Costa Smeralda Blues

The Gallura Diaries: Kafka, Chemotherapy, and the Emerald Coast

La Maddalena Archipelago

There’s a madness to Costa Smeralda—the kind of sun-soaked, pinch-yourself absurdity that makes it as intoxicating as the local Vermentino wine. From its jade-green coves to the shamelessly opulent yachts gorging on its turquoise waters, this slice of Sardinia is both beauty and contradiction. But when you live here—not as a guest at some weeklong retreat but for months—you find the cracks beneath the surface polish. And if you’re lucky, as I’ve been, you’ll find something far richer than five-star indulgence hidden inside those cracks.

This past summer, I traded permanence for the fleeting charm of Gallura in northeast Sardinia, returning to Costa Smeralda with my husband, Alex. It should’ve been a calmer chapter in our life—a long breath of salt-filled air after years of exhausting medical battles. That’s what I told myself anyway, cramming swimsuits and notebooks into my suitcase before the flight. Life, as it turns out, had other plans.

The Romazzino and the Shadow of Illness

Romazzino | A Belmond Hotel

We set up camp at the storied Romazzino, the stretch of paradise that’s home to a Belmond LVMH hotel and Alex’s latest professional ambition. The hotel sits like a jeweled mirage just where the shoreline softens into a fine white dusting of sand. With its signature pastel tones and lush landscaping, it feels like the kind of place old European families escape to, sun hats slipping precariously as they sip Campari well before noon.

Alex, who manages the property like a conductor fine-tuning an orchestra, once told me it’s impossible not to love the Romazzino. A bit ironic, considering our days this summer often consisted of a necessary but grim ritual—loading Alex into the car for yet another hospital visit in Olbia. His body, still wrestling with the aftermath of chemotherapy, carried reminders that no amount of Sardinian sun could erase. Nerve damage made simple movements a gauntlet, while flare-ups turned calm afternoons into desperate treks down winding roads through the mountains that made me curse their charm.

There’s nothing poetic about watching someone you love struggle to summon a strength that no longer sits within arm’s reach. Yet, there we were, living in the juxtaposition of paradise and pain. Each hospital trip felt like an eraser against the narrative I so badly wanted to craft for us—one of rest, rejuvenation, and a husband finally untethered from his battles. And still, Alex pushed on, smiling through gritted teeth as he returned to the Romazzino’s whirl—checking in on guests to ensure their stay in Sardegna was bellissima.

Despite the challenges we faced, we refused to let them dampen our spirits. We found joy in the little things like exploring new beaches and indulging in delicious Gallurese cuisine. And even when Alex was feeling tired or unwell, the beauty of this island never failed to lift our moods. We made memories that will last a lifetime, and it reminded us that no matter what life throws at us, we will always find a way to keep moving forward.

The Water Is Always Perfect

The salt water pool at the Romazzino

Between the appointments and the silences that followed, there was the water—a perfect antidote to everything that needed to be forgotten. Swimming at the Romazzino is less a leisure activity and more a form of communion. The sea recedes in gradients of blue and green that range from impossibly translucent to infinite shades of emerald, with the occasional confetti of wildflowers dotting the coastline. And like clockwork, it worked its magic.

Every plunge into those crystalline depths was both an escape and a confrontation. Floating somewhere out there, I’d close my eyes to the blinding sunlight for a moment and try to quiet my mind. But water, as it turns out, has its own way of forcing reflection. Even the tide seemed to murmur things I wasn’t ready to hear as I drifted along, somewhere between two lives—the one I thought we’d left behind and the unsteady one ahead.

The saltwater pool also embraced me in a way that felt almost maternal, its buoyancy a quiet reassurance I wasn’t sure I deserved. Floating there, I couldn’t help but wrestle with the absurdity of it all—the seamless stone of the pool deck, the gentle hum of cicadas in the afternoon air, the knowing nods exchanged over a tailored aperitivo. It was worlds away from the echoing halls of growing up in government housing, where the scent of bureaucracy and an impending move lingered in the air, and dreams were tempered by practicality.

Now, here I was, at dinner with Middle Eastern royalty under chandeliers glinting with the weight of opulence, sipping drinks named for revolutions and legacies I never imagined brushing against. It wasn’t a humble acknowledgment of how far I’d come—more a bitterness for how one life seemed to quietly mock the other, like an inside joke I wasn’t meant to understand. The melancholy arrived uninvited, lapping like the salty waves I floated on, reminding me that even sweetness, in its excess, can leave a taste of longing.

Kafka Amid Sardinia’s Ghosts

San Pantaleo

If Costa Smeralda was meant to offer us a kind of suspension from reality, then my attempts to retreat into my writing only deepened its complexity. I came here to advance my Kafkaesque novel, a manuscript that’s less narrative and more primal scream. To write in Gallura, with its rugged cliffs, macchia mediterranea landscape, and mercurial skies, was to court both inspiration and unease. The region has a wildness that lingers—a reminder that no amount of luxury can fully domesticate Sardinia’s craggy heart.

Kafka, I thought, would have loved swimming here. It seems almost plausible that he could have conjured up his surreal stories while bobbing in the gentle waves. I soon learned that interpreting Gallura's wild beauty and charm into words would require much more than just a change of scenery. It demanded an understanding of its people, its history, and its culture. I began to immerse myself in the local traditions and language, attending festivals and participating in local events since last summer in 2024. And with every experience, I felt a deeper connection to this special part of the world—one that transcended the pages.

Kafka's continued influence over my art and writing wasn’t just metaphorical. It was real. His influence sat heavily on my shoulder as I filled journals with pages teetering between lucid flow and outright frustration. The act of writing itself felt Kafkaesque—pushing forward while never fully escaping the weight of what had already been scribbled down.

On the calmer days, I’d unfurl a towel on the beach and watch the sun dip behind distant mountains as the absurdity—of pain, beauty, resilience—settled over me. Sardinia made everything feel more visceral, from the pinch of grief’s lingering shadow to the bursts of joy that couldn’t help but scatter like light on the water’s surface.

Gallura’s Atmosphere and Introspection

Giants' grave of Coddu Vecchiu

Gallura, like Kafka himself, delights in contradictions. The land here doesn’t just capture you; it wraps itself around your thoughts and refuses to release you without leaving scars and whispers. On windier evenings, the mistral made trees bow defiantly and turned coastal trails into something mythic. It felt theatrical—nature throwing tantrums, daring you to look at anything but its raw power. I’d walk those trails when I needed to think (which was often), grumbling at the rocks I tripped over and silently laughing at the absurdity of trying to find clarity in a place designed to provoke contemplation rather than deliver answers.

The nuraghi stood like sentinels of a forgotten age, their ancient stones weathered but steadfast against time's relentless passage. Wandering through these structures scattered across Gallura felt like stepping through a crack in reality, where past and present folded into each other. Each doorway, each spiraling staircase seemed to hum with the energy of lives lived long ago, whispering stories into the wind that now swept freely through us. Unlike the bustling present, the nuraghe demanded stillness, inviting contemplation and connection to a history that had no need for urgency. Here, the wind was more than a force; it was a keeper of memories, turning the silence of these timeless ruins into something alive.

Spiaggia Porto Pollo with snow-capped Corsica in the distance

The beaches of Palau were a symphony of contrasts, a place where serene vistas collided with the hurricane of my inner world. Standing on the shores of Porto Pollo, with Corsica visible as a faint silhouette tempting the horizon, the shimmering blues of the sea called to me—an invitation to forget, even momentarily, the weight I carried. The wind, brisk but familiar, threaded itself through my thoughts as though trying to unknot them, pushing me toward stillness I didn’t yet know how to accept.

Beneath the surface of those crystalline waters, I found an even more profound mirror. The underwater world, so alive and yet so silent, seemed to amplify the quiet battles within me. Every stroke of a fin, every burst of air from the regulator carried me further into myself, into the unspoken grief of loving someone through their pain. It wasn’t just the blues of the sea that surrounded me there—it was the blues of uncertainty, a raw gnawing blend of fear and love colliding under the pressure of an unknown future. Somewhere between navigating the currents and surfacing for air, the grip of those ghosts loosened just enough for me to see through the murk, to find clarity not because of answers, but because of acceptance.

Closing the Chapter, Not the Book

Capo Testa, Santa Teresa di Gallura, Sardegna | Photo by Massimo Virgilio

By the time the calendar slipped forward and it was time to leave Costa Smeralda, I was left with a mosaic of moments that didn’t quite fit together neatly. And maybe that’s the essence of this place—it refuses definition, just like the narratives we craft about our challenges, our relationships, and the stories we’re brave (or foolish) enough to write. For Alex, Costa Smeralda will remain a snapshot of struggle and persistence; for me, it’s a reminder that even the clearest water can only show you so much of your reflection at a time.

We left Gallura with more than we arrived—whether that was wisdom, exhaustion, or just a tan line that refuses to fade. As our flight carried us on to the next chapter back to Milan, Sardinia’s wild, aching beauty followed quietly in my thoughts. It’s that kind of place—the kind you can never really leave behind, no matter how far you try to go.