White Lotus: Fogo Island
The ferry ride to Fogo Island was nauseating, as all transformations tend to be. I’d packed my best linen for Clara’s wedding and left my divorce papers unsigned on the kitchen table, figuring if I didn’t make it back, someone would know what to do.
Fogo greeted us like a postcard someone forgot to send—jagged cliffs, endless sea, a wind that didn’t 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 she’d never cried in a shower, and I felt glad for her. Honestly. I’m 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 they’ve 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, don’t you?
She caught me looking—not at her, at him—and smiled like she’d 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 didn’t.
We saw more of each other over the next few days. Early risers. Wanderers. The types who don’t 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 wasn’t rain, not really. It just lingered. Frank was off on a “hike” with the concierge. We both knew what that meant: someone was making sure he didn’t fall into the sea.
I asked, carefully, how she ended up with him.
She looked out for so long I thought she hadn’t heard.
“I loved someone once,” she said eventually. “Very deeply. The way you can only love when you don’t yet know what it costs.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He lived in darkness,” she continued. “Not 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?”
I did.
“I thought I was too clever to ever find myself trying to save a man so I didn’t 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, he’d come out of it. Choose the love that existed in front of him instead of chasing the love he never got. But he didn’t. He chose the emptiness. Over and over. He loved it more, I guess.”
She exhaled, slowly.
“Some women pour their love into a vessel that can’t hold it,” she said. “And you still both end up depleted.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. Just facts, like reading a weather report.
Her smile returned. “I overcorrected, I suppose. Now I give physically. I cook, I organize, I smile at dinners. But emotionally? Nothing is required. I can’t be let down in the ways that I was.”
She glanced back toward the inn, where Frank’s silhouette was wobbling along the boardwalk.
“Plus,” she added, “the views aren’t bad.”
We sat in silence a while.
“I think we all make our calculations,” she said at last. “And then we do what we can to survive.”
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 weren’t sure they had enough electricity to last. I drank too much and didn’t 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.