Sun-drunk and still, there’s a kind of conversation that drifts between people when you’re half lost in sunlight. 

I’m somewhere along the Ligurian Coast, slathered in SPF and sand, strategically flopping from front to back, playing the part of a rotisserie chicken. Pollo Allo Spiedo, with a pinch of ADHD. 

“If this place could be bottled, what would the label say?” I glance over at my best friend, nothing short of a sun goddess. Palms facing upward, the freckles on her face greet the rays like an old friend. 

“Hmmm, I guess, real, authentic, low-key, maybe a little quiet, or maybe that’s just because it’s the end of the season?” she responds dazedly. 

I sit upright and take in the view before me. 

A constellation of boats sways hypnotically to the mellow strum of the chittara battente, a sound that comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once and what would come to be the bass line of the town itself. Across the street, laundry sways, music-tossed, on lines between the buildings. 

This beach is empty, except for us and an elderly woman in a two-piece shuffling toward the sea. I watch the years wash away the moment the water touches her skin. 

“It’s not catchy,” I reply, “but I think I’d put 'We are here too' on the label.” 

And as if to echo my thoughts, I catch a woman in my periphery, stomping toward us, head-to-toe in glamorous winter gear. She tells us the sun loungers we’re lying on cost 40 euros for the day. Otherwise, get lost. 

It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone speak English since I’ve been here. 

She softens when we attempt an apology in Italian and tell her we’ll be on our way. Folding her arms, and flicking her scarf, she shivers from a September wind perhaps only Italians can feel. Certainly not two Irish girls in bikinis.

“Why you come here?” she arches her brow and points to the ground, as if the sand here in Sestri Levante is somewhat lesser than its neighbors, Portofino and the Cinque Terre. With zero crowds to elbow through, I’m beginning to suspect it's better. 

“Oh, I saw it on a map, I wanted to see what it would look like in real life” That gets me a quizzical smile, and she softly points us in the direction of the free beach, Baia del Silenzio. 

I’m not one for sun holidays, but like Giovanni Descalzo, the poet who named it, I find myself spellbound by the bay's cerulean crescent. 

The shoreline is a ribbon of gold and citrus, limoncello-hued houses leaning shoulder to shoulder, their illusionary trompe l’oeil facades trembling in the water like a painter’s spilled palette.

It wasn’t exactly as silent as the name promised, but the pace matched every image evoked by the phrase “il dolce far niente.” 

A fisherman drifts past in his canoe. Sunbathers in all directions sprawl out on the sand—skin so tanned they could double as a designer handbag straight off a Milan runway.

I catch the occasional seagull’s cry and the distant, incongruous honk of a Vespa. 

In front of me, a man hunches over a sand sculpture, his hands shaping and reshaping as though trying to capture a memory that slips through his fingers. I imagine a story behind his labour — a love once found on these shores, long ago, lost to time. Or maybe, more simply, he just really likes the female form.

One street over, locals weave in and out of bakeries, pharmacies, and wine bars dressed in autumn coats and scarves. A surreal contrast to the eyeful of neon Speedos I can’t unsee. 

As we stroll past Trattoria da Turin, I watch a group of German tourists dining al fresco, seduced by waiters dishing out oven-toasted focaccia and steamed mussels. 

The whirl of rosemary sweet-talks me into saving this spot for later. It didn't disappoint. 

Via XXV Aprile, the main pedestrian street, was a pleasant surprise.

Sure, you’ll find a few tacky tourist shops selling magnets and tea-towels of the pope, but mostly it’s independent artisan shops and chic clothing boutiques selling all things leather, cashmere, and ceramics. 

Not to mention a handful of traditional slow-turning gelaterias. 

I start the week with vegan strawberry and chocolate, full of intentions to end it the same way. But then I saw the pistachio gelato - surely my lactose intolerance could take a short break from reality, too?

On café patios, elderly women huddle together over steaming cups of coffee and curling cigarettes. Their gossip comes to a crescendo whenever familiar figures walk past. I could easily waste my days watching them. 

For dinner, Don Luigi’s chalkboard and dim lighting lure us in. I settle on a glass of Arneis and the trofie al pesto—it'd be rude not to; Liguria is the birthplace of pesto, after all.

One bite in, and I see God.

I ask Her life’s biggest question; why do people keep going back to the same old tourist traps when places like this exist?