In Sardina. My adopted home.

Two guys in the Sa' Rosada restaurant in Mamoiada in the north of Sardinia had sophisticated cameras. And one of 'em photographed almost everything. Even the flat, thin, crispy shepherd's bread served at every table. And the camera-touting gentlemen stirred a conversation with a couple at the next table. And before long, the couple posed cheek to cheek. Like lovers. For the camera. And I thought, what a wonderful place to be. Dining. Italian-style. Seeing strangers bond with each other. I sipped my red Sardinian wine with my true love. Munched on the shepherd's bread. Savored a special Sardinian dish of ravioli and lamb in a tasty sauce. We had been the first to arrive at Sa' Rosada. And then we watched as others trickled in. An Italian family, I presume. And maybe a table of tourists. I was capturing a moment. Not with my camera. But with my mind. And my heart. In a remote corner of the world. Looking around. Observing. White-stucco walls. A high-ceiling. A magnificent arch extending across the room. So cosmopolitan. And so Italian. Our waiter especially. Dressed in jeans. His shirttails hanging out. So affable. We declined dessert. But were served a complimentary glass of aquivit. Home brewed. Touted as 51 percent alcohol. I had a sip. Maybe two. Just to be polite. I couldn't drink it all. And still live to see another day. So that I could cherish. Another night. Out on the town. In Sardinia. My adopted home. --Jim Broede