Catch a Ferry by its Tow: Part 1

Our third day on Sardenia we moved on to a decent sized port town on the southern tip of the island called Cagliari. We had our ferry to Sicily booked for 700 that evening. We made sure to arrive early because only one ferry a week sailed for our particular destination. We were pretty stoked because the next morning we would be arriving in Palermo where we had a car reserved for the next three days. Mike is not a planner, but this time he had outdone himself. He had it all mapped out: our camp ground, side trips, Mt. Etna! Having wheels was going to make it a whole lot easier to see a whole lotta stuff. We got to the train station around noonish and headed straight for the docks.

Our ferry for Sicily awaits. From Italy: Cagliari

Without too much trouble, we ferreted out the ferry gateway and presented our reservation papers to the gateman there. This guy looked like Snake's heavier boned more leathery older brother. I mean, he put the ruff in gruff. He looked us both over and growled out some of the most un-singy-songy Italian I've heard heretofore.

He glanced at our papers, then shook his head and pointed back out towards the street. Feeling like we were being turned away with absolutely no confirmation of our passage, we pointed more clearly at the date and time of our reservation, and produced passports to show our names matched the reservation. After a few growls and disapproving head shakes, he scribbled on our paper: 17:30. Then pointed at us, then to the street, then to the ferry. Pretty simple. Go away. Come back at 17:30. Then I let you get on big boat.

Happy to have been confirmed, happy to be so early with plenty of time to spare and happy to be out of his den and no longer a source of his irritation, we shouldered our giant packs and set out to see what we could see until sailing time.

Way up a high Cagliari hill. From Italy: Cagliari

Before the ascent. From Italy: Cagliari

From Italy: Cagliari

After a while, those packs got pretty heavy, so I said, "No more!" We headed for the nearest open mini market to load up on supplies (it was an overnight ferry) and then wandered down to the park to kill the remaining time.

No more!. From Italy: Cagliari

(A quick word, dear readers. The next section is kinda long with no pictures, but the story is worth reading if you have the time and/or skill).

Neither of us were in a big hurry to approach Snake the Ferry Troll even a minute before 1730. We had chosen a park bench based on ferry vision. That is, we could see the boat, therefore ensuring it would not leave without us. At around 6:15 or so I looked up and remarked, "I see people on the ferry. Maybe we should go soon."

Now, if you can see the growing problem here, maybe you already have an idea at what happens next. If not, follow along. It gets pretty good. It was shaping into a beautiful evening, perfect for sailing. The sky had cleared, the sun was sinking over the water to the west, and a big puffy pile of clouds sat just behind the city, just waiting to soak up the sunset. At 6:30, Mike and I put away our books, hefted the bags, and trundled back down to the dock to beg access of the troll. We were not prepared for the reception we received.

As soon as we approached, out storms the troll, glaring and gesticulating angrily at us and at the ferry. I still don't speak Italian, but rebuke sounds the same in any language. Needless to say, we are totally confused and a little bit pissed at being treated this way. We just can't seem to NOT piss this guy off. We pull out our reservation paper, geared up and ready to launch our protest in the King's language. Snake's brother looks down and jams his thick leathery finger onto the numbers written there. BAM. 1730 = 530 dillholes!! It's now almost a quarter to 700.

Let me backtrack a little here. First, Mike knew full well that the boat was scheduled to sail at 7:00 and that check-in time was 2 hours prior. Second, earlier that day when we showed the troll our reservation paper printed from the interweb, I knew full well it was not really a valid ticket. Any Tom Dick could print a reservation screen and put any old Harry name in that he wanted to. Since the troll hadn't explicitly protested, I didn't say anything to Mike and the thought immediately left my mind. And BOTH of us knew full well that 1730 means 530. And we had sat there on that bench, cool as cucumbers, until practically sail time.

Well, our ire immediately dissolved to panic. We waved our little internet paper even more frantically, but still the troll shook his head at us. Extreme states of confusion and despondency must bring out the best in Europeans, because somehow, Snake's brother started growling out English. "It's not a valid ticket!" And he pointed again at the street. Only this time, there was no troll den to block our view of the street. And straight across, guess what. There was... the ticket office.

There was no time to lose... we turned from Snake and rushed across the street where, of course, the ticket office had just shut its doors literally 5 minutes ago. We were desperate and began pounding immediately on the glass. A woman came, and to make a long story a bit shorter, pretty much just shook her head and said sorry, we are closed, come back tomorrow. No refunds either. You were late. Only one ferry a week to Palermo? Oh well. You go somewhere else iffa you can't wait another week. Stupid Americans. Good bye. And she shut the door.

By this time, we are totally destroyed. We run back across the street to beg mercy of Snake's brother, hoping somehow, he will let us through the gates. Our ferry sits, several meters beyond, still with her loading dock down, still with passengers and cargo going aboard. It's probably 715 by now. But there is no dice. No sympathy. No favors, no customer service to speak of really. Without a valid ticket, the troll maintains that we shall not pass. Mike even tries to bribe him. A hundred euro? The troll's eyes flicker for an instant, but he quickly recovers himself. Still the answer is no.

We both consider rushing the old man and making a run for it. We don't say it, but I know we're both thinking it. The ferry is still in dock, she hasn't closed up her cargo bay for sailing yet. But there is no way. Not with those giant bags on our backs. Not with the toughest old man in Sardenia guarding the gates. And anyway, Italian jail probably sucks really bad.

Dejected and lower than when I went to the wrong Athens, we have no choice but to watch our ferry finally raise its cargo door and slowly sail away into a beautiful beautiful sunset. The city of Cagliari is awash in gorgeous red light, the ocean sparkles, the sky glows and the clouds are like shells. The troll still stands like a sentinel, watching us- just in case those backpacks float.

If you are still with me, I will continue this post tomorrow, as it's pretty wordy and most of you probably have important things to do this Friday afternoon and this weekend. I leave you with a sneak peek of later that night.

Drowning our sorrows after our ships sets sail for Sicily without us. From Italy: Cagliari