Rail, Sea, and Bummeltags

For once, I was ahead of schedule. I explored Ajaccio for a bit, then caught my bus (with plenty of time, thank you, Marc), which took me south. The landscape became slightly less formidable as we neared the southern coast, but the dark shadows of the mountains still lifted up into the clouds toward the island’s interior. The bus was almost empty, which is always nice, and I read most of the way down. We switched buses just north of Bonifacio and, around seven in the evening, arrived in the center of the port city.

Bonifacio is truly a sight to behold. Built in a natural limestone harbor that is too small for larger ships, the first thing you see is rows upon rows of private sailboats and yachts, and, rising behind them, the white cliffs of the harbor wall on the right and the imposing mass of the Bonifacio fortress citadel on the left.

I checked the ferry first, and found that there was one more that night, at 8:30, and bought a ticket. That gave me an hour or so to explore the city, so I climbed up onto the cliffs where the old town lies. The buildings are close together, with high, narrow alleys in the Italian style, and buildings built right up to the cliff’s edge, where the waves crash hundreds of feet below. The fortress itself is built on the tip, with full command of both the wide bay to the east, the open sea towards Sardinia to the south, and the harbor itself, to the west. It’s been a long time since it’s been in use, though, and like much of Corsica’s old architecture, shows many signs of decay.

It is, however, a perfect place to watch the sea. The light of the setting sun was streaming down through the gray clouds, and behind me, the waves were crashing against the white limestone cliffs. This, I thought, was my last hour on Corsica. It was too bad, really–Corsica was one of my favorite places so far. I again promised myself I’d have to come back. I looked back at the harbor and thought, maybe next time in a sailboat.

The ferry pulled out of the harbor just as the sun was setting, and I was treated to a last beautiful panorama of the rocks silhouetted against and orange sunset. The crossing was rough, with the ferry (a smaller one) pitching back and forth in the waves, leading to a sort of self-conscious staggering and occasional wild grabs for railings from the passengers, and patronizing smiles from the crew, who made this crossing several times a day, and seemed to take some pleasure in walking a straight line across the deck just to show us landlubbers how it was done.

We finally pulled into Sardinia at dusk. I was the only foot passenger, and made my usual departure, backpack on back and lucky walking stick (picked up on the second stage of the GR20, and kept ever since) in hand. This stick has gotten me a few strange looks ever since I reentered civilization in the little village in Corsica–people probably take me for a pilgrim, or just an overly cliched tourist. I’d planned to abandon it to its fate after leaving the trail, but I’ve formed somewhat of an attachment to it, and am ready to carry it until it disappears somewhere along the way to help carry some other traveler’s load.

I walked out into the town of Santa Theresa and, because it was already getting dark, climbed the nearest hill and set up camp overlooking the lights of the town. Unlike Corsica (the parts I’d slept in, at least) it stayed warm until well after dark, and I laid awake reading for some time until it began to finally cool down.

The next morning I wandered down from my hill and tried to find out exactly where I was and what to do next. I knew I was on the northern end of the island, and knew more or less what I wanted to do–go south–but wasn’t sure how to do it. So, I headed toward the city center and found the tourist information (Informazioni turistiche–thank God for the similarities between western Latin-based languages) center and found out. No train station in Santa Theresa, so I’d head west by bus to the nearby port town of Palau, where a train ran south through the island to its major city, Cagliari, on the southern tip. Paul, on the GR20, had told me about a beautiful national park on the eastern coast of the island, but I wasn’t sure I’d have time to visit it given the extra time I’d spent in Corsica.

Transportation in Italy is at least cheap. The bus was only two Euro and quite well equipped, air conditioned, clean, and comfortable. Palau, when I arrived, was quite a nice little town. I finally broke down on my tight food budget and went to a small restaurant for lunch, where I feasted on a plate of pasta with a tomato and sausage sauce, a Sardinian specialty, and an unexpectedly large bottle of Sardinian beer. Very good, and all for only about ten euro. Food in Italy seems to be quite reasonably priced as well.

Still, I have to admit I missed Corsica. Sardinia is much flatter, with rolling scrubby hills and fields of hay and wheat. From where I sat on the outdoor patio of the restaurant I could see Corsica across the sea, its high mountains rising as tall shadows on the horizon.

What Italy (or at least this part of it) didn’t do well is clear road signs. I walked around Palau and followed both signs and tracks to not one but two closed railway stations, boarded over and with doors bricked up. I finally gave up on finding the train in Palau and caught a bus to the next major station town, Olbia.

It was getting late, and on the map Olbia seemed to be no larger than Palau. When I arrived, however, it turned out to be a fairly sizeable port. I found the train station quickly enough, then looked for a place to sleep, walking for a rather long time until I found a field on the outskirts of town, where I set up camp to the distant sound of live American rock music from some venue or another farther into the city.

The next day there was no convenient train to Cagliari. Instead, the train operator said, I should head to the town of Sassari, where I could make a connection to Cagliari. That train didn’t leave until two, so I had the morning to relax. This, my German friends Deborah and Kati had told me, was called a “bummeltag”–basically, a day to be lazy. After walking and walking for the past week or so, it felt great to just sit down and read for hours on end. I even treated myself to a hot meal, for only four euro–pizza marinara. I was expecting something like you’d get in an American restaurant, a single slice or square. Instead–for only four euro–I was brought out an entire enormous pizza, which I proceeded to consume in its delicious entirety. The Italians, it must be said, definitely know how to do pizza.

This was a Saturday, and by the time I got to Sassari it was hot and everything was closed. The next train to Cagliari wasn’t until after seven, and wouldn’t arrive until around ten. Rather than trying to find a place to sleep in the island’s largest city hours after dark, I took the train about half way to the smallest name I could find on the route–Borore, chosen completely at random. I showed up there just before dark, and walked off the train into a tiny Sardinian town in the middle of nowhere, getting some strange looks from the few locals who were up at about at nine o clock on a Saturday evening. It was only two blocks to open fields, and I slept that night under clear skies and bright stars.

As I said before, signs are not Sardinia’s strong suite. I’d carefully checked the schedules in Sassari the night before, but neglected to consider the fact that today was a Sunday. Given that, and translating the signs with the help of my rather pitifully burgeoning Italian (and bolstered by a phrasebook, in Italian, intended for Italians visiting the States, which I’d bought in Santa Theresa), I discovered that the next train operating today to Cagliari (“in circuto nei giornos festiva”) was at two from yet another city, Macomer, and would arrive at five.

So, I had another involuntary bummeltag. It was made all the more so by the fact that this was Sunday, and on Sunday in Italy (especially small town Italy), absolutely nothing is open, not even the railway shops and news stands. I’d also finished my book the day before. This meant a few hours sitting in the shade in Borore. On top of this, the station was closed and the ticket machine was broken. So, when the train showed up, I boarded regardless and sat low until Macomer. Very hobo, I know, but it worked, and after another few hours wait (noticing a pattern?) I finally caught the train south to Cagliari.

Cagliari was a bustling port city with wide boulevards lined with palm trees and grand colonial architecture that reminded me, as parts of Corsica had, of certain island republics in the Caribbean. There was even grandiose chamber music playing over public loudspeakers somewhere in the distance. I had no time to explore though, as I had a ferry to Sicily to catch.

I’ve said it before, and no doubt I’ll say it again: plans have a way of changing. As it turned out, there were only two ferries to Sicily a week: one on Wednesday, and one on Sunday. Morning. This being the evening, I somewhat hopelessly asked a French sea captain in the Maritime center if he knew of anything else. He pointed across the harbor to a massive ferry and told me, in broken English, that it would depart for the city of Civitaveccia. All I knew about it was that it was on the Italian peninsula, close to Rome, so I bought a ticket and walked on board fifteen minutes before departure.

Once we were underway I asked around and found out that the trip was longer than I thought–we’d left at 6PM and wouldn’t arrive until eleven the next morning. I was actually rather relieved: a warm place to sleep, with easy access to food and water, easily beat showing up in some big port in the middle of the night with no idea where to go next. I slept well enough, despite a rather rowdy crowd of football (ie soccer) players running through the lounge in the middle of the night singing their fight songs in Italian at the top of their lungs. I figured someone had won something and went back to sleep.

I’m now in Civitaveccia, at an internet booth. I have a few contacts in Rome now, and I should be there by the afternoon. This feels like a sort of halfway point–after this I visit Venice and then into eastern Europe. Unless Greece counts, I won’t be back in the west until August, when I come back through Prague and fly home from Frankfurt. From what I’ve seen and done so far, I look forward to all of it.