Lving the High Life in Sardinia

By Drew Limsky

Every Italy guidebook I'd perused and everyone I knew who'd ever been to the country was unanimous in their advice to avoid the high season of July and August, but high summer was the only time I had. Some advice is better left ignored. To my surprise, Rome was hot but not inordinately crowded, and Venice was crowded but not inordinately hot.

It was the last leg of the trip, Sardinia, that was the cause of much anxiety. There is high season, and then there is high season. The complicated rate structure of the Costa Smeralda's best resorts told me that I would be hitting the island during the most sought-after week during the most sought-after month of the year: the second week of August. This is when rates on the Emerald Coast spike to over $1,500 euros a night (meals included) -- out of the question for anyone but European royalty or pre-prison domestic goddesses.

I told myself that one Sardinian beach would be as good as any other, and according to my research I could head south, to the beaches near Cagliari; west, to Bosa and Alghero; or east, to the locally famous Cala Gonone on the Orosei coast. Costa Smeralda, the playground of the rich developed in the '60s at the island's northeast tip, would have to wait until I won the lottery or became the next Dan Brown.

The airport in Olbia, the island's main city in the north, seemed the most convenient to Rome, where I would be flying from, and Paris, where I would be flying to, so I decided to the divide my time between Cala Gonone and Bosa, each only a few hours drive from Olbia. (Driving this almond-shaped island from north to south could take five hours or more.) On line for a rental car, my partner Chris and I watched shuttle buses carrying glam soon-to-be-guests of the Costa Smeralda's top resorts pull away from the curb. I looked away, wondering what Sardinia's second-choice destinations would have in store for us.

The roads were in good shape and we made it to Dorgali in about two hours, emerging through a tunnel to a middle-class seaside town with uninspired mid-century concrete buildings, a functioning marina, and a not-very-appealing town beach. Immediately I missed the sense of history, the charm, and character of the mainland.

We checked into Cala Gonone's most centrally located hotel. The room was serviceable, with wood accents and a typically tiny European bathroom. We ate a prix fixe dinner (part of the room rate) in the hotel's outdoor café. It was good enough, but we noticed that the á la carte diners were getting better service, better tables, and greater menu selection. Over linguini, we had a dyspeptic conversation about finding another hotel, left the issue unresolved, and walked along the waterfront where North African men were selling cheap souvenirs. I felt myself sinking into depression.

The next day, we ate a bare-bones continental breakfast in the hotel, then walked down to the marina, where kiosks were arrayed offering ferry service to various local beaches. We bought tickets for an all-day package to three local coves; the excursion would culminate in Cala Luna, reputed to be one of the best beaches in all of Sardinia.

The first stop was the remote Cala Biriola, and we quickly staked out a tiny cove set between boulders. The water was swimming-pool clear, the beach was composed of small, smooth stones, and the cove featured a natural rock arch you could swim through. Under the water's surface, I was held by the sounds of the stones being churned and tossed by the gentle surf. It was a gorgeous spot, but because it had no snacking or bathroom facilities, the tour boat gathered us up after about an hour. The next stop was the equally beautiful Cala Mariolu, which was backed by cliffs and broken by rock ledges that people lined up to jump from; chickens like me could jump from an outcropping only five or six feet above the water. More people lingered at Mariolu that at Biriola, probably because of the snack bar.

Cala Luna was the third beach, the one everyone praises, but I thought it overcrowded not only with sun worshippers, but with small crafts anchored in the bay. You don't want to think about what those little boats leave in the water -- I learned that the hard way in Capri. We swam away from any signs of life, south around the outcroppings, and emerged from the sea to discover deep, chilly caverns.

Once back on land, Chris found a much better place to stay: the sleek, newly renovated Hotel Bue Marino (0784-92-00-78). The room had very efficient air conditioning, the bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub, and there was even a rooftop restaurant accessible via a glass elevator (a rooftop hot tub was nearly complete). The double-paned windows kept out the noise from the street and the harbor.

For the next few days, we opted out of the cost (more than $60 for the two of us) and time restrictions that came with the tour boat, and explored by car. Late in the afternoon, we found the town of Orosei by chance -- happily, it terminated in a fine, blissfully uncrowded beach with a great, steep slope. We made like dolphins and dove right in. The sand was soft, and hazy mountains were visible in the distance.

We spent an afternoon at Spiaggia Cartoe, another winning beach, with some of the choicest chocolate gelato in Italy. The water was calm enough for lap swimming. We were in the heart of Italian holiday-land now. Lean 20- and 30-somethings (where does all the gelato go?) emerged from the light surf, flicking back wet, black curls. Cartoe has a dubious claim to fame: Madonna filmed the remake of Swept Away here, and some of the lithe couples seemed ready to imitate the film's steamy clinches. In any event, Madonna's location scout knew what he was doing.

Less than an hour inland, we enjoyed roaming the luxuriously rustic hotel Su Gologone (0789-28-75-12). I had a sandwich -- mostly bread -- which I felt entitled me to use their pool for a few hours. With its Spanish courtyards and verdant gardens, this boutique resort was reminiscent of Santa Barbara or Napa.

After four days of sun, we headed for the opposite (west) coast, and Bosa. The road signs in Sardinia got a little tricky (i.e. coercive), directing drivers to go through any old provincial town (to spend money) instead of efficiently around them. Goats wandered by the side of the road. In the old city of Nuoro, the main farmer's market was mostly empty, but we found tasty pecorino (an aged goat or sheep cheese), a Sardinian specialty. We passed jagged mountain ranges floating above fog banks, green valleys, and dry swaths of land. We saw nuraghi, ominous stone-block structures shaped like beheaded cones, left over from 1800 to 500 BC, when their enigmatic builders dwelled on arid ground.

Bosa was a disappointment, to put it mildly. The commercial strip that runs along the sea was run-down, with assorted hobos and layabouts making their presence known. The beach was gritty and unattractive, with dangerous surf. We took one look at the hotel we'd booked and knew it was time to jettison our plan to stay in Bosa for four days and improvise.

We set out north. The guidebooks promised a breathtaking coastal drive to the Spanish-influenced Alghero, one of Sardinia's major sights, but it was hardly Big Sur or Amalfi. Still, the 12th-century city is worth a look for its narrow, winding streets and seaside walkway. Al Tuguri (079-97-67-72), housed in a 15th-century building, is a good place to stop for lunch. By default, we found ourselves crossing the island once more in the direction of the jet-set throng on the Emerald Coast.

It was dark by the time we got there, and I felt a little panicky. We passed a hotel or two that seemed within our budget, and after a half-hour of indecision, I told Chris to stop at Il Timone, a roadside restaurant that advertised rooms for rent. He went in, and 10 minutes later, emerged with a key. "A hundred bucks," he said. The room was clean but primitive, with a solitary window so high on the wall that you couldn't see out of it. To open it, you needed a pole with a hook on the end -- the kind the janitor used to open the windows in grammar school.

We showered and hit the town. Forty-five years ago, cattle roamed the beaches here. Then some well-heeled investors, including the Aga Khan, enlisted a group of Italian architects to create this playground for the fabulous. Luigi Vietti was renowned for planning the multi-level port town of Cervo -- the center of Costa Smeralda society -- but at high season all the urban planning in the world cannot compete with the parade of Europeans in Prada, hidden behind gargantuan sunglasses, streaming between cars angling for a parking space on the one narrow road that leads into town.

We bought some sweet nougat, a Sardinian specialty, from a kiosk along the water, and chewing it, we ambled through the Cervo Hotel, a quiet respite with a lovely pool and discreet service. Its location near the Piazzetta, basically an outdoor pedestrian mall, means prime access to shopping and people watching. In Porto Cervo, beyond stores like Cartier, Bulgari and Gucci, cafés overlook the water. Gianni Pedrinelli (0789-924-36) offers pasta with lobster and homemade gnocchi.

That night, back at our cave, Chris suggested heading back down the coast to Cala Gonone, but I knew that given its reputation, Costa Smeralda must offer something special that we hadn't seen yet. So what we did was spend the next three days at three different resorts where we bought a lunch or dinner -- whatever we had to do for an excuse to linger.

Each resort was more impressive than the next. Cala di Volpe (0789-97-61-11) is an institution, the first resort to be built on this part of the island. The design scheme is a luxurious interpretation of the island's vernacular architecture (lots of stucco and rough-hewn wood beams). The pool seems to go on for acres, and there's a quick shuttle to the private beach. But what makes Cala di Volpe Cala di Volpe is the over-the-top lunch, which is a cooing, air-kissing scene like no other.

At around 2:00, the yachting crowd makes the pilgrimage to the sumptuous buffet, an orgy of food and drink and plastic surgery (I saw several excellent facsimiles of Lisa Kudrow's face). Mozzarella that melts in your mouth. Filet mignon and swordfish grilled to your taste. Decadent profiteroles. It's glamorous and a little frantic, buzzing with the electricity of money and sex and multilingual gossip. Sugar daddies. Bikini tops like sequined armor. Chandelier earrings.

On my left, two waiters carried in a whole roasted pig for a spirited party of eight, and when they split it open, mounds of gnocchi spilled out; on my right, an international gaggle of glamour girls picked at an enormous bowl of cherries before retiring to one of the pool cabanas for a jewelry show (jade, diamond chips -- pocket change). Life is a bowl of cherries -- just ask them.

We couldn't help but stare at a stunning blond diva on a cell phone -- she wore white skintight, diaphanous pants, Lucite stacked heels, and a white cowboy hat. For a long moment, Cala di Volpe was her stage. "Anastasia, darling, we're in port tonight!" That's a whole way of life summed up in a sentence, and it was a far cry from Il Timone.

At the end of a long day, one of the exhausted jewelry dealers turned to her partner and said, with a sigh of resignation, "Any chance of us getting an appointment for our hair tonight?" The response: "Does anyone know where my children are?"

We discovered that the nearby marina town of Porto Rotondo had less attitude and more aesthetic appeal than Porto Cervo, with a cute piazza, and a wide selection of shops and restaurants. Only native plants (pine, poplar, eucalyptus) were used to decorate Porto Rotondo, as per the instructions of the original planners. The inviting Il Baretto (0789-340-18) has outdoor seating and serves local dishes like seafood risotto and ricotta ravioli. Back at our hotel, we were able to transfer to a better room with a window at eye level. Things were looking up.

By the time we got to Romazzino (0789-97-71-11) then next day, we were glad we'd stayed in this corner of the island. The resort is a whitewashed faux-Sardinian village, with beautiful public spaces inside and out. There's an outdoor gym and a gorgeous saltwater swimming pool. Paths lead down to a fine sandy beach with brilliant blue water, where well-heeled hotel guests lounging under carefully spaced umbrellas try not to mix with the (less wealthy but younger, more attractive) locals.

Since we had dinner reservations, we changed from our swimsuits to khakis in our rental car. I slicked back my hair with tanning oil, and we sauntered back into the 2,000-euro-a-night Romazzino to dine by candlelight in the hotel's Champagne Garden just steps from the sand. Nirvana. The white-jacketed service was flawless, the seafood excellent, and the atmosphere intimate (perhaps a dozen tables). I asked to see a room. It had pretty tile work, a rainfall shower, a heated towel rack, and flat-screen TVs.

Our last day in Sardinia was spent at the beachfront Pitrizza (0789-91-500). This is where you'd stay if you'd won the lottery and needed a place to calm down for a few weeks. The unusual architecture is designed to fold into its environment -- the villas are low-slung and their roofs are covered in grass; the tops of boulders emerge from the pool. The rooms have unobstructed water views, and the hotel beach consists of a breathtaking pair of coves punctuated by smooth rock formations fronting the clearest emerald water you've ever seen. The scene was more low-key than either Cala di Volpe or Romazzino, and though we did see the occasional pouting model wannabe in a glittery baseball cap, discretion was the watchword here (former guests Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart must have thought so).

With Il Timone booked up, we had no accommodations that final night. (The sweetly helpful staff would help us secure a room in Olbia, near the airport. We would watch Olympic diving from a so-so pizza joint.) But we luxuriated on the beach, squeezing out the last hours of a perfect day. As the golden sun weakened, I stretched out on the mocha-colored sand at the water's edge as white-attired staffers stood by, a line of sentries as perfectly manicured as the lawn. On the shore I noticed the lifeguard's boat, emblazoned with the word "Salvataggio." I knew that that night I would probably stay in yet another hotel with a shower you couldn't turn around in, but I congratulated myself for having indeed salvaged the Sardinian leg of our trip. For now, via a most circuitous route, I was in port and having the time of my life.