Finding Space in Santa Margherita

The first thing I noticed about Santa Margherita was the space.

Space in the town. Space in the schedule. Space to think about a future I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

After several days in Cinque Terre, where every path felt crowded, and every train platform seemed packed with travelers dragging suitcases in every direction, Santa Margherita felt as though someone had turned down the volume. The station wasn’t particularly grand, but as I stepped outside, the town immediately felt more spacious. Palm trees lined the streets, pastel buildings climbed gently up the surrounding hillsides, and everything seemed to move at a slower pace.

By this point, I was halfway through a mom-and-son European vacation, and I remember standing there for a moment with my suitcase in hand, taking in the vibrant Ligurian coast and thinking, “This looks like a postcard.” It should have been one of those perfect travel moments.

Instead, I found myself thinking about September. In a few months, my son was leaving for college. And somewhere between Rome and the Italian Riviera, I had realized this trip wasn’t just a vacation anymore. It was a countdown.

My son and I left the station and quickly noticed that there were no taxis, and the bus was already full. But the walk looked easy enough on Google Maps: twenty minutes. We glanced at each other and agreed we could handle it. But within minutes, we were hauling our suitcases down step after step, wondering why we hadn’t waited for the next bus. The air was still, absent the occasional sea breeze, while the humidity immediately dampened my mood along with my hair.

But we pressed on, eventually passing women in linen dresses sipping Aperol spritzes beneath striped umbrellas, kids playing in large floaties on the water, and couples lingering over seafood lunches long after their plates were empty.

Once we arrived at our hotel, we were sweaty and exhausted. We stepped into the air conditioning and collapsed into the chairs in the lobby. My son wasted no time, logging onto the Wi-Fi while I downed a liter of water, and patted my forehead and cheeks with a tissue that collected my foundation along with my sweat. Once we both caught our breath, we checked into our room and rested until the sun started to dip, and it was time for dinner.

If Santa Margherita has a living room, it’s Piazza Martiri della Libertà. The promenade curves beside the harbor beneath towering Mediterranean pines whose branches stretch over the road like a canopy. Sailboats sway in the marina, elderly couples take their evening passeggiata, and visitors linger over an aperitivo with nowhere in particular to be. I picked a restaurant closest to the view I wanted. I didn’t have time to research as I did at the other places we visited, and just chose one based on vibes.

There was a sophistication to Santa Margherita; it’s not the young-adult craziness of Instagram central of Cinque Terre, but also not the high-baller expectations of the famous neighbor, Portofino. It sits between both. Literally! By this point, we both felt refined in a way that made us feel it was okay not to check our email. And as we sat down for dinner, my son said, “I don’t think I want to stay in California after college.“

I wanted to cry.

While he was enjoying this European vacation, he was also making plans for his future. I was in mourning. My last child was leaving me, and suddenly I didn’t know what to do, who I was, or where I would go once this vacation ended. Santa Margherita was the perfect backdrop for such grief. It cheered me up, even when I was being stubborn and wanted to stay in my own self-pity. Of course, I admitted none of this to my son, who I knew would only roll his eyes. But I didn’t know who I was without being his mother.

He said, “Mama, you can focus on all the things you always wanted to do.”

He was right. I could focus on writing my book and reading more books, but I just wanted to watch him play baseball. I nodded in agreement to all of his advice, while also throwing in a few subtle life lessons, hoping they would be profound enough to keep him safe and to prevent him from making any wrong decisions.

The next day, we went for a walk to explore and find the best spot to take a swim. We walked along Strada Provinciale 227 di Portofino (SP227), a famous coastal road leading to Portofino. Along the road, staircases led to private beach clubs, restaurants, and free swimming spots. We kept walking, seeing where the road would take us, while enjoying the view of yachts on the coastline, all headed for Portofino.

I kept getting flashes of memories from when my son was little, when I thought I had all the time in the world. We kept walking until we came to Paraggi Bay. It was a small crescent of emerald water that felt more Caribbean than Mediterranean, surrounded by steep green hills, and the cove glowed in shades of turquoise rarely seen elsewhere on the Italian Riviera.

We walked to the shoreline, which was lined with private beach clubs and restaurants, where visitors had to pay for a sunbed or make a reservation to access the facilities. But in the middle of the bay, we found a small section of free public beach, just a narrow strip of sand without amenities. We put down our towels and jumped straight into the water.

My son was trying to convince me to swim further out, but truth be told, I can’t swim, and although I was slightly depressed on this trip, I didn’t have a death wish. He ended up swimming a little out by himself. While I lay back in the water, taking in the sounds of the cicadas, the smell of salt water, and the coolness of the water upon my skin, I forgot all my worries for a brief moment.

It was just me and Italy.

After our swim, we became explorers and took a little hike to Baia Cannone, a secluded cove beneath the olive groves and grand villas of Portofino. There is no broad beach, no rows of umbrellas, and no loud music. Instead, pastel-colored villas cling to the cliffs above the sea, where we found a stone staircase descending toward a tiny swimming platform carved into the rocks. Walking down into the bay feels like discovering a secret, a Mediterranean sanctuary.

I put my stuff down and tried to walk into the water. But it was rocky, and I didn’t have water shoes. So I was proceeding in slow motion. But once I settled, I felt like we had stumbled into a story. So many legends flourished along this coastline: pirates who once prowled the Ligurian Sea, fishermen who spoke of mermaids, and centuries-old castles that still watch like guardians from the hills above.

The yachts were sending wakes through the cove as my son and I talked about different places we still wanted to see in the world, food we wanted to try, and things we wanted to accomplish, all while thinking that this would be a place we would both visit again.

After a long day of swimming, we returned to the hotel sunburned, salty, and too tired to make another decision. Usually, I was the one responsible for finding dinner. I researched restaurants weeks before every trip, read reviews, studied menus, and made reservations. But that evening, I told my son I didn’t care where we ate as we walked toward Piazza Martiri della Libertà.

“I found a place,” he said, looking up from his phone.

The sky had softened into shades of pink and gold, and the fishing boats bobbed gently against the docks. He directed me to a pizzeria tucked along a side street, crowded with locals and smelling of wood smoke and fresh basil. We ordered, and twenty minutes later, the waiter returned with pizzas so large they barely fit on the table. The crust hung over the edges of the plates, and the mozzarella stretched with every slice. At first bite, I was in love. The crust was light and airy, slightly charred. Olive oil was drizzled over my quattro formaggi, and each bite was tender and flavorful.

As we ate, I realized something had shifted. He hadn’t asked me where to eat. He hadn’t waited for me to make a plan. He had found the restaurant, navigated us there, and chosen well. For years, I had been the one showing him the world. Somewhere along the way, he had quietly learned how to find his own path through it. And it happened in Santa Margherita.