A Ligurian Passeggiata

by STELLA CARIDAD SALOMONE SOTOLONGO

During the pandemic, the world lost its color. Liguria, my childhood home, appeared to me now as a distant image, a sepia-tinted painting reminiscent of Hopper’s Morning Sun. People I might have known transformed into masks, sets of unknowing eyes. The streets fell silent, deprived of their usual night-time glow. The white sunlight spilling through my curtains felt more sterile than warm. I saw no distinction between the ocean and the sky, the line of the horizon blurred into a grey-scale memory.

While I wanted to appreciate the vibrant beauty around me which I once knew, all I could do was wait. I sat through all the seasons. When summer hit and I was allowed to get myself out of my tiny apartment, I made it my life mission to reabsorb some of life’s pigment. Really, I took every chance I had to visit a new place until I ran out of ideas – or money. Genova, Pisa, Florence, Milan. I hit every possible museum, restaurant, tourist site, and shopping avenue. Forcing myself to live on an incredibly city-centered itinerary, however, did not restore the colors which my eyes had so painfully longed for. Something was still off; the beige tinge of the brick roads seemed uninspiring. I still lacked passion.

I realized that to reconnect with my radiant self I had to re-explore what I once thought was quotidian. After all, I was newly unfamiliar with my surroundings. My favorite place in all of Liguria had always been Santa Margherita, a coastal municipality known for its beautiful plazas and pebble beaches. One morning in August, my instinct begged me to visit Santa once again and sit at a café, maybe to people-watch while pretending to read poetry. I put on a little blue dress, white sneakers, a headscarf, and headed out to live my Sophia Loren fantasy. Cafés in Santa are at every corner: under the porticoes, near the hotels, by the coast, under the train station – they’re hard to miss. They all have something different to offer, with their personalized menus, tables, and parasols – but they’re always full. No one was willing to give up their seat, and understandably so; it was 30 degrees Celsius in the shade. I was left with no choice but to keep walking up the main street until I reached another city.

The main street in Santa Margherita follows the coast for more than 5km, connecting it to another famous town called Portofino. The scenic route, made to preserve the diverse wildlife around it, is a thin two-way road that cars struggle to pass through. Some tracts have been gifted with cement or wooden sidewalks, while others flaunt a tiny walking space demarcated by some chipping paint. If traveling by vehicle, the journey to get to Portofino is just about 15 minutes long, but the quick drive does not do the beauty of the views justice. In contrast, for those who decide to brave the walk, it is estimated to take an hour and a half. I, on that fine, scorching-hot August morning, opted for a hike in a tiny dress. Seeing that I had never actually walked the entire distance, the spontaneity of my choice rushed my body with adrenaline, a feeling I had lacked for months. Call it determination or temporary insanity, but I was going to take my colors back one way or another.

For the first 30 minutes of my journey, I snarked at the gray asphalt radiating heat below my feet. Admittedly, I felt pessimistic, at least until some blue of the breakers crashing on the cliffside started to enter my vision. Their white foam would sizzle on the browning rocks, darkening them with each returning wave. The pebble beaches seemed overpopulated in a post-COVID world, but it eased my mind to see how simple life can be when you’re sitting under the shade of a palm tree. That was when the sun, albeit shyly, began showing me some of its golden specks. I had made the right decision.

The next 30 minutes of my unexpected hike brought along the coastal evergreen woods, and for a bit, the temperature didn’t seem so unbearable. The poorly-built road even encouraged a detour over the cool, humid soil. It began smelling like the loving marriage between dew and salt, heavenly for those who yearn for the sea. I avoided the pavement until I realized my sneakers had begun to turn beige, a sign of a battle lost against the dirt. A few stairs up, a few stairs down, one sharp right turn, and I was back on a sidewalk. This time, the evergreens, which would follow me for the rest of the walk, became more sparse, giving space to a hidden gem: a bay called Paraggi. Even though Paraggi is a short portion of this road, it hides one of the only sandy beaches in all of Liguria. The beauty of its limpid aquamarine waters is unmatched, and the private, almost secretive feeling of the location has pushed a few lucky entities to build scattered villas in the vicinity. In true Ligurian fashion, the villas are enormous, boasting arches and balconies painted in vibrant ochres, pinks, and reds. Even their green Persian shutters are the perfect lesson in color-blocking for the artful eye.

Admittedly, the last 30 minutes of my journey consisted of me peeking through the trees to stare at these architectural wonders, which stand so elegantly, absorbing the brine forever lingering in the air. It felt sinful to look away, almost as if the colorful homes in front of me would cease to exist if I turned the other way. The most courageous decision I made was to continue walking. The next 30 minutes passed me by; between adoring the purple bougainvilleas and the blueish lilacs, I had arrived at my destination: Portofino. There I found a seat under a striped umbrella, where I treated myself to several sweet iced teas.

To my surprise, the walk back to Santa Margherita was just as reviving, and as promised, every aspect of the experience remained untouched, retaining its tint. It might have been the sunlight grazing my forehead, the clean air, or the serenity of the scenes in front of me that restored my appreciation for color. That, I will never actually know. What I do know, however, is that I deserve to enjoy the world around me. I deserve to be able to tell the line of the horizon, I deserve to distinguish grass from budding flowers. Nothing can take that away from me again.

Taken in Jujuy, the northernmost province of Argentina. by LEAH LOUISE EL-OUAZZANE

A sun rises over a beach on the Isla de Espiritu Santo, or Island of the Holy Spirit. The island has no permanent residences, and tour groups have a variety of restrictions in order to preserve the island’s natural beauty.

by EVA HOLWICK

EVA HOLWICK

The road morphs into a secret path, leading us to a hidden coastal place. While Todos Santos is by no means an unknown spot, driving to town will feel worlds away from the famous resorts of Cabo San Lucas and San José del Cabo. The hills of Todos protect it from Cabo, making the two places feel completely different. By day, whale pods and surfers dot bejeweled waves. By night, turtles hatch from the sand and struggle seawards, something my family was able to witness together. The waves sweep away the hatchlings and I grow excited thinking about how many may return to that same beach in the future, and how we may do the same. In town, galleries showcase local artwork full of color and the Baja mythos, with pieces drawing on cave paintings and legends from the ancient groups that lived in the area. Coffee shops offer unique blends inspired by the town that are roasted locally, and all operate on their own spontaneous hours. My eyes wander over the traditional brightly-colored hacienda Baja houses with their stucco walls, courtyards with lush fauna, their seamless transitions between indoor and outdoor spaces. At night, I listen, my ears enveloped by quiet, to the sound of waves two kilometers away crashing as if they are whispering in my ear. I walk along the beach in the mornings and watch as pelicans dive for fish, and wave at the fishermen that load their skiffs for the day ahead. The calm of the atmosphere permeates every activity, even the chaos of the surf, and the momentary breaks in the waves give moments of peace. The waves pull me under as I surf–I feel like the baby sea turtles that we helped to release, being swept around by the sea. As I slip off the board yet again, I am only reminded of the cyclical nature life takes, and a sense that everything is working out the way it needs to. That board and Todos Santos are a reset, transporting one from the busyness of life to the oasis of a hidden coastal place.

An image taken on the maiden flight of the photographer’s drone taken at Playa Zicatela, Oaxaca. The 3km beach, known for it’s dangerous undercurrent and impressive swells; is a popular surf spot with big waves. Barrels have been reported to reach 40ft in height when conditions permit. But on this day, the focus was more on the patterns in the sand than what was out on the water.

by WENDY ZHANG