A Rare Find

As I sat at the table outside the small bar in Riomaggiore, I couldn't help but be struck by the beauty of my surroundings. It was overwhelming. The late day sun reflecting off the red-tiled rooftops created an inviting glow, which was rivaled only by the engaging smiles of the old world shopkeepers peddling their wares in the quaint storefronts along Via Columbo. The only sounds to be heard were those of lively conversation, the gentle lapping of waves on the shore, and the faint sound of some unrecognizable music playing through an open upstairs window across the street. The salty breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean stirred up the scent of lemon from the nearby orchards and also tamed the otherwise sweltering afternoon heat. The entire village nestled cozily between the sea and the surrounding cliffs gave the illusion that the outside world was completely nonexistent.


Although this is wine country, I am urged by the bartender to sample a local beer. Never being one to decline such an request, I obliged and ordered a bottle of the brew. Upon my first sip I found the taste to be slightly different from what I was accustomed to, yet like so many things about this place, the newness invited further exploration as opposed to retreat to the more familiar.

Eventually the sun disappeared into the turquoise waters of the sea, and in due time it was replaced by a full moon that nearly matched its brilliance in the cloudless night sky. I found myself carrying on with those around me like I had known them for decades, despite the fact that most had been total strangers mere hours before. It made no difference. The crowd was comprised of locals, tourists, travelers, and vagabonds. Each had a different story, and all were welcomed.


Church bells sounded in the distance to announce the passing of another hour, but very few seemed to pay it any mind. Only a small group of backpackers from some other corner of the globe appeared concerned with the chimes, as they hurriedly and clumsily maneuvered their bags through the narrow cobbled streets in hopes of catching the evening's last train out of town. Why anyone would ever seek to escape this paradise with such urgency perplexed me. At that moment I contemplated never leaving at all. This was the the Italy of storybooks and fairytales. The Italy of legend and imagination. The Italy I had presumed no longer actually existed until I witnessed it with my own eyes.

And all too soon the moment had passed.

Then it was that I found myself in a supermarket this afternoon, quite far removed from the Cinque Terre in terms of time, distance, and state of mind. After picking out a selection of my usual provisions, I found myself on the beer aisle. It was there that something completely unexpected caught my eye. Sitting among a varied assortment of mircobrews and imports, was a set of bottles bearing a label I had not seen or even really thought about in some time:

Birra Moretti. The very beverage I was first served on that magical night oh so long ago.

For the briefest of moments, I was transported back to that tiny seaside tavern. The salt air, the sound of the changing tide, the hospitable barkeep, the searing sun, the glistening moon, and nearly fifty strangers who suddenly became good friends. All of the memories came rushing back.

Then I put the beer in my cart and made my way to the checkout counter.


(Yes, this post is the result of a serious personal addiction...but to international travel, not alcohol. I only had one beer when I got home, and that was with dinner. Italian food, of course.)