Sardegna

Ah, Sardinia. I think we're just going to call it "the island" from now on, though that will always remind me of Sara's mom talking about Puerto Rico. What did I bring back from this island paradise? Seashells, a little bottle of mirto liquer, a whole lot less money than when I left Florence last week, and a bruise on my ass the size of a nectarine. But no tan, because oh no, my friends, despite lying on a beach, I gained no color anywhere besides my nose, which turned traitor and Rudolph-esque after a single morning of climbing around on some rocky cliffs near the ocean. The bruise was sustained the morning after a night of more-than-substantial drinking, wherein TJ and I consumed a bottle of rum between the two of us. While this did not bother him, my body was not amused and reacted accordingly, making for quite the night--only to be capped off, of course, by me falling down a flight of slick marble stairs the next morning, sustaining said bruise, and feeling shooting pains in my back whenever I laughed for the next couple of days.

I've never seen such green countryside in my life, nor have I ever seen clearer, more perfectly turquoise water surrounded by white beaches. Visually, the island was a gem, and I will preserve it as such in my memories. The people of Sardinia, meanwhile, are a mean-spirited and tricksy bunch, because I think we were lied to or misled by just about every damn person we asked for help! It must be a sport over there! We also didn't see any other Americans for most of the trip, which was rather refreshing. On our last night in Alghero, a guy from the room over popped in to ask where we were from, and he turned out to be an ex-pat from Storrs, CT, now living in Berlin.