by shari mycek
“It’s the diet. The buttery pork, the shepherd’s cheese, the gelato,” says Gaby Weissman, my German-born tour guide, who’s lived on Sardinia for decades, attempting to explain why so many people in Sardinia than elsewhere in the world, live to be 100 years and older.
Popping an olive into her mouth, as we dine in a tiny Cagliari restaurant, she eyes her debate opponent – driver and Sardinian-born friend Carlo Pia, a stocky man with jet-black hair who’s shaking his head in disagreement. Longevity doesn’t come from the cuisine, Carlo is saying. But from the wine, the sea, the work.
“Sardinians drink one glass of fine red wine a day. They swim every day in the sea. And they never, never stop working. All day long, in the open air and by the sea, Sardinians fish, tend to their sheep. Their lives are peaceful. Of course, I will die young,” he sighs, gingerly touching the pocket of his tailored black suit jacket. “I’m like the Americans. Always in my car. Driving, driving. Yesterday I started smoking – from all the stress.” He flashes a pack of Marlboro as proof.
Sorry Carlo, but at least one car-owning American doesn’t believe driving along stunning sea and jagged coastline on an island with more sheep (4.5 million) than people (1.8 million) is even remotely stressful.
He laughs. “Excuse me, I must smoke now. I’m very, very stressed.” As he exits the restaurant, shaking hands, slapping shoulders in greeting, he looks happy, relaxed, joyous even. The look is common across this gorgeously craggy island about 125 miles off the northern coast of Italy.
Shaped like a loaf of ciabatta and dense with cork groves, millennia-old olive trees, pink flamingos sunning on one leg, and brilliant red poppies dancing among ancient Roman ruins, Sardinia – thought by some to be the lost Atlantis – is the very picture of tranquility.
It’s here that stressed-out Italians come to escape the urban frenzy; here that Europe’s yachting set descends in sensual appreciation of the bluest of blue Mediterranean waters, and here that European football teams (that’s soccer to us) come to recuperate in the salty thalassotherapy pools at Thermae del Forte spa.
Popping an olive into her mouth, as we dine in a tiny Cagliari restaurant, she eyes her debate opponent – driver and Sardinian-born friend Carlo Pia, a stocky man with jet-black hair who’s shaking his head in disagreement. Longevity doesn’t come from the cuisine, Carlo is saying. But from the wine, the sea, the work.
“Sardinians drink one glass of fine red wine a day. They swim every day in the sea. And they never, never stop working. All day long, in the open air and by the sea, Sardinians fish, tend to their sheep. Their lives are peaceful. Of course, I will die young,” he sighs, gingerly touching the pocket of his tailored black suit jacket. “I’m like the Americans. Always in my car. Driving, driving. Yesterday I started smoking – from all the stress.” He flashes a pack of Marlboro as proof.
Sorry Carlo, but at least one car-owning American doesn’t believe driving along stunning sea and jagged coastline on an island with more sheep (4.5 million) than people (1.8 million) is even remotely stressful.
He laughs. “Excuse me, I must smoke now. I’m very, very stressed.” As he exits the restaurant, shaking hands, slapping shoulders in greeting, he looks happy, relaxed, joyous even. The look is common across this gorgeously craggy island about 125 miles off the northern coast of Italy.
Shaped like a loaf of ciabatta and dense with cork groves, millennia-old olive trees, pink flamingos sunning on one leg, and brilliant red poppies dancing among ancient Roman ruins, Sardinia – thought by some to be the lost Atlantis – is the very picture of tranquility.
It’s here that stressed-out Italians come to escape the urban frenzy; here that Europe’s yachting set descends in sensual appreciation of the bluest of blue Mediterranean waters, and here that European football teams (that’s soccer to us) come to recuperate in the salty thalassotherapy pools at Thermae del Forte spa.
Gaby leans closer now, pouring more wine. “No worries,” she laughs. “We’re not driving. Now, do you want to know the real reason Sardinians live so long? It’s the megere, Good witches," she translates. Always female, megere are “chosen” at a young age by a female elder (mother, aunt, grandmother) to carry out their practice. Most villages have at least one and the “real” ones never take money for their work.
“Could I meet with a megera?” I ask, eagerly.
Outside, overhearing our conversation, Carlo hastily stamps out his cigarette and confesses that his grandmother was a megera. “As a boy I used to hide under the kitchen table from her.” No, he cannot drive us to see her. He smiles. Ah, but yes, he can drive us to Pula – a nearby town of winding cobblestone streets where crisp laundry airs between colorful houses, and fresh figs and sun-dried tomatoes are for sale under the shades of umbrellas.
“Could I meet with a megera?” I ask, eagerly.
Outside, overhearing our conversation, Carlo hastily stamps out his cigarette and confesses that his grandmother was a megera. “As a boy I used to hide under the kitchen table from her.” No, he cannot drive us to see her. He smiles. Ah, but yes, he can drive us to Pula – a nearby town of winding cobblestone streets where crisp laundry airs between colorful houses, and fresh figs and sun-dried tomatoes are for sale under the shades of umbrellas.
One man in Pula is 105,” Carlos informs. “Another is 110. I am certain we will find a megera.” Two cell phone calls later, speaking in local Sardinian dialect (something closer to Spanish than modern Italian), he stops on a pedestrian-filled street. “I’m told there is a woman, Madam Loi, who lives near here, and does this work you want.” A passerby points us to a narrow yellow house with lace panel curtains.
Madam Adele Loi, a 60-something woman with brown eyes, auburn hair and dangling earrings, opens the door, places a hand to her heart, then ushers us into a cramped dining room strewn with lace doilies and filled with framed photos and religious statuettes. She pulls out a wooden chair, gesturing for me to sit, then speaks rapidly to Gaby.
“She asks if you sleep in the Hotel Castello,” Gaby interprets.
“Tell her yes.”
Madam Adele Loi, a 60-something woman with brown eyes, auburn hair and dangling earrings, opens the door, places a hand to her heart, then ushers us into a cramped dining room strewn with lace doilies and filled with framed photos and religious statuettes. She pulls out a wooden chair, gesturing for me to sit, then speaks rapidly to Gaby.
“She asks if you sleep in the Hotel Castello,” Gaby interprets.
“Tell her yes.”
Hotel Costello sits within the sprawling, 55-acre Forte Village Resort. The expansive resort complex is like a small town, offering eight hotels, the Thermae del Forte spa, an eight-pin bowling alley, an outdoor ice rink (yes, you read correctly) and a piazza where cruise ship-style performers in tight leather pants and slinky halter tops sing ‘80s disco nightly.
But it’s not what I imagined. Once behind the iron gates, I was instantly relieved to find, not tackiness, but a sense of privacy amid lush, overhanging trees and a type of luxury only Europe can deliver. My room in the grand Hotel Castello was bright and airy, and had walls the color of limoncello; white furnishings and bedding; colorful Sardinian artwork; a flat-screen TV (unfortunately programmed to the disco singer) and a spacious terrace offering incredibly beautiful views of the sea and pine forests.
But it’s not what I imagined. Once behind the iron gates, I was instantly relieved to find, not tackiness, but a sense of privacy amid lush, overhanging trees and a type of luxury only Europe can deliver. My room in the grand Hotel Castello was bright and airy, and had walls the color of limoncello; white furnishings and bedding; colorful Sardinian artwork; a flat-screen TV (unfortunately programmed to the disco singer) and a spacious terrace offering incredibly beautiful views of the sea and pine forests.
In 1990, Dr. Angelo Cerina, a Sardinian native, debuted Thaermae and his version of thalassotherapy – the basis being his patented, “unique to the world” sea oil. Although similar in consistency to oil, the substance is actually seawater “in very, very high concentration,” good, according to Cerina for “draining and detoxification of the body; treatment of edema, muscular trauma, osteoarthritic disorders, skin conditions such as psoriasis and even cellulite.” The sea oil is found in all of Thaermae’s thalasso-inspired spa treatments and specialty products, and is also a major highlight of the thalassotherapy pool circuit.
Many who come to Cerina’s Roman-inspired waters opt for the three- or seven-day medically supervised thalassotherapy program designed specifically to address conditions like back pain and stress (hear that, Carlo), particularly anxiety and insomnia, as well as for rehabilitation (osteopathic and chiropractic treatments); and for women-only detoxifying treatments and cellulite reduction.
But short stays and single treatments are also therapeutic. Signatures include a watsu-like thalasso massage in a saline-dense, body temperature pool, and four-handed gommage, an invigorating rubdown with Cagliari salts, lemon juice and local honey, given by two therapists in a scented steam room. Other notables include cryotherapy, where chilled sea oil is applied to the body to improve circulation, and salt massage, which is not a massage at all but rather an exfoliation with large chunks of salt mixed with lemon body cream. There’s also the massage with salt and aloe, which actually, is a massage that helps tone the skin and reduce fluid retention.
But short stays and single treatments are also therapeutic. Signatures include a watsu-like thalasso massage in a saline-dense, body temperature pool, and four-handed gommage, an invigorating rubdown with Cagliari salts, lemon juice and local honey, given by two therapists in a scented steam room. Other notables include cryotherapy, where chilled sea oil is applied to the body to improve circulation, and salt massage, which is not a massage at all but rather an exfoliation with large chunks of salt mixed with lemon body cream. There’s also the massage with salt and aloe, which actually, is a massage that helps tone the skin and reduce fluid retention.
Despite the clinical overtures of the spa, its offerings are decadently luxurious and delivered surprisingly in a tree-house-like setting. Wooden walkways (similar to those at Nora) lead to private, glass treatment rooms canopied by giant trees and lush foliage. Sessions conclude with large cups of herbal tea served in an open-air courtyard, the teas bear names like “slimming” and “detoxifying” and are intended to enhance the effects of your treatments. Some spa-goers come solely for the outdoor thalassotherapy pools.
“Careful, careful, very slippery in here,” cautions a Saudi man, bobbing uncontrollably in the sea oil pool. The high content of magnesium colors the water a less than inviting dark brown, while the density, higher even than that in the Dead Sea, makes remaining upright nearly impossible.
His wife, veiled head to toe, hovers poolside, giggling at her husband’s buoyancy and asking questions about the experience. Is it hot? Cold? Relaxing? Oily?
An Italian woman, wearing only a thong and skimpy bikini top, smiles sympathetically at the veiled woman, but the moment is interrupted when a noisy group of rugged football players arrives. Time to move on.
A large clock and thermometer hang on a post alongside each pool, detailing both water temperature and the suggested length of time to soak. Following the guidelines to a tee, the six-pool circuit takes just over an hour. But most guests linger, slowly padding in cushy robes and flip-flops along winding pathways dense with low-hanging tree branches alive with tropical birds and butterflies.
From the sea oil pool, the circuit moves to the equally brown and equally warm (around 95F) Mare d’ Aloe pool, which combines the relaxing and therapeutic benefits of the sea oil with the anti-inflammatory properties of aloe. While the sea oil pool is, well, oily, the aloe vera pool is velvety and well designed with small grottoes, perfect for hiding. The high saline pool (where you're likely to bump into a thalasso massage session) is next, followed by three more pools, each of varying temperatures (warm to quite cool) and fitted with hydromassage features, all with saline densities equal to the Mediterranean Sea. Ultimately the journey ends in a giant coed Turkish steam room, where amazingly to this underdressed American, the Europeans arrive in bathing suits.
The entire experience is addicting - not to mention ultra-relaxing. And in three days, I do the circuit four times.
His wife, veiled head to toe, hovers poolside, giggling at her husband’s buoyancy and asking questions about the experience. Is it hot? Cold? Relaxing? Oily?
An Italian woman, wearing only a thong and skimpy bikini top, smiles sympathetically at the veiled woman, but the moment is interrupted when a noisy group of rugged football players arrives. Time to move on.
A large clock and thermometer hang on a post alongside each pool, detailing both water temperature and the suggested length of time to soak. Following the guidelines to a tee, the six-pool circuit takes just over an hour. But most guests linger, slowly padding in cushy robes and flip-flops along winding pathways dense with low-hanging tree branches alive with tropical birds and butterflies.
From the sea oil pool, the circuit moves to the equally brown and equally warm (around 95F) Mare d’ Aloe pool, which combines the relaxing and therapeutic benefits of the sea oil with the anti-inflammatory properties of aloe. While the sea oil pool is, well, oily, the aloe vera pool is velvety and well designed with small grottoes, perfect for hiding. The high saline pool (where you're likely to bump into a thalasso massage session) is next, followed by three more pools, each of varying temperatures (warm to quite cool) and fitted with hydromassage features, all with saline densities equal to the Mediterranean Sea. Ultimately the journey ends in a giant coed Turkish steam room, where amazingly to this underdressed American, the Europeans arrive in bathing suits.
The entire experience is addicting - not to mention ultra-relaxing. And in three days, I do the circuit four times.
On my final evening, dining on caprese and fregola, a tiny pasta typical to Sardinia prepared with fresh clams and tomatoes, local Giorgia Lobina, a Penelope Cruz lookalike, invites me to accompany her to the resort’s glitzy piazza.
“There are many, many shops. Gucci. D&G. Just Cavalli. Laura Giagiotti and Bulgari.” Very tempting. “And live entertainment.” The image of the disco singer flashes before me, and I’m not so eager.
“It is your last night in Sardinia," Giorgia presses. "What would you like most to do?”
Red wine in hand, wearing white robe and flip-flops, I find my way back to the murky-brown, luxuriously warm sea oil pool. For more.
“There are many, many shops. Gucci. D&G. Just Cavalli. Laura Giagiotti and Bulgari.” Very tempting. “And live entertainment.” The image of the disco singer flashes before me, and I’m not so eager.
“It is your last night in Sardinia," Giorgia presses. "What would you like most to do?”
Red wine in hand, wearing white robe and flip-flops, I find my way back to the murky-brown, luxuriously warm sea oil pool. For more.
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