatedly contorted, reinvented, and contradicted in her
historic presentation to suit the times. It wasn’t until the Middle Ages for instance that
theological fiction (what we refer to of late as “fake news”) first portrayed her
as a prostitute. In recent times,
Hollywood lore in movies like “Angles & Demons” has added to her mystique
while the unearthed gnostic gospel, “The Gospel According to Mary Magdalene”, gave
this first woman apostle voice, contentious theological standing, all while continuing
to stir the pot with conjecture. Stories
of her sometimes take the form of cult stories and range in their presentation of
her as an early follower of Christ, a close friend, his lover, his wife,
prostitute, and today, in what appears to be a miraculous make-over, as a saint
of the Catholic Church. A large painting of Mary of Magdala is displayed in the church vestibule. Sitting on the ground before the cross,
faceless with her back to the viewer, it maintains her mystery.
While tourism is its main industry these days, its strategic
position predestined it for a rich military history. In 1793 for instance, a French expedition unsuccessfully
tried to occupy the island. It was the
first combat experience of a 24-year-old French lieutenant, one Napoleon
Bonaparte. It
was on a Sunday morning in February that Bonaparte, in command
of two companies of Corsican volunteers, ordered the bombardment
of La Maddalena from the neighboring island
of Santo Stefano. The first shot hit the roof of Santa Maria Maddalena Church, where the
population had taken refuge. Reports say
the second round hit the right edge of the facade, while the third and the
fourth hit the roofs of neighboring houses. The fifth exploded in the center of the church
square, while the next entered a window of the church and exploded at the base of
the statue of Santa Maria Maddalena
without causing severe damage. He
did much better in years to come. Over two hundred years later, one of
the cannonballs fired by Buonaparte is on display in the Piazza Garibaldi town
hall.
Later during the Napoleonic Wars, Admiral Horatio Nelson used the
archipelago of La Maddalena as a base for his fleet to keep close watch on the
French fleet. In the interim, Nelson befriended
the local port commander and developed a fondness for La Maddalena. On his
departure he presented a gift to the church, much opposed by his non-Catholic
crew. Today, in the sacristy of Santa Maria Maddalena, the two candlesticks and crucifix Lord
Nelson donated along with a letter signed in his hand while aboard his flagship
"Victory" are showcased.
It was later in
1887 that a base was established there by the Italian Navy. In 1943 during World War II, following Italy’s
decision to side with the Allies, Benito Mussolini was held prisoner in La
Maddalena for twenty days before being moved to Vigna di Valle in Lazio and his
eventual demise. Following Napoleon,
Nelson, Garibaldi, and Mussolini, came the Americans. Beginning in 1972 during the height of the Cold
War, there was a U.S. naval base on Santo Stefano, the same island from which Bonaparte
had initiated his bombardment of La Maddalena.
The base served as the home port for several US Navy submarine tenders
until the facility officially closed in 2008, ending a 35-year US presence in the
archipelago. Today, cruising among these
islands, you can still make out lonely WWII outposts long
since abandoned. The soldiers of that
time who from these remote stone citadels reported what passed, have today been
succeeded by enclaves of the well-to-do on the lookout for the latest in fashionable
yachts or the refined whinny of 500 Ferrari thoroughbred horses.
La Maddalena is an alluring island of stone and sun, where past and present mingle. With the intensity of time, then to now, its stones
have turned to sand by the erosive forces of wind, surf, and
sun. Like
the forces that shaped the land, it is also a place shaped by language. I imagine this crossroad in the sea has
always been this way, from the dawn of pre-history to a later time when Phoenician
gauloi, Roman triremes, and most
recently American submarines plied
its channels. It is where the
island escapes into the sea from hidden crescent-shaped bays with beaches
lapped by a cobalt sea that the luxury of its simplicity emerges. Though the land is basic, a scrub landscape
intermingled with Mediterranean parasol pines and the occasional pencil
cypress, it nevertheless can cast its spell wide and urge a return. But more than its rich history, more than its
tapestry of stone and cliffs tumbled into the sea, it is home to the Andreas, Gabrieles,
Francos, Sarahs, Esthers, and yes, even an occasional angel who made our visit
there so memorable.
To be Continued
From that Rogue
Tourist
Paolo
