White Lotus: Fogo Island
The ferry ride to Fogo Island was nauseating, as all transformations tend to be. Iâd packed my best linen for Claraâs wedding and left my divorce papers unsigned on the kitchen table, figuring if I didnât make it back, someone would know what to do.
Fogo greeted us like a postcard someone forgot to sendâjagged cliffs, endless sea, a wind that didnât care for your plans. The inn stood like a sculpture: expensive, remote, almost arrogant in its beauty. Like it knew it was the end of the world and was fine being last.
Most of the guests were younger than me. Beautiful. In love, or at least trying hard enough to make it believable on Instagram. Clara floated in white and champagne like sheâd never cried in a shower, and I felt glad for her. Honestly. Iâm still capable of that.
I met Margot on the second night, over halibut cheeks and a red so light it felt dishonest. Her husband, Frank, was already half-asleep in a leather chair by the fire, muttering to no one. He looked like a retired dentist. Always a glass in hand, the kind of man who needed a witness more than a partner.
Margot was beautiful, in that timeless way women are when theyâve stopped trying to be noticed. A silk scarf, the faintest perfume of cedar, a beautiful Cartier watch adorning her delicate wrist. The only thing out of place was a cheap looking tattoo of what looked to be half an avocado on her wrist. I was surprised she was with him. You think that at first, donât you?
She caught me lookingânot at her, at himâand smiled like sheâd already forgiven me for the judgment.
"Frank used to be charming," she said, which is what people say when they want you to stop asking. But I didnât.
We saw more of each other over the next few days. Early risers. Wanderers. The types who donât do well with too much unstructured time.
On the fourth morning, I snuck away from yet another mandatory wedding brunch and texted Margot to meet me by the cliffs. We sat on the chairs and looked out onto the waves. There was mist in the air that wasnât rain, not really. It just lingered. Frank was off on a âhikeâ with the concierge. We both knew what that meant: someone was making sure he didnât fall into the sea.
I asked, carefully, how she ended up with him.
She looked out for so long I thought she hadnât heard.
âI loved someone once,â she said eventually. âVery deeply. The way you can only love when you donât yet know what it costs.â
I didnât say anything.
âHe lived in darkness,â she continued. âNot in a basement or anything. Just... inside. One of those beautiful, aching men. He felt everything too much, and nothing at all. You know the type?â
I did.
âI thought I was too clever to ever find myself trying to save a man so I didnât even really notice when I started putting my life on hold, thinking my attention and support could pull him back. That if I loved him well enough, long enough, heâd come out of it. Choose the love that existed in front of him instead of chasing the love he never got. But he didnât. He chose the emptiness. Over and over. He loved it more, I guess.â
She exhaled, slowly.
âSome women pour their love into a vessel that canât hold it,â she said. âAnd you still both end up depleted.â
There was no bitterness in her voice. Just facts, like reading a weather report.
Her smile returned. âI overcorrected, I suppose. Now I give physically. I cook, I organize, I smile at dinners. But emotionally? Nothing is required. I canât be let down in the ways that I was.â
She glanced back toward the inn, where Frankâs silhouette was wobbling along the boardwalk.
âPlus,â she added, âthe views arenât bad.â
We sat in silence a while.
âI think we all make our calculations,â she said at last. âAnd then we do what we can to survive.â
That night at the wedding, Clara danced barefoot on the stoney ground. Everyone clapped when she kissed her new husband under string lights that flickered like they werenât sure they had enough electricity to last. I drank too much and didnât care.
Margot and Frank left early. He was already dozing in the van before it pulled away. She waved at me from the window. I waved back, not sure if she saw.
The wind came up again, colder this time. Somewhere offshore, the tide turned. I stood alone for a while, letting it hit my face.
And I thought: some people trade passion for peace. Some trade peace for passion. Most of us? We just want to stop hurting.
And the views really were spectacular.

















