Fighting Over the Last Fan

During a heatwave in the UK, my daughter and I were fighting over the last fan in the house when she asked:

“How did you manage when you lived in Sardinia?”

I had to pause and think on that one.

“I remember it was hot, but I don’t remember ever complaining about it.”

“Did you have air conditioning?” she asked

“Not when I was growing up.”

“How did you manage?”

I started to think about how we coped with the hot summer weather. School finished early June and started again in September, so we had three full months of holidays. The nearest beach was 25km from my village, and when we were very young, we needed someone to take us. This wasn’t always possible.

Later on, when we were old enough to go by public transport, we’d just take the bus and head to the nearest beach in Cagliari, Il Poetto.

But most of the time I remember a sense of everything just slowing down during the summer. No rush, no excessive use of energy.

The shops opened at 8am and closed at 1pm, then reopened from 4pm until 8pm. During the hottest part of the day, il caldo era insopportabile (the heat was unbearable).

If you were to venture outside, it would feel like you lived in a ghost town. No people wandering about, not even the stray dogs. The persiane (shutters) on the houses were all closed, not a window open. The grey serrande (roller shutters) on the shops pulled down tight. The only sign of movement was washing fluttering in the breeze in some courtyards.

This time was sacred. It was time to pause, to have lunch and rest. So sacred, in fact, that if you’d forgotten something and needed to borrow it from your neighbour, you simply wouldn’t disturb them. Not now. Mai durante il pranzo! (Never during lunch!)

In the morning, my dad would get up very early and go to work before the day became too hot. He worked outdoors in our farming community, and he would be home by 12. In the morning my younger sister and I would do some chores, run some errands while mamma made lunch. Then we ate all together, with my brothers too.

From around 2pm it was time for la pennichella. Not a quick pisolino, mind you. A proper, deep, two-hour sleep. The house would go quiet. My parents slept for a couple of hours and we weren’t allowed to make any noise. No TV, no music. Just silenzio.

The bedrooms were upstairs, except for my parents’, and I vividly remember having to tiptoe, because they would hear us if we weren’t careful.

My brothers tended to nap too, but I used the time to read. We had a small library in the village and I worked my way through all the books for my reading age. Every single one. When I ran out, I moved on to my brothers’ comic books. Zagor, Tex Willer, Comandante Mark, then Diabolik. Very popular in the 70s and 80s!

After our rest, we’d slowly gather again, and my dad would bring out a watermelon that had been cooling in the fridge. In Sardinia we call it l’anguria (elsewhere in Italy you might hear il cocomero). He’d cut it open and our eyes would light up at that bright red fruit dotted with dark seeds. We’d always fight over il cuore (the heart), that sweet central part where the flesh turns almost white with sugar. So sweet, so refreshing. I’ve never tasted better watermelon since I left.

On Sundays we’d get gelato instead.

Life would gradually pick up its pace again after 5pm. My dad would go back to work, mamma would visit a friend or someone would visit us.

The small square we called Il Monumento had metal benches under the shade of the trees. It was the gathering place for the elderly men of the village, including my nonno Raimondo. They’d spend hours watching people go by, kids on bicycles, chatting about the latest village news.

My nonna Marta’s garden faced that same small piazza and she would often sit by the gate with zia Angelina, doing crochet, keeping a close eye on the world going by. No need for surveillance cameras back then.

All activities started really gently again, I never had a sense we had to rush, or that we were going to be late. When the shops reopened in the late afternoon, they were quiet. Employees would chat, tidy the shelves, and customers would drift in and spend as long talking as they did shopping.

And somehow, without anyone saying a word about it, life just worked. Everything got done. Everyone was fed, rested, looked after. Just at a gentler pace.

Piano piano.

If you’ve enjoyed stepping into one of those unhurried Sardinian afternoons with me, I hope you’ll enjoy the word search that grew out of this memory: Un Pomeriggio Italiano.

The words in this puzzle are the ones that still bring those summers back to me: the stillness, the slow rhythm, the quiet hum of an afternoon with nowhere to be.

Take your time. No timer, no pressure. Just a pencil, a quiet moment, and a little Italian.