SARDINIA
Every morning at 7: what happened in your comune, on the island, and in the rules that affect you.
Written for people who live here but don't read Italian all day. Water cuts, road closures, school deadlines, markets, festas, strikes — in English, Polish or German. Because having the keys to a house here is one thing; knowing what's going on around it is how you start to live in it.
Abbanoa works on the main line: Fertilia, Maria Pia and the airport road. Fill what you need on Monday evening.
Online only, and the portal needs SPID. What you need ready before you start, step by step.
Two early departures moved by 15 minutes. The 4:45 still exists — it's the one that makes a 6 a.m. flight.
Sagra in Olmedo, live music at Baretto di Porto Ferro, free kids' workshop at the Lo Quarter courtyard.
The things nobody tells you until you've already got them wrong. Written from our own mistakes and checked against the official sources.
Residency, codice fiscale, health card, taxes — the order they have to be done in.
Tradespeople who turn up, deliveries that arrive, and life outside the mains.
Doctors, pharmacies on duty, what to do when something happens at 10 p.m.
Everything we've written, by section — free to read, no account.
We're Piotrek and Anna. For sixteen years we ran a marketing and production agency in Poland — briefs, deadlines, clients, the whole thing. In our forties we did the thing people talk about at dinner and rarely do: we packed up, took our daughter, and moved to a hill outside Alghero.
Alghero is a strange and lucky place to have landed: Italy with a Catalan accent. The sign at the edge of town says L'Alguer, the old town was built by Catalans in the fourteenth century, the street names are bilingual, and there's paella on the menus. People spend months agonising over Italy versus Spain — we ended up somewhere the question doesn't quite apply.
The first year was humbling. We learned that a comune notice about the water is published on a Tuesday for a Friday, in Italian, on a page nobody links to. That the good electrician is booked through a cousin and not a website. That August exists as a kind of parallel country. That posters on a wall are, genuinely, the local events calendar. We asked our neighbours a thousand questions and they answered every one — but we kept thinking about everyone who doesn't have neighbours yet.
So we built Nino: the paperboy who reads Italian for you and delivers what matters before breakfast. He doesn't fix your washing machine — he knows who does. Everything we publish, we've either needed ourselves or been asked about by someone here.
And we're still learning it ourselves. Finding your people here happens through what you do, not through "meeting expats" — for one of us it was flying, then diving; the other is quieter and finds her way differently, and both are fine. We won't promise you friends or contacts. We'll tell you what's on, who's verified, and where people go — the rest is yours, and it takes longer than anyone admits.
How it works, plainly: Nino compiles each edition automatically every morning from official sources. Anything about law, money or health is read by one of us before it goes out. Every fact links to where it came from. We don't give legal or tax advice — we point you to someone who can.