Welcome to Sardinia!

The dude looked like bad-guy Boris from the “Rocky & Bullwinkle” cartoon. He had the same bug-eyed glare, the same unruly eyebrows, even the overcoat, drawn tight, was a match. He’d stopped us on the sidewalk and was now just scrutinizing us. My wife and I had literally just rolled off the morning ferry from mainland Italy with our bikes, on day one of our three-week cycle trip, and were trying to locate some camp-stove fuel in Olbia’s commercial district, functioning on little sleep and realizing we weren’t blending in very well—bike duds and my red beard tend to do that—when he approached us. I searched his face for intention. He smiled broadly back. Then, finding the words he was looking for, he lifted his hands ceremoniously and with uneven but joyous English exclaimed: “Welcome to Sardinia!”

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