To Sardinia, With Love

The first letter I wrote in a hotel was on one of those little notepads they leave on the bedside. I was eight, maybe nine, and had decided, without my parents nagging, that Rosa deserved a thank-you note. I didn’t have lined paper or fancy stationery, so I borrowed a pen from the concierge and wrote directly on the page. I then handed it to the front desk,convinced that this act would change the world. 

Before high school, my family went to Sardinia, Italy every summer. We would land in Milan, stay a couple nights, and then catch a flight to Olbia. It was my dream life: stracciatella gelato in the afternoons, long dinners during sunset, and hotel staff who remembered our names. I was too young to realize how strange that was– to be remembered in a place where people were constantly leaving.  

When I was younger, saying goodbye to the hotel staff was never final. I wrote thank you notes with a “see you soon :)” scribbled at the end, because I really believed it. And to be fair, I did see them again– Rosa, Chef, Alessandro. But not always. And now, almost never. 

A few months ago, my mom unburied my letters while cleaning out her phone. Almost every sentence had an exclamation mark at the end, as if I were trying to turn the sentences into hugs. Some of them were signed with my dad’s phone number for no reason, and all of them ended with my email address, as if Rosa was going to email a fourth grader. I laughed when I read them. But I also felt unsettled, as if the person who wrote them was both close by and far away at the same time. 

Alessandro ran the bar. He was the hotel's sommelier. He’d give me peach iced tea in a martini glass just to make me feel grown up. And, every year, he remembered my name. Not just mine– he remembered how my dad liked his martinis and how I would always ask for a mini fan to keep the flies away. That memory felt like magic when I was little. But now, I think about how many families he must’ve met and how many kids must have wanted juice. Still, somehow, he remembered us. 

The letter to him was simple, but now I realize how much I had left unsaid. I never explained what made it special or why he mattered. Maybe because, back then, I didn’t know how to name the feeling of being remembered. 

Alessandro created continuity. Year after year, he greeted me like no time had passed, even when everything in my 9-year-old life felt like it was changing. It made Sardinia feel like a place I could return to and find the same place waiting.

As I now prepare to leave for college, I find myself craving that same kind of continuity in a world that no longer promises it. The campus I am heading to next fall is massive: tens of thousands of students, lecture halls that could hold my entire high school class, and faces I may never see twice. On that big of a scale, it’s easy to feel like no one's paying attention. So I keep thinking about how lucky I was to grow up remembered. There’s something radical about someone whose job it is to be kind, to remember your name, and to make a child feel seen. Those gestures used to feel like they were the default to me. But now I know they weren’t hospitality, they were labor. Emotional labor that, while genuine, was also part of a job– it's complicated how I look back now.

When I go back, I am much more aware of how time moves. Some faces go away, and some traditions have faded. After COVID, the hotel changed management, and even though the name stayed the same, some of the people didn’t. The peach tea still exists, but it comes in a regular glass now. I have come to realize that places can not just stay frozen just because we want them to.

That one still makes me smile. I had an egg allergy growing up, which meant that most dessert menus were off-limits—just think anything remotely fluffy or golden. But that summer, the chef made something new for me each night. Tiny tarts, a scoop of sorbet with flowers as garnish, and even a chocolate mousse that somehow worked without eggs. He never said much when he personally served it to me. It was just something he did. 

At the time, I believed that’s just how the world worked. That if you told someone what you needed, they’d listen. But now I realize how rare that was. Not just being accommodated for, but being remembered. 

It’s easy to romanticize that kind of attentiveness until you grow up and realize that most systems aren’t designed to notice you. That being seen isn’t standard—it’s exceptional. And often, it comes from people we tend to overlook. The chef’s gestures weren’t just kindness; they were moments of resistance against a world that often forgets to make room for difference.

It is very easy to forget how much those gestures matter until they go away. I don’t write thank-you notes to the hotel staff these days. But I will remember the feeling of being taken care of without needing to earn it. I think that's what I was thanking the chef for; I just didn’t have the words yet.

I remember writing that one at the end of the trip. Rosa worked the front desk, but to me, she ran the whole show. She remembered our room number and treated me like more than just another kid. One afternoon, she gave me a paper map of the town and circled her favorite bakery, her favorite gelato shop, and a beach I’d never heard of. 

I used to think I’d always see her again. I even said so—“definitely,” like it was a promise I was the one who had the power to keep.

But the last few times I’ve been back, Rosa hasn’t been there. A new front desk team with new uniforms and new names. I never asked what happened. I kept telling myself maybe she moved to another hotel, maybe she's on break, maybe she’ll be back next summer. But with each return, I’ve had to admit that I don’t believe that anymore. 

And I think that’s the kind of farewell no one tells you about. It’s just a slow realization, trip by trip, that someone isn’t where they used to be. There’s no goodbye in that sense. But I remember her. I still picture her smile when I stepped off the golf cart at check-in, as if she’d been waiting for me. Whether she remembers me doesn’t really matter.

I think the note I wrote back then was right. I was excited to see her again. I just didn’t know that last time really was the last time.

I don’t think I wrote those letters just to be polite. I think I wrote them because I didn’t want anything to end. I wanted people to know I noticed (even if my noticing was clumsy and written with too many smiley faces and my dad’s phone number for no reason). It was my way of holding on. 

Now, I know that not everyone gets to grow up writing thank-you notes in luxury hotels. This essay sits in a specific kind of privilege. But recognizing that doesn’t invalidate what I felt. Instead, it pushes me to think harder about what it means to be cared for, and who we expect to do that work. Sardinia was an extraordinary place for me to grow up during the summer because it made me feel like I mattered.  

This year, I’m saying goodbye to more than a summer trip. I’m graduating and moving. I am no longer the same girl who raced to the breakfast buffet and wrote thank-you notes like they would make time stop. But she’s still part of me, and of course, Sardinia is too. 

If I could write one more letter, it wouldn’t be to a person, but to Sardinia itself. I’d thank it for holding me through every version of growing up. For making each summer feel like a promise, even when I didn’t know how badly I needed one. I don’t know when I’ll be back next. But I do know that saying goodbye doesn't mean forgetting, not even leaving, but knowing how to take something with you when you go. And what I’m taking with me is that feeling of being remembered, of being gently cared for without having to ask. I know that not everyone gets to grow up in a place like that, but perhaps part of growing up is figuring out how to offer that feeling to others. Learning someone’s name in a bed of strangers, making space for someone that seems out of place, or just noticing small things that no one else does– these are all ways I hope to carry that kind of care with me. More than a memory, but as something I try to give back.