The Island of the Year Before
As a rule, my family and I don't travel to the same places again and again. Apart from a few parts of the world that hold sentimental value for us, due to all the memories, friends, and relatives who live there, when deciding where to travel, we are urged on by the curiosity to discover the great unknown. We feel that the world is so vast, with so many new fantastic places, landscapes, lifestyles, monuments, and climates, that it would be almost wasteful to keep visiting the same comfort nooks. However, there is one exception: every year we eagerly await the moment of pilgrimage to an island of all islands, to the queen of Mediterranean living, Sardinia.
The Greek name of the island was Ichnusa, which means "footprint" and the shape of the island indeed reminds one of something that Bigfoot would leave behind. If you are keen on honoring the Greeks, do yourself a favour and on a hot summer day order a local beer, again called Ichnusa. It will surely make you want to revert to antiquity. The Romans called it Sardinia due to the abundance of these small, oily fish here. The island is wild, untamed, and overgrown by maquis or macchia, a particularly dense, and prickly shrubland of the Mediterranean region. The Sardinians have their own dialect that bears almost no resemblance to the standard Italian, and in their rough manner, will be glad to tell you that they feel not much connection to the rest of Italy. The wind rose is especially thorny in here, the winds of every ilk blow restlessly, Mistral, Tramontana, Sirocco, Levante... Their names are dripping like poetry off your tongue, but their relentless force could easily drive you insane, if not careful. Still, there is nothing like Sardinia on a sunny, beautiful, bright day.
If evolution got it right, we all came from the sea. I like to pay my respects by going back to it, and nowhere do I feel so free, so relaxed and unburdened, so weightless and happy than in the sea. There is nothing even remotely like the pleasure of a shower after a day on a Sardinian beach, you shed your mermaid skin, glistening sand trickling down your body. If you can shower outside, on the toasty stones, among the lizards, with a view of the olive trees, and by using the water warmed by the sun, well, then jot yourself extra points for nailing the authentic Mediterranean living. Then close your eyes and already start plotting what beach will you visit next. Because here, you are spoiled for choice, the worst blasphemy would be visiting the same one, when every single cove and bay put Tahiti and the Maldives to shame. Don't even get me started on the remote, prelapsarian beaches that are accessible only by boat, because these natural gems should be canonized. First to receive the honor: Cala Mariolu.
You bring here your precious silks and gossamer linens that, let's face it, like mine, probably never venture out of your wardrobe at home. You prepare or buy the food that you never eat at home, fresh squids, countless types of fish, burrata & anchovies, octopus, and the king of all summer Italian meals: pasta with seafood and bottarga. We have all had seafood pasta before, sure, but the key word is bottarga. You don't mind the crack of a stray shell under your teeth, you even welcome it because it is an inextricable part of the island food experience.
The figs are ripe and inviting on the biblical trees, their supple skin and messy insides taste like distilled sunshine. They have gorged on the heat and sweetness of the long syrupy summer, and they dissolve in the mouth like delizias from heaven.
The island is big and versatile, and every year we discover a new side of it and add it to the mental file of places we adore. Long ago, when we were different people, childless, reckless, and carefree, we would embark on youthful adventures on the motorcycle along the coast, from one lighthouse to the other, through deserted mine villages, and all the way to Alghero, to catch the sunset and buy corals in all the imaginable colours of the deep seas. Ancient churches would appear along the way, out of the blue in the haze of the horizon, making me doubt my eyes and fear I was suffering from sunstroke. We ended the motorcycle diaries on Pelosa beach, the one that you must see to believe that it is real. We had a deal during that trip, my husband and I, that I would squeeze his knee every time I notice something I like from the back seat. I believe I permanently dislocated his knee during that memorable ride.
A completely different side of the island can be found in Costa Smeralda, which is the playground of the shamelessly rich. It is evocative of old Slim Aarons photos, dotted with yachts, beautiful people, and high-end boutiques. The pastel villas have a touch of Gaudi in their lines which are whimsical and exude playful "non mi frega niente" eccentricity that only big money can afford. The local church is a wonder, called Stella Maris, a Sea Star, and it has seashells as door handles and a giant pearl clam as a holy water stoup. No kidding. I always secretly expect Ariel the Little Mermaid to officiate there. It is easy to love this place and to get drunk on its fairy-tale atmosphere, but you will pay here 8 euros for the smallest Coca-Cola in the world. Just saying.
To go back to where I have started. I am already yearning for the next Sardinian holiday. This is our place of zen, of peace and lotus-eating. And maybe the people who keep on predictably going to the same places are not lazy, conformist, or wasteful at all. Maybe they have just found their own Sardinia.
