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Aug 31, 2004 | Sardinia Travel Entries (Part 2)

The following is the second part of a three-part transcript of my journal that I kept during my trip to La Marmorata Village in Santa Teresa di Gallura, Sardinia, during July-August 2004.

August 9th

The days begin to slip by as fast as the water moss that cling on the oceanside rocks, and its going to pass even faster, no doubt. I’ve begun to partake in the various Club Ado activities, including percussion (drumming oil cans and garbage bins) and dance (Matrix music, Matrix style) although I have little intention of performing them on Thursday night (add: at the nightly spectacle at the outdoor amphitheatre). I dunno. Its stressing to have to think about what your parents might think. I’d be undoubtedly relieved if I was given the right to stay with the ‘club’ from midmorning to midnight, without repercussions whatsoever. The days I have to enjoy these moments are few– and while I do have to worry about school and homework and what university I want to go to, one has to realise that you came here to get away from the whole of it. Tomorrow’s the ‘balade’ or promenade up the hills. I doubt I’ll go (again for the previously mentioned reasons) although I do want to go for ulterior reasons I’m not exactly sure I want to admit. For those who know me, you’ll know what I mean. But then again, she leaves Friday (add: or so I thought). There’s not much you can do in a week, or so you may say. You’d be surprised at how wrong you may be. I hate players. What? No, not basketball players. Neither am I talking about any other sport, but rather, more colloquially, ‘playas’, if you catch the gist of what I’m sayin’. What anguishes me most about players (or if you prefer, playas) is not the act of ‘playing’ or cheating, but rather the thought that the one who is cheated upon knows nothing about what’s happening. What’s worse is that any one of us who actually have girlfriends or boyfriends can be seen as the same sort of ‘victim’. What’s even worse is the fact that love can be treated so lightly. My respect for a person plummets the moment I realise that all that person looks for in another person is some brief heart-beater type of moment enlapsed in a kiss and a hug (add: if not more). Am I too much of a romantic? Perhaps (Oh no. Remembers incident in 5th grade of how a love letter sent (by me) was rejected and torn apart by a girl I liked). But then again, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be? Or am I some Neolithic Neanderthal living in a bygone age, wondering what happened to tie-dyed tee-shirts? (Please don’t answer that, thank you) Hey, whatever did happen to tie-dyed tee shirts, anyways?

Its a sad sad thing
To hear the bluebird sing
For it reminds me of you
Of the good times we’ve been through
That I won’t see again

I hear you I feel you
But I don’t see the thing that matters most…

(add: unfinished)

Aug 10th

Argh. I told you things could happen very fast. As a direct (I think) result of my not going to the promenade today, I’ve lost her. Argh argh. *slams head against wall* (add: Come to think of it its quite embarrassing to write up such things now, but then again at the moment everything seemed all right…)

Aug 11th

I can hardly write. My fingers are raw from the windsurf rope I had desperately tried to raise every time I fell. Not to mention the fact that I was stranded a good mile from the shore, if not more. I had set out on the windsurf (the second time I had done so, admittedly) but somehow or another got blown further and further away from the beach. I tried swimming the board towards the beach, but the wind didn’t exactly help and I realised, after a few moments, that he big rocks to my left were no further from me than five minutes ago. So I gave up. Obviously being a mile from shore on a surf board and its sails in the water doesn’t exactly make you conspicuous, especially when the very rocks you’ve tried to get away from suddenly loom in front of you, obscuring any chance of being seen. Luckily a fella in a sailboard (who also had borrowed the skipper from the hotel) came by and I asked if I could perhaps hang onto the boat and head back home. (add: Later I would find out he was the father of one of the kids in the Club Ado) I miss the first time he passes, so he tries turning around for another try when he (and the boat) topples over (add: I felt really guilty then). Since it’s lightweight he manages somehow to bring it upright. Only when he passes by for a third time that he tells me that, over the sound of the waves, what do you know, he too can’t get back to shore. Luckily a rubber dinghy operated by the guys at the beach came to ‘save’ me. (It had taken a good ten-fifteen minutes for them to arrive). To think that I might not have been noticed were it not for the sails of the lost man in his boat scares me. I guess I shouldn’t have freaked out that much, considering that at some moment one of the fellas at the beach would scratch his head and say, wait a minute, aren’t we missing one windsurf? At least, that’s what I’m hoping they’d do if every something like this happens to someone else. For me, anymore windsurfing is most likely out of the question. Not that I’d be able to practice, by any account.

Aug 12th

Seems like I don’t have a lot of luck in many things… (not that I believe in luck or anything, but you know what I mean). Talk about going and not being able to come back, i.e. yesterday and the windsurf. Today I went with my parents to Santa Teresa di Gallura, a nearby town (where I was able to use an Internet cafe to email my dearest of friends), and I was also able to buy some stuff at the weekly market. My parents left before midday, and I planned to hang around till perhaps two-thirty of three o’clock and then head back to the hotel. Two thirty come, two thirty go. Three o’clock come, three o’clock go. Finally the van that looks like the one I came with arrives, and I ask the driver (add: whose face I already knew) if he’s heading back to the hotel.

“This isn’t a shuttle anymore, but a taxi”, the driver replies. Fine, I think, taxi, shuttle, or camel caravan, I don’t care, just get me home. I hop into the van and he says,
“No, you don’t understand, this is now a taxi.” Right. And…?
“It’ll cost you €12.00 to get back.”
Now here’s a bit of background information. Firstly, it cost €2.00 to get to the city. Moreover, the words 2 and 12 in French are somewhat difficult to decipher, especially spoken with an Italian accent. Rewinding,
“It’ll cost you €12.00 to get back.”
“12!?!”
*nods head*
*freaks out*
I’d carry a person on my back and walk back to the hotel for €12.00. Hence I had to wait another two hours and half for the shuttle to arrive (add: the driver, in the meantime, most probably had his siesta or was watching TV. Loser). It was the driver’s loss really. I can’t think of any company who would make gasoline so expensive that it would cost more than €2.00 to travel 7 kilometres. So that’s my second “gone and can’t come back” experience in two days.

Now for the other deja-vus. Playing soccer on Monday, I had grazed my left knee against the Astro-turf and I had put a bandage on. Just a day later, when it seemed on the verge of beginning the process of healing, I fell into the sand by the beach, reopening the wound. Yesterday’s windsurf experience didn’t exactly help it to heal, either. Today on the way to the port at Sta. Teresa I bashed the very same knee against the boat railings, opening another wound to the right of the original (nothing big, I assure you) After I got out of the shuttle which had finally arrived, I bumped the same knee against a terra-cotta flowerpot sitting aimlessly by the entrance. It took all my mind from shouting an expletive. Poor knee. It’s never going to heal. lol. I bet something similar’s going to happen to the rope burns on my hand. Well, actually, I don’t.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 31st, 2004 at 8:18 pm, EST under the category of Travels. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.