Magical Moments and the Pink Palace
Palazzo Avino, Ravello, Amalfi Coast, May 2, 2025, photo by Sarah Sturges
I couldn’t keep lying straight to her face.
This past December, I had to admit to our daughter that Santa Claus does not, in fact, exist.
There was a pregnant pause between us as we both stared ahead, out the window, eyes glazed over. We stared in silence, at the bird standing on a branch with browning, brittle leaves beneath its feet. Then the bird flew away, breaking the silence, and I asked her how she felt.
She said…”okay.” Said she, “kinda had a feeling,” and was ‘glad that nobody was lying to her anymore.’ (Oooof. That hurt.) But she seemed a little off the week that followed—a little older; a little less joyful.
I took it much worse. I was heartsick. It might have been the one and only time in my life when the truth did not set me free. (Daily, Elf on the Shelf placement and note writing aside). It felt like we’d crossed a deep chasm over a tenuous footbridge, that was cut and fell behind us into unreachable depths. A crucial part of her childhood was left on the other side—where it will remain forever. The end of her innocence. Neither she nor I will ever live in that light and mystical world of fairies and unicorns, Santa and elves again…save for the memories.
Maybe as an escape (or maybe to punish myself?), I thought back to all the times throughout the past year where she was pure innocence, glee, child…just joy. That time in Ravello, last spring, was the first to come to mind. And strangely enough, a week later she mentioned it too—seemingly out of the blue.
“Mom can we go back to the Pink Palace? Can that be my Christmas gift? It’s my favorite place in the world.” We must have been on the same wavelength. Take a stroll with me down memory lane….
It was the 3rd morning of May, 2025 and it was just the two of us. My husband wanted to walk into town from the hotel—which one can do quite easily in Ravello without having to fight throngs of tourists as one must in other Amalfian towns. Ravello is heaps more peaceful. But Emma wanted to go to the beach club and plunge into the ocean for the first swim of the year. I was fully on board.
We booked the hotel shuttle, rode in the front, and creeped down the cliff with six other guests. Four were traveling together—sisters with their husbands—and a sweet, attractive, young couple from Germany. We all chit-chatted merrily as the shuttle came to a full stop for 10 minutes to let some oncoming traffic pass, as many of the hairpins turns can’t handle the two-way traffic of any vehicle larger than a Vespa. This is Italy top to bottom—it forces you to stop and wait, sit and talk or, if you are alone, sit and watch. If you don’t lean in, it’s maddening. If you do, it’s magical.
We learned much about our fellow hotel guests in the pause—where they’ve been, and where they’re going. Everyone happy with where they were that day—giddy with anticipation of the sea and the summer ahead.
Finally we made it the layered beach club carved into the cliffside. As soon as we refreshed our hands and faces with a cool, damp, white towelette, downed our welcome beverage, claimed our lounge chairs, and revealed our winter skin, Emma was more than ready to meet the sea.
We carefully hurried down more steps. As I backed down the ladder into the icy waters, the attendant advised me to “mind the sea urchin!” with a trusting smile. I thought to myself, in the states, such “dangers” would be enough to shut down the entry point, preventing any potential fun or adventure. I looked up at Emma who was gripping the rails of the ladder, running in place as her excitement had no other place to go. The only option was for me to continue my descent and hope for the best.
It was better than best. It was exhilarating. The thrill of the depths and the waves; and the cold salted sea and the blinding morning sun. She knew perfectly well how to swim but was clinging to me lest she be drowned by her own euphoria. I was struggling to keep the three of us afloat—her, myself, and her elation was like a whole other body. It was a moment, and now a forged memory of near tangible bliss.
It’s not that hotels or travel provide the only vehicle for remembering an age of innocence or any other cherished memory. It’s that they provide the backdrop of those moments, making them easier to recall because the scenery is un-usual and therefore, extraordinary. And being somewhere extraordinary (or even just out of the ordinary), gently pushes you to venture outside of your comfort zone; an act which, in turn, has the power to pull you more deeply into a newly established comfort, a newfound peace. Icy cold ocean, deep sea water, rough slippery rocks, spiky urchins, salty waves, bright spring sun, soaring cliffside views, pink and white striped towels, softly curved beach umbrellas, green grass, friendly fellow guests, cheerful uniformed attendants, a head concierge with encyclopedic knowledge of the place and heterochromatic eyes, purple wisteria and oddly shaped lemons bobbing in the wind…the mental snapshots are many. These are all the elements she and I remember—permanently engraved as core memories of sheer ebullience and primal innocence.
We travel for the future—the anticipation of something wonderful and unexpected; perhaps for a reward or a celebration, or simply as an opportunity to learn about another culture and geographical location—a hopeful broadening of our views and horizons.
We travel for the present—a break from work or quotidian life, the suspension of our regular rhythms in exchange for newness, observation, rest, and immersion.
We travel for the past—those holiday memories take up no space in our homes. We never have to pack them into bags or moving trucks. We can access them at any time. And we carry the hope of revisiting a spot that holds a special place in our hearts.
This particular Palazzo has been standing sentinel over the Tyrrhenian Sea since the 12th century—the math is easy but deserves repeating—that’s some 900 years. It’s highly unlikely that it is going anywhere, anytime soon. My point is, this memory is so deeply etched in the tablet of our daughter’s life that I have no doubt she will return to it someday in the near or distant future; perhaps recurrently, maybe with her child or children, hopefully with me too. These travels, these places, these spots on the earth—they are priceless keepsakes that can be handed down from generation to generation just like any other family heirloom. They are not material, but they are substantial…perhaps even richer in sensation than any other gift. Their value doesn’t fluctuate with world events, market trends, or investor confidence. And these core memories are a salve for the soul when innocence and/or hope feel lost.
I started this piece in December of 2025. As stated previously, our trip to the Pink Palace—Palazzo Avino—was in May of 2025. I’m finishing the piece in May of 2026–more than a year later. My daughter has mentioned “The Pink Palace” no fewer than 100 times in the past year, no less than half a dozen times in the past week alone. She associates it with spring, anticipation, and one of the most wonderful places she’s ever been.
Allow me to help you experience Palazzo Avino too. I’d be happy to tailor a trip for you. Write to me at sarah@sarahsturgestravel.com.
P.S. If you’ve read this far, here’s a fun outtake…
As I climbed out of the sea from the stairs, utterly exhilarated and with the top layer of my skin mostly numb, I waved enthusiastically to our new friends who were watching from above and somewhat timidly waving back, their reserved grins a strange mixture of…was it enjoyment?…or guilt? I was halfway up the landing before I’d realized that my swimsuit had failed me on top by a bit—just enough for the onlookers to feel conflicted for looking on. Good thing I’d asked the guests next to me—a lovely couple from Maine, who happened to be professional photographers—to take some pictures. I know they captured the rapture, as evidenced from their pictures. I’ve always wondered if they got the wardrobe malfunction too. You’ll have to ask them at @thelibbysphotosandfilms
Emma & Me and the Tyrrhenian Sea, May 3, 2025 - photo by @thelibbysphotosandfilms
