In Jerzu, for the "Festival dei Tacchi"

This is a guest post from Damiano of Turismo Sardegna, travel agency from my hometown. I've rarely hosted guest posts on my blog, I do only when I feel the article is in line with the purpose of the blog itself. And of course, after all I've written about my hometown, anything from Sardinia is more than welcome here.

Sardinia is a land full of history, culture, food, nature and dialects different from the rest of Italy.

But for most people, Sardinia is just an island of beautiful beaches and colourful waters, with delicious culinary and wine traditions and where sometimes traditional fairs and religious celebrations, such as the Sagra of Saint Efisio in Cagliari, take place.

However, Sardinia is also a land of music and theatre festivals which, every year, bring international artists from all over the world to this idyllic sunny corner of paradise.

Our journey made of music and theatre starts in Ogliastra. On Sardinia's eastern coast, it is the territory of the Cannonau vineyards, a land that you can also enjoy exploring or undertake some hiking between the coast and the mountains.

At the beginning of August, Jerzu, Ulassai and the Tacchi mountains will hold an international theatre festival called Festival dei Tacchi.

During these days, Jerzu (the main village) also celebrates the Cannonau (together with Vermentino, Malvasia, Monica and the Carignano, one of the most famous grapes in the island), an excellent, full-bodied red wine.

For a smart traveller with a hearty appetite, this is a great opportunity to enjoy wines, local gastronomy, music and theatre in the unspoilt nature of the Ogliastra.

Ulassai's canyon is also regarded as one of Sardinia's best free climbing sites.

Finally Arbatax (35 km away from Jerzu) is worth a visit for the typical red rocks.

The festival is called “The Tacchi Festival”, because it takes place in the area of the "Tacchi", a limestone formation which looks like upturned shoe heels, namely “tacchi” in Italian.

I could enjoy this festival several times, and sometimes I was even involved in its organisation, which was a truly great experience. Going to Ogliastra during the “Tacchi Festival” means intense days of discovering the surroundings.

On the morning, explore the coastal area around Jerzu. After a quick shower, just go for a stroll around the city centre of Jerzu or Ulassai in the wait for the next shows to come...
Please, when wandering about theses cities, do not miss the opportunity to taste the typical street food of Ogliastra, such as Coccoi Prena and Coccoi 'e tamata; and if you can afford it, treat yourself to a typical succulent dinner at the “Da Concetta” restaurant.

Interestingly, during the past ten editions, almost all the best actors and theatre companies have been involved in this festival. The best thing about it? Almost all the people involved in the event live in the area so, if you are lucky enough, you will have the chance to have with the actors, musicians or journalists. If you are not that lucky, just attend seminars, workshops and theatre sessions where you will be in touch with them!

Every year, at the same time, the city of Jerzu also hosts a great wine festival. Jerzu is in fact the "capital" of the Cannonau red wine district, Sardinia's most popular wine. The Cannonau wine festival mainly features wine and traditional Ogliastra food tasting in about twenty small “garage” wineries, as well as seminars, concerts and arts and crafts.

During the event, a lot of wineries will be open till late, offering wine and a great variety of local recipes to visitors. This is the kind of street food festival where people, a glass of wine in one hand and a small plate full of food in the other, will be walking up and down the main streets... getting increasingly happy thanks to the wine!

Accommodation

Another great plus for travellers who decide to visit Ogliastra during the Tacchi Festival is that anyone can choose the accommodation they prefer.
Backpackers can camp for free in the beautiful San Antonio wood, at about 5 kilometres from Jerzu.
However, budget hotels are widely available in Jerzu or Ulassai and it is also possible to rent a small apartment for the festival.

Travel to Ogliastra

By Ferry. There are different routes available from Italy mainland to reach Sardinia and the closest to Jerzu and Ulassai is with Tirrenia Ferries that offer great deals and promotions on Arbatax.
By plane. Cagliari, Alghero and Olbia are regularly served by low cost airlines.

Resources:

Ogliastra Province Touristic Office. Website in English: http://www.turismo.ogliastra.it/English/

Dawdling about Shanghai's little Venice

Shanghai is indeed a metropolis that leaves very little time to rest. Since I've been in China I haven't done anything but working, studying and running. Non-stop. The city is literally absorbing all my energies, and I believe all Shanghainese are on the same boat.

Although the city offers countless opportunities to hang out and spend your leisure time, a particularly nice way to escape the hustle and bustle of modern life and get an idea of ancient China is dawdling about one of the lovely water towns surrounding Shanghai's area. I would recommend that your foreign currency conversion is taken care of before you travel to small cities in China as you might find it difficult to change your money here.

Last Sunday I went to ZhuJiaJiao, picturesque, old-styled corner just 45 minutes away from the latest state-of-the-art architecture that makes Shanghai the vibrant and glitzy capital of South East Asia.

It literally took my friends and I only 45 minutes to step back in time. Despite the unavoidable touristy aspects that I believe nowadays are everywhere, the town strongly reminded what could have looked when Chinese people were the least thinking they were going to become one of the first world powers.

The vicinity of the sea and the HuangPu river crossing the region gave origin to the rise of many little towns right on the water. Like in Venice, cars are not allowed in and houses are perched on the banks of the waterways.

All along the riversides traditional shops and restaurants line up ready to serve the continuous flow of tourists, both foreigners and natives. Being outside of the city, the atmosphere is naturally chilled out, people are the least worried about their clothes or looking good in general, and despite the cold temperature, the day went by very pleasantly.

Being in the Chinese version of "Venice", could I miss a tour on board of the Chinese version of the "gondola"? Of course not. And good for us that we made it: our "gondolier" brought us to the very intimate corners of the town, no tourists around, laundry hanging out of the windows and on the narrow alleys, and old houses overlooking the calm waterway.

This is not the only water town around Shanghai, and it's not even the most popular. In fact, among the next villages I will visit there certainly are Suzhou and Zhouzhuang, in the hope they will be able to fulfill my constant quest for nice spots for taking photos.

In Shanghai, discovering the Tea Art

It's been a while since I have updated my travel blog. My new Chinese life is keeping me very busy, especially the language course, that is becoming increasingly challenging. Of course, I'm not only studying. In fact, I've also been sightseeing in and out of Shanghai. In my quest for authentic traditions, I ended up delving into a local tea market.

If you think the national sport in China is Kung Fu, think again. Last Sunday, in fact, I went tea fighting, nonetheless.

I thought I was simply going to buy tea, but I sensed it wasn't that obvious when my friend told me: "Tasting tea is an art, not simple drinking."

I wanted to discover China's most intimate traditions, didn't I? Well, the Tea Art is one of them. Ancestral, fascinating, magical. To the extent that buying tea in a normal supermarket in China is almost betraying its roots and missing something essential of its culture.

Writes Yizhou Wu: "There are many legends and folklores about the tea". And this is only the beginning of the journey into this intriguing tradition that has been an important element in the Chinese society for thousands of years, throughout royal dinasties, revolutions and wars.

China has been repeatedly criticised for having completely lost its traditions and connection with its past. Although I find this statement very simplistic in the attempt to define a so complex culture such as the Chinese, I agree that much of their identity is being sacrificed for the sake of modernity, and often the worst aspects of globalisation are being adopted very easily.

However, one of the aspects of the ancient society that Chinese people are not ready to give up is indeed the Tea Art.

The most widespread legend about the tea sees Shennong, believed to have written the earliest book on Chinese pharmacology, as the main character. According to the tale, he tasted all kinds of plants and water with the aim to make people aware of what was edible and what wasn't.

Finally, one day he was poisoned by 72 different plants and found relief only tasting the leaves of tea trees. Although that book wasn't written by Shennong, who is himself a legendary figure, it's an important account of the beginning of the tea tradition.

According to the Chinese tradition, the tea plays an important role in the Cosmo. This is how Yu Lu in his The Classic of Tea puts it:

Tea grows on land, that is "earth"; it is brewed in a stove, that is "metal"; it is heated by the burning "fire", which is fuelled by charcoal, which is "wood"; the final tea drink is "water".

The process through which tea changes from being a plant to being a drink is a process of going through the natural process of five elements, metal, wood, water, fire and earth, to reach a state of harmony.

This gives an idea of how important the tea is, considered not merely a drink, but a plant with medicinal properties that plays a central role in the society itself. During business meetings, meals or while welcoming guests, any occasion sees the ritual of the tea happen.

At the tea market, every little shop appear as cosy sitting rooms in which customers are invited to sit and taste all kinds of tea and infusion before deciding if and/or which to buy.

Only staring at the ritual is already fascinating. First there's the washing of the tiny cups, then the first water is thrown away after one minute of infusion, and finally the set is ready for serving the beloved drink.

Also the tasting is part of the ritual, during which the seller will explain the characteristics of the tea you are sipping. The first advice they give is not to swallow immediately, so that you are able to fully understand the flavour and what the seller is saying: the origins, the type of land where the herb was harvested, the kind of processing that brought it to be a drink.

According to tradition, the spirit of the tea is aimed at giving peace to the soul. Says Xufeng Wang:

"Heping (peace) is the spiritual core of Chinese tea. Pinghe (tranquillity) is the outward shape of the peaceful spirit shown by tea drinkers. Heping and pinghe, peace and tranquillity, are interdependent like teeth and lips. Here, peace is a spirit, and also a shape; tranquillity is a shape, and also a spirit."

The expert moves of the sellers make the whole experience of purchasing tea so rich that it will feel a shame to simply pick one from the Carrefour shelves next time I want to buy it.

"Don't be afraid, you are in China!"

A view of the Great Wall of China

When our laoshi delivered to the class the odd statement "Don't be afraid: you are in China!", the first thing that crossed my mind was to imagine this sentence out of its context.

Admittedly, out of nowhere, it does make China look like some kind of shelter, and said by a Chinese person, you will inevitably think "Wow, Chinese people have a really great concept of their country!"

I am slowly appreciating the fact that Chinese people truly love their country, and every time a foreigner mentions Zhong Guo (China), the face of the local shines with a smirk, let alone when foreigners confess their own love for the Red Dragon.

However, the sudden burst of vigor didn't belong to such a patriotic context, but was simply a way to reassure the class that by living in China we naturally have all tools we need to learn the language properly and quickly.

Our teacher insists, and rightly so, that we need to go out and speak to as many people as possible.

After having overcome the initial shock of moving to such a different culture, I'm starting to getting to grips with Chinese mentality and outlandish lifestyle, so I took my teacher's advice and started talking to people in shops, streets or wherever I had the occasion.

The result so far hasn't been very remarkable as most people don't understand what I'm saying. Did I think learning Chinese was like learning any other language? Not quite.

Last week the government was conducting a population census in Shanghai and when the officer came to my place in order to "count me", I took it as a great occasion to sport the sentences I had just learnt and introduce myself. Wrong guess, little did I know that it was going to be source of greater frustration.

The man only understood I was from Italy, he didn't understand I was here to "study", and when I showed him the character and told him I was studying Chinese, he looked at me puzzled: "Are you studying Korean?!"

I get it: I need to look after my pronunciation.

The trick is to understand the difference between tones, they are four, and the same word can have four (or more) different meanings, according to the tone. Admittedly, to me the tones sound all pretty much the same, but our teacher promised us that they are completely different. It must be, otherwise people would understand at least some of the words I say.

I'm not even starting mentioning how hard learning the characters is, and now we are talking about a "simplified" Chinese, courtesy of Mao who thought the traditional characters were too difficult and imposed to make them "easier".

We learn about ten characters per class, and at the beginning (the very beginning, let's say the first ten characters), I was thrilled: "It's not that difficult after all!" I kept repeating to myself. After thirty characters (I know, just three classes) I had already changed my mind.

Not only the difference between tones is almost undetectable to foreign ears, but many characters are hopelessly similar, with only a couple of strokes marking the distinction between them.

While I'm increasingly less afraid of Shanghai life, I'm starting getting worried about communicating with locals. But I guess, like everything, it's only a matter of time.

In Shanghai, exploring the Ancient City

Chinese society and economy are developing so fast that even the population can barely catch up. One of the most evident symptoms is the way they cross the street: any foreigner will notice horrified that despite the hectic traffic, locals cross huge roads without even checking if cars are coming their way.

Drivers in Shanghai are busier trying to avoid running over reckless pedestrians rather than following traffic signs.

Chinese are very proud of their bike-tradition, they have always gone through the streets by bike and no matter what the traffic is like, they will keep going by bike, little respecting the red light, barely watching if cars are crossing from side streets, seemingly caring very little whether they'll actually be able to cross or they'll end up lying on the ground. 

As for me, the post-London re-adjusting to the left side of the road is happening quite fast, due to the massive amount of any sort of vehicles present in Shanghai's roads and sidelwalks.

Following this resilience to modernity that characterises Chinese people, I thought I would enjoy a walk through the Ancient City and its Yu Gardens. Lucky guess.

What is called the Ancient City is actually a cluster of shops selling all things traditional, from pearls and jade to silk, to tea sets. And of course many sit-in and take-away restaurants. They are pretty much tourist traps, but if you can bargain the price, the stuff you'll find there is quite of a good quality.

All shops inside the Ancient City are set on traditional-looking surroundings, but the real jewel are to be considered the Yu Gardens, an evocative model of classical Chinese gardening architecture. 

Built during the Ming dinasty in 1559 as the private garden of high-rank official of Sichuan Province, Pan Yunduan, they are a lovely collaboration of architecture and tradition.

The many halls are separated from each other by rare plants, small rivers, ponds and decorative rocks. Rocks are an important part of Chinese culture, as they are seen as a gift from Nature to men.

Visiting these cultural spots makes it evident how Chinese people love their own traditions, as most tourists are actually locals.

I'm discovering Shanghai little by little, and I hope my passion for old-fashioned things will lead me to unearth unusual spots, less glitzy than the tall skyscrapers but by all means with a richer past.

In Atlantis, in a Giants' Tomb

Sardinia is land of ageless beauty, to the extent that researchers are all busy to prove the island is the lost civilisation of Atlantis. Among these, the most devoted to the cause is journalist Sergio Frau.

Frau, analysing ancient texts and comparing them with the present geography, places the Pillars of Hercules in Sicily so, according to Plato's directions, Atlantis is to be found in Sardinia.

The Greek philosopher, in fact, placed the legendary island, "insula Atlantis," in front of the Pillars of Hercules (Sicily) and on the west of the Strait of Gibraltar. Following all these references, Atlantis can only be Sardinia.

The island fits this explanation also thanks to the presence in its history of a lost civilisation, called nuragica. The whole territory is dotted with Bronze-Age stone towers, called nuraghi, that were used both as stronghold against foreign invasions and as habitation.

Frau, and many geologists, argue that four centuries before Christ a tsunami hit the island, destroying the nuragic civilisation, and maybe the civilisation of Atlantis. Geologists support this argument with the fact that one of the biggest and best kept nuraghi has been found under a thick layer of mud.

Apart from thousands of nuraghi, in the island can be found many other buildings even prior to the nuragic civilisation, such as Fairies' Houses, Dolmen, Menir, sacred wells and Giants' Tombs. Almost all of them are connected to pagan rituals, as they were tombs or worship areas. Among these, the Giants' Tombs have always inspired a great deal of interest, not only among scientists and researchers, but also among the population. Why?

It's widely believed that around a Giants' Tomb there is a magnetic field able to release positive energy. Historical research says they had funerary purposes, however they happen to be a little too big to be a single grave. Maybe more than one corpse were laid there after the burial ceremony? Or maybe they kept some more space on purpose to put other objects to help the dead cross over or to bring with wherever they were going, "Egypt-style"?

Where historical research stops, popular belief comes along. Many people take the Giants' Tomb as a place to restore from daily stress and go there to absorb some of the energies that our ancestors managed to identify in those strategic spots.

A friend of mine told me that when she goes to any of the Giants' Tombs she feels strengthened, so I had to try.

I went to the Giants' Tomb of Dorgali and followed "the expert's instructions". I sat beside the tomb, lied underneath, stepped on top of it (not sure if this was allowed or might have been considered profane some 5,000 years ago) and walked all around.

I can't really say what effect it had on me, maybe because it was also my first approach to such "natural remedies" to modern hustle and bustle.

Truth be said, Sardinia si a place where popular beliefs are as alive as they were thousands of years ago, and the pagan element never disappeared, despite the efforts of the Catholic Church to erase any previous ritual.

Land of mystery and unspoken traditions, Sardinia never fails to charm tourists and locals alike, as behind every single corner there is a secret to be discovered.

Craft and tradition in Sardinia, the wooden angels of Ignazio Mura

Not far from my hometown lies the sunny city of Oristano, in central Sardinia. The town and its neighbouring villages (like pretty much the whole island) abound with artisans and little known crafts.

Yesterday I was ambling about Oristano, enjoying the first springtime sun, and ended up in a tiny, messy, quirky workshop. I couldn't restrain myself from entering, and this is how I met Ignazio, the owner and undisputed king of that wooden realm.

With the company of two black cats, Ignazio spends his days carving lithesome figures out of tree trunks. "This is an angel taking out a soul from purgatory," he told me while carrying on with his latest work. All I can see around me is wooden sculptures recalling the typical Sardinian stone art, wistful faces similar to the Mamuthones masks I had seen in Mamoiada.

"Do you do exhibitions?" I ask him, to realise only later how naive my question is.

"I'd love to," he replies with a bittersweet smile. It seems like it's the question he's waiting for. "I used to participate in collective exhibitions," he starts telling. "In the Aragonese Tower of Torregrande, in Oristano's beach."

I know the place, tourist-packed in summer time, beautiful surrounding, the best spot for an art exhibition. I feel I've been away from home for too long and somehow lost touch with the news that concern my once small world. So I keep provoking him: "And what happened? Why do you not do it anymore?"

"Well," he keeps on, "the Tower has been privatised, and all public exhibitions ended. It's such a shame, people loved them, and my sculptures were at the very end of the stairs, the best display corner. I've even asked the council if they had some place I could use, and you can see how it ended: I don't even have electricity here."

Ignazio works only until the sun shines, during the summer he's quite lucky, but winter time it's tough: he underwent eye surgery so now he must be careful and avoid working if lighting is not good. He has overcome a three-month coma ten years ago, and since then he's been working as a wood artisan.

Throughout our little conversation he hasn't stopped working and studying the shape peeping out of the wood, and while I watch him, I keep thinking that my hopes that the waves of privatisation hadn't reach Sardinian inland villages are slowly slipping away.

Always more things are being marketed, always less activities for human edification are being carried out for the pure sake of doing it.

It's getting late, I have to leave, I congratulate him once again for the great job he's doing. "I don't know," he smiles. "They say it's art."

"It is art," I reply, with the promise to come back before I leave Sardinia in July.

Sex in public: a sign of freedom?

Recently, I have read an interesting post on Travel Blissful about "love customs" in different countries. The writer, Erica, stresses the importance of respecting every country we are visiting. Rightly so, I would add.

I'll never get tired (or maybe at some point I will) of pointing out that belonging to a specific culture doesn't make that culture necessarily right or the best one. People, wherever they are, should consider natural to respect their neighbours, but more so if they are travelling to a foreign country.

I have just got back from to the UAE, country that in the western public mind is very conservative and strict, and I struggle to understand why much of the British press gives a rather negative coverage of the Emirate. 

Two years ago a British couple got arrested in Dubai because they were having sex on a beach, and the police charged them with the count of offending public decency. In Italy they would have got arrested too.

In today's news, another British couple got into trouble in Dubai for having allegedly breached the local law and kissed in public. Kissing in public might be appreciated in some countries, but the UAE tourism office ask tourists to respect local laws. I think visitors can make this enormous effort until they get back home.

British people are usually obsessively respectful of the law, so this persistency reeks a bit of arrogance.

During the two years I spent in London, for quite a few times I've had the impression that the word decency was gradually disappearing from the dictionary, at least during the weekends. I, myself, have witnessed, in Shoreditch on a Friday night, very degrading performances involving young women boasting their "cool" drunkenness, and instead of feeling "emancipated", I felt outraged. 

But that's just me, I don't like such behaviours so I try to avoid places where I know they're common habit.

You feel unable to respect another country's laws and traditions? Stay home.

Glendalough, a walk through mystery

One of the best places to visit around Dublin is Glendalough, no doubt. I suggest anybody who goes to Ireland to devote half a day to this mysterious spot. You can either go by coach (it takes an hour) or hire a car at Dublin car rental.

Glendalough (Gleann Dá Loch, “Valley of the Two Lakes”) is a suggestive monastic site set within beautiful natural surroundings. The settlement was founded by St. Kevin, a monk who died around 618 AC.

It consists of seven churches, set, in fact, in a valley with two lakes. The visitor is welcomed by an old cemetery spread-out around the main church. Walking deeper inside the valley, it's a tangle of small bridges crossing the river that leads toward the lakes, making the whole scenario a quaint yesteryear village.

The atmosphere is one of austerity, and it couldn't be otherwise, since St. Kevin was a hermit monk, or at least this is how it started. As a boy, he studied in a Catholic circle and decided to start his life as a hermit in Glendalough. After a while, he returned there with a group of followers, and I believe that was the time when the site was built.

Apparently, St. Kevin lived a life of hardships and privations, barely eating and sleeping on stones, no matter what season, and in Ireland does get cold, maybe in the past more than today. However, it seems like he wanted to apply the principles he read in the Bible, of the Christ living in poverty, precepts that maybe the Pope should freshen up between a Mass and a dinner.

In its heyday, Glendalough was a very lively centre: in here, in fact, were not only monastic cells but also workshops, guesthouses, farms and an infirmary. Now, it looks like a fascinating ghost town.

When I think of Catholic rules applied in Ireland, I can't avoid recalling the movie "Magdalene's Sisters" because it frightened me and, what's even worse, I was told that those types of monasteries were closed less than twenty years ago.

After several attacks, the site was constantly rebuilt, and now we can see it in pretty good conditions. I've always been attracted by Celtic traditions, and although this is a pretty Catholic spot, it nevertheless reflects the culture it was built in.

I remember with real pleasure my walk through these ancient ruines, and I would suggest it to anybody planning a trip to Dublin. 

Places and people: what makes us richer

Recently, I've read a post on Grantourismo blog on how meeting interesting people makes travelling more pleasant and worthwhile. I couldn't agree more with this statement, as a matter of fact I think meeting people is one of the best aspects of the whole experience of travelling.

Unlikely history books seem to imply, I think the most important characters of mankind history are ordinary people, and not presidents, kings or prime ministers. Now that I've spent a couple of months in my hometown in Sardinia, after having left almost twelve years ago, I'm looking at the community where I grew up with a different eye.

Idiosyncrasies that maybe before bothered me, now amuse me, peculiarities that I used to find boring, now have become extraordinary. In a nutshell, I'm discovering my island all over again, this time not only going after its beautiful panoramas, but especially rooting out lost traditions and abandoned local crafts, and asking older people to tell me the stories of their youth and the ones of their parents and grandparents, for as long as their memory can go back in time.

In Sardinia there is a very rich oral tradition, so I didn't find this a very hard job: everybody was willing to share their memories with me. I can stay hours listening to old people, I never get tired, I find their tales an invaluable source of information about my past able to help me understand how we got here.

This is why in this blog I like publishing about quirky traditions and hidden places. Of course I'm aware that every country in the world has their own idiosyncrasies, but it's by no means easy to find them out. We need to live in a place for long time to be confident and fully understand even the slightest nuance of some local habit, and for obvious reasons, although I've lived in different countries for quite a while, I don't have there the same confidence I have here.

In the latest few months I've spent in Sardinia, I've been discovering an ancient land, where globalisation hasn't affected every aspect of life yet, where locals are keen on keeping old mores and crafts that reconnect them with their ancestors, a land inhabitated by proud people who have constantly fought to claim their territories and independence back from foreign conquerors.

This stormy past has inevitably affected Sardinian character: friendly but suspicious, hospitable but rarely willing to forgive an offense. It is now an ancestral legacy, and sometimes we even struggle to identify it, and this is the very reason I'm so determined on researching and understanding it.

I'm not much into series, but I've collected so many quirky stories that I'll be publishing one every month. Each story, be it funny, unpredictable or weird, has a deeper meaning beyond the surface, and it's that hidden message that makes them so precious.

Most of my tales will come from a small town that lies on the slopes of a mountain, near the sea of Sardinian western coast. The legend says that Craziness stopped in Seneghe and never left, and this would explain why Seneghe's inhabitants are all crazy. In every legend there is something true, and I have to say that Seneghe's natives are at least peculiar.

After all, however, Craziness was not that crazy: Seneghe is, in fact, nestled within beautiful surroundings, produces the best olive oil in Sardinia (oil that for many years has won the first prize among all European countries), can boast an excellent wine, be it red, white or rosé, and women have a special knack for textile crafts and for making the best cakes and pastries of the area.

The stories I'm going to publish here are a small glimpse on the past human conditions in the island, and a patch on the candour that beyond a superficial look reveals tough times and a desperation we find it hard even only to imagine. Some other stories, on the other hand, are actually funny, like this one I've chosen to be the first "pearl" to celebrate Seneghe with.

My stepfather loves talking about Seneghe, his hometown, and, lucky me, he has an excellent memory, both from his own experience and from the tales he's heard from someone else. I'm wondering if he realises I take notes every time he goes back with his imagination. The first anecdote is, by chance, travel-related.

"One day, quite recently, I happened in Seneghe," he told me, "I entered the grocery shop and I found the shopkeeper and her nephew busy in a sort of argument about Australia. I knew this was going to be beyond grotesque, so I tried to avoid participating," he continued after a pause

"'You happen in the best moment!' - told me the woman, 'I'm trying to explain to my nephew that Australia is not in America, but he keeps insisting I'm wrong. You have travelled a lot, tell him where Australia is!'"

"So what could I do? I started telling him that first of all Australia was a continent itself, it was very big, had nothing to do with the American continent and that it was actually very far from America."

"He stared at me in a very attentive manner that I was almost convinced he understood. Only at the end of my explanation I realised he didn't: he snapped at the sandwich he had just bought and darted out the shop nodding: 'I have no idea what you are talking about!'"

"This," my stepfather went on, "has reminded me of other two funny facts: a woman who, after acknowledging I lived in Brasil, kept insisting I go visit her uncle in Argentina because 'I was around anyway!'; and a friend of mine who, in the late 1970s sent me a letter from Sardinia to Borneo, where I was working, by writing in the envelope only 'To fellow Domenico'. Guess what? I got it. My manager couldn't believe his own eyes to the extent that, after showing me the letter, took it back and still exhibits it as the evidence of an incredible event!"

Travelling hasn't always been so straightforward, and sometimes, even today, is seen as epic. By all means, in Seneghe we will find a representative piece of humanity.

Sardinia's Mamuthones, dancing around fire

A while ago I wrote about Mamoiada's Mamuthones, mysterious masks that populate Sardinian carnival. Actually they weren't born as carnival masquerades but to reproduce a propitiatory ritual that is believed to date back 2,000 years.

Academics, historians and all types of researchers are trying to give an explanation to this myth, that still today is shrouded in mystery. Mamuthones are respected and feared figures that remind of Sardinian lost civilisation. They are dressed in black-sheep skin and wear a scary mask: the uglier, the better.

Along with the Mamuthones, also the Issohadores are part of the parade: they lead the Mamuthones and try to grab women with their rope (another ritual: women are the symbol of life).

The first time I saw them was in the occasion of last year's carnival, and I liked it so much that this year I went back for the festival of Sant'Antonio Abbate (Saint Anthony Abbate). According to the Mamuthones themselves, Sant'Antonio Abbate is a much more important and proper occasion, "because the carnival is somehow "hybrid", and we end up mixing with the other masks."

I have to say, seeing Mamuthones and Issohadores dancing around the fires was better than seeing them parading along other masks. The atmosphere was joyful, and children and adults alike were following the mysterious characters, projections of their past, their traditions and their ancestors.

I had booked a room at a guesthouse named "Perda Pintà" (Painted Stone) in honour of a massive stone dating back at least 5,000 years, even prior to the prehistoric civilisation that in Sardinia is known as "nuragica". The stone was found by the owners some ten years ago and Mamoiada's council decided it was best they would keep the stone where they found it, to maintain its original location, but they would have to allow tourists in. In fact, their garden is always open for visitors.

The rooms of the Perda Pintà guesthouse are exquisitely cosy and the cleanest place I've ever been to. Should a guest suffer from insomnia, Maria Giovanna gives a solution: books are available to anyone in every room and hall. The morning continental breakfast comes with a choice of milk, coffee, tea and cakes made by Maria Giovanna herself.

I have shot a *very* rudimentary video (hey, I'm just starting and it's taken with an old little camera), to give you an idea of the ritual and the cheerful atmosphere the Mamuthones can provoke.

The night of the dead

All over the world, these days are devoted to the dead, and different places remember them in different ways.

In the United States, as well as in the UK, it's Halloween, with plentiful witch-like costumes and parties. Some if Italian biggest cities like to celebrate Halloween in a proper US way, but in Sardinia something very different happens in the night between the 1st and the 2nd of November.

My mother has always told me that since her very first memories she remembers her mother preparing the dinner for the dead, who would come during the night and eat it. Every year, the scenario sees my grandmother preparing tomato-sauce spaghetti, a bit more than usual as some is for the family, some for the dead. After their own dinner, my grandmother would leave a bowl with the rest of the spaghetti, a bottle of red wine and the table set for a proper meal, strictly in odd number.

When my grandfather was alive, he would get up and eat the rest of the spaghetti when the children were already in bed, so that the morning after everything was gone. Now, the spaghetti stay there until next morning and are eaten for lunch.

This tradition is very felt in Sedilo, to the extent that when my grandparents migrated to France, they kept doing it every 1st of November.

However, not everywhere in the island this tradition is either followed, nor desirable. On that night adults would tell mystery stories to children, and in the area there is plenty of options as Sardinian people have kept myths, traditions and mysteries of their ancestors. Just, when I was a child these stories have given me shivers more than once, while now, I'm a big girl, "brave" and not a very easy believer.

Of course my grandmother kept telling stories, for the generations of cousins, nephews and nieces that followed mine. I like listening to them, more to remember my childhood than to get scare. Until last night.

I was at my grandma's with some other family members and we were talking about past family history, without forgetting to mention the dead, of course, in line with the general mood. From here to the 1st November traditions the gap was quickly filled: while in Sedilo they remember their dead by leaving them a ready meal, in Nuoro's province they just bring them flowers. Nothing spooky so far.

So yesterday they told me about a lady, from Nuoro's province, who didn't know about this tradition of leaving the dinner ready all night but, once heard of it, was fascinated by it. To the extent that she wanted to try it: so she prepared dinner, ate some herself before going to bed and then left the table set all night: she was found dead the morning after. The very first time she prepared dinner for her dead (of which she ate some herself, according to tradition), was also the very last time she prepared dinner at all, making it become a proper meal for the dead.

In Sardinia, inexplicable events have always taken place, and throughout the centuries the mysterious element has played an important role in the local society. When you hear black-dressed old ladies whisper, very likely the reason is that they are talking about something paranormal (or gossip, very likely, too, not really paranormal but equally saucy). 

Getting closer to the local society and its traditions might turn out more amusing than expected, so if you like the topic feel free to ask your Sardinian friends to tell you about some quirky fact: you'll certainly find willing story-tellers, and every time some further detail to the story is added.

Suggestive beauty and tireless bargains in Turkey's capital of culture

“See Naples and die,” the phrase widely attributed to German poet Goethe, can be reinterpreted and perfectly applied to Istanbul’s magnificence. Next year’s designated European capital of culture has largely earned its fame among the other European cities thanks to its lively society and some of the most sophisticated collaborations of different styles, traditions and civilizations.

Sultanahmet central district is dominated by the city’s most acclaimed wonders staring at each other: deconsacrated Ayasofya and awe-inspiring Blue Mosque. Ayasofya is one of the world’s most stunning architectural masterpieces: centuries of artistic schools overlap, solemnly offering their contribution to the world of arts with the finest mosaics, including the famous Christ flanked by John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary. Built in 532BC, the cathedral remained the most important church within the christian world until Constantinople fell under Turks’ rule in 1453 and Sultan Mehmet decided to turn it into a mosque.

Sultanahamet Camii, local name of the Blue Mosque, stands aware of its timeless majesty in front of Ayasofya giving the whole scenery the mysterious atmosphere of Scheherazade’s tales in the Arabian Nights. One of Istanbul’s most popular landmarks, the Blue Mosque owes its name to the cobalt tiles decorating the prayer room, and is packed with tourists winter and summer alike, being exclusive muslim prerogative only during the prayer time.

The suggestive beauty of softly-lit Sultanahmet by night is beyond imagination. Every attraction I visited made me gradually aware of how hard would have been to tear myself away from that half-European half-Asian jewel.

The Sultan used to make his way to the Blue Mosque from his residence, nearby Topkapı Sarayı, immense cluster of buildings that dominate wide evergreen gardens with breathtaking views. The palace contains the imperial treasures that offer a comprehensive glimpse of the luxury kings lived in, despite the general poverty of the rest of the population, as it usually happens when it comes to royal residences: emerald-studded golden cradles, precious silk clothes, relics of the Prophet Muhammad.

The city is studded with small, lesser-known mosques, each of them an example of Arabian design. Five times a day, from every mosque the muezzin raise their voice to call the faithful to pray, filling the city with a captivating, ancestral lament and an exotic atmosphere.

No tour of the city can be considered complete without cruising along the Bosphorus, stretch of water between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea that works as a natural barrier between the Asian and the European Continent. Fascinated by the idea of finding myself between two worlds, I booked my cruise with Italian-Spanish-English-speaking guide Alparslan. Leaving from Eminönü bay, we headed for the other side of the coast, managing to shipwreck on our way back, to make sure to add the thrilling (and funny) ingredient to the already exciting trip.

Although most people barely speak a bit of English, bazaars’ shopkeepers will welcome you in every language, and at my usual question: “Where did you learn Italian so well?” the answer was unavoidably: “Here at the bazaar!” If you are not a master of bargaining, be aware that at the end of your visit at the Grand Bazaar you will have bought something you don’t need at a way higher price than its real value.

My short stay was undoubtedly made more pleasant by the friendliness of Turkish people, that made even the most nerve-racking bargain a hilarious chat, ranging from flattering adulations to unpredictable proposals.

Sedilo, faith, life and death

Is it still possible to die for faith? Yes it is. But is it still accepted? It seems so.

In Sedilo, tiny hamlet in central Sardinia, every year a dangerous horse race takes place. In the video is only the start, I've seen this run all my life and is still gives me the willies.

Is it the recklessness? I don't know, maybe. But this year one of the horse-riders fell off the horse and died. The route is truly dangerous, full of pitfalls, with very narrow bits, especially when it approaches the arch, where seven years ago another rider died bumping into it at high speed.

After that accident, the vault was widened and padded. This year, arguments on enhanced security measures are still raging. Helmets, changes in the route, any sort of further rule was suggested, and riders don't even want to talk about it.

"We know what we face, we are trained and prepared to the dangers," it's the most common answer riders give, men and women alike. Every year the leader of the run changes, and to be chosen by the parish, the name needs to be registered in an old register. They wait for a lifetime, since when their parents put their name on it, knowing that one day it will be an honour for their sons to be Sa Prima Pandela.

Is it faith? Most likely, among the riders will be also some non-religious, but for St Constantine can made an exception. Love for horses (Sedilo's riders are among the best in Sardinia), faith, passion and tradition are the ingredients for this feast day that has become the soul of this village and its inhabitants.

Being half from Sedilo, I know there is no law capable to stop this race, nor the riders will wear any helmet. They don't run for show, they don't run for money, every year there is at least an accident, more or less serious and they will keep running, with or without tourists. Sedilo's townspeople will be there, no doubt about it, some praying, some laughing, everybody hoping the race will end with all riders safe on top of their horses at the sanctuary, where they are awaited and will be feted.

And if someone won't make it, there will be the solidarity of the community, and the following year everything will take place exactly like the previous one.

This is the way it, like it or not.

Tea and tradition in typical Istanbul

I just got back from Istanbul and am already planning my second trip to that beautiful Turkish city, half in the European continent, half in the Asian land, divided by the charming Bosphorus, where the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea meet.

Apart from the strictly touristic attractions, where travellers are both flattered and cheated by expert and cheeky traders, Turkish people are just lovely.

One day I happened to be in a not very touristic spot and the display of some of the best cakes ever lured me inside the shop. I found myself in an old-fashioned, woody-decorated café with a mouthwatering view of any kind of pastries and cakes, of any shape and flavour, from chocolate to strawberry to raspberry.

As usual, I took a look at the cosy shop and started taking photos. The spot was way too cute to leave it behind without a picture. Lined up along the windows were the tables, and the last one was covered with books and had a pair of reading glasses on top.

At first I thought the books could have been of the boy who served behind the counter, probably an university student as that was a pretty young area and quite populated by students.

Coming back to my seat, I noticed that actually those books belonged to a tall and gentle-mannered man, most likely the owner of the café. Shamelessly, I approached him while he was concentrated on his books and I asked him what he was doing. Clearly amused but by no means surprised and with an expert savoir faire, he replied (in Turkish) something that I interpreted as "reading the Koran".

In fact, he had a book in Arabic and one in Turkish. I have always been very much attracted by Arabic culture, language, traditions, and somehow I got very excited at the idea that the gentleman spoke Arabic. Apparently, he appreciated my questions and gave me three books.

With the aid of hands, a mix between Turkish, English and Italian and a small dictionary, I understood that they were the explanation of the Koran in English.

In the wake of 30 years spent in the desperately profit-driven Western society, the last thing I would expect when I enter a café and order tea and cookies is that the owner will give me a book, let alone three.

After this and other stories, I can say that I will surely be back to Istanbul and undoubtedly look for that café close to Galata Tower.