“It’s a small world,” people like to say.

This wasn’t a small world story.

It was a small town story.

Arnold, California sits at about 4,200 to 4,500 feet in the Sierra Nevada. It’s one of those places where people come to breathe a little slower. We have beautiful forests, beautiful alpine lakes, fresh mountain air and enough snow some winters to make you question your life choices.

Fine dining, however, is in short supply.

If you’re looking for an excellent meal, Sarafina’s is the place. Otherwise, you’re dropping another 2,000 feet in elevation before the choices really open up.

My wife Marcie and I were celebrating our twenty-third wedding anniversary, and I had called ahead to order takeout from Sarafina’s.

The young woman who answered the phone—Liberty—did something that almost never works on me.

She enthusiastically described the evening specials.

Normally, I politely listen, thank the server, and order what I had already decided on before I walked through the door.

Not this time.

Her presentation was so warm, professional and genuinely engaging that I actually ordered one of the specials.

She had earned the sale.

When I arrived, I settled onto one of the restaurant’s four counter stools with a glass of wine while waiting for the food.

Sarafina’s feels less like a restaurant than a snug mountain lodge. The dining room is wrapped in honey-colored pine, with heavy log beams crossing the low ceiling and a broad stone fireplace at one end. Small tables are tucked closely together, crowded with wineglasses, plates of pasta, and animated conversation, giving the place a warm, communal energy. It is rustic without being rough—a polished little log-cabin retreat where the firelight in winter, timber walls, and murmur of diners makes the outside world recede for awhile.

To my right sat a tall blond gentleman enjoying a glass of wine while ordering dinner.

Behind the counter were Liberty, Katie and Susan keeping the front of the house running steadily.

I looked over at Liberty.

“I just wanted to tell you,” I said, “you did a terrific job taking my order on the phone tonight. You made those specials sound so good that I actually ordered one.”

Her coworkers smiled.

Then I confessed something.

“You know, I always feel guilty when a server goes through the litany of the daily specials and I don’t order one.”

Susan immediately rescued me.

“There are a whole lot of things people should feel guilty about,” she laughed. “Not ordering one of the specials isn’t one of them.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll let that source of guilt in my life go.”

Everyone laughed.

The gentleman beside me jumped into the conversation.

“When I go to a restaurant,” he said, “I usually already know what I want. Sometimes I feel bad making the server go through all the specials when I know I’m not changing my mind. I wish there was an accepted way of nipping that in the bud so as to save everybody’s time.”

Within minutes, the conversation had become a free-for-all.

Katie was opening a bottle of champagne to take to one of her tables.

“Don’t point that thing at me!” I joked. “I’ve heard about people losing eyes.”

Susan laughed.

“My husband almost did.”

She explained that during a family celebration in the back of a limousine, her husband had opened two bottles without incident.

The third cork had other plans.

Instead of popping harmlessly away, it shot directly into the middle of his forehead.

No serious injury.

Just a very memorable bump that stayed with him for the rest of their weekend family celebration.

More laughter.

More stories.

My takeout was ready.

But I was enjoying myself enough that I decided to stay a little longer and ordered another glass of wine and
continue the small gab fest happening among the five of us.

The gentleman next to me introduced himself as Eric.

He mentioned growing up in Minnesota.

Katie replied that her sister had recently lived just across the border in South Dakota before returning home
to her birthplace home of Arnold.

One story led to another.

Eventually I realized I had probably stretched my anniversary dinner pickup as far as a husband safely could.

I wished everyone a good evening and headed home.

Eric had left just ahead of me.

As I walked up the steep driveway toward Highway 4, the restaurant door burst open behind me.

The restaurant was closing for the night and Katie came running outside carrying a brown takeout box.

“Eric forgot his leftovers!”

She looked up and down the parking lot.

He was gone.

“I might be able to find him,” I offered.

“If you think you can,” she said, handing me the box.

Now, I happen to be a devoted believer in leftovers.

I understood the gravity of the situation.

Earlier in the evening Eric had mentioned that his neighbors in Blue Lake Springs were Nathan and Bonnie Randall—
owners of the highly regarded and nationally recognized Hinterhaus Distillery and tasting room.

When I got home, I announced to Marcie, “I need to find out where Nate and Bonnie Randall live.”

She looked up.

“I think I have Bonnie’s number.”

Sure enough, she did.

Marcie gave me her phone and I texted Bonnie explaining that I had her next door neighbor’s forgotten dinner leftovers.

Bonnie responded almost immediately and said she’d deliver the message with my contact information.

A few minutes later I received a text message from Eric.

I fully expected Eric to text something like, “Thanks…just toss it.”

Instead, he asked for our address. It appeared that we both had the same appreciation for leftovers.

He was coming over.

Perfect.

I secretly hoped that was how this would end—after the urgent communications drill that had taken place.

After having just published my first book, this seemed to have the makings of a good story.

What I didn’t expect was the second act.

When Eric arrived, Marcie and I greeted him on the front porch. I introduced Marcie and they launched into what I think of as the “human GPS” conversation—the fast-paced search for shared geography, professions, acquaintances, and experiences that tells you whether your lives have crossed before.

Within minutes they discovered they had both lived in Washington, D.C.

Both had worked in politics.

Both had served as press secretaries for members of Congress.

They compared office buildings, neighborhoods and memories from Capitol Hill as though they had nearly crossed paths years before.

Then came another surprise.

Both had Minnesota connections.

The coincidences kept piling up.

For twenty minutes our front porch became an unexpected reunion between people who had never met.

Eventually Eric headed home—with tomorrow’s lunch safely back in his possession.

I texted Bonnie one final message.

“Loop closed. Eric has his leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”

Then I added,

“A small town story.”

Bonnie replied within minutes.

“How nice is that? Glad it all worked out. Special town.”

She couldn’t have said it any better.

In big cities, people often spend years living a few feet apart without learning each other’s names.

In Arnold, three servers behind the counter of Sarafina’s and two patrons have a lively conversation, one of the patrons leaves and forgets his leftovers, one of the servers runs out the door and tries to catch him but he has vanished, the other patron, a leftovers fan feeling the future loss of the forgetful patron—pledges to try to reunite that man with his leftovers, then contacts the man’s next door neighbor—intelligence he gathered in the night’s conversation, informing the next door neighbor that he has his next door neighbor’s leftovers somewhere in Arnold. A text is sent with the contact information. Contact is made—getting the current location of his leftovers. The journey is made and he is met on the front porch by the custodian of his leftovers and his wife. and through a quick conversation with his wife discovers that they both had in former lives been in politics and lived in Washington, D.C. and the next day a man will be enjoying his previous nights entree for lunch the next day.

No earth-shattering lessons.

No dramatic ending.

Just one ordinary evening in a mountain town where people still look out for one another.

Sometimes that’s enough to remind us what community feels like.