I’ve come from the isle of Manhattan, where clocks tick on New York minutes and anxiety hums in the streets. I’ve landed in Sardinia, a Mediterranean island (outsized only by Sicily) where stress feels out of place among the mountains, verdant with maquis, and blue waters that shift in color like an ombré of indigo. Regarding time, everyone seems to have an abundance of it—Sardinian lives are the longest in the world; the island has nearly 10 times more centenarians per capita than the U.S. 

I stayed on Costa Smeralda—a stretch of land untouched until the ‘60s when the Aga Khan (the leader of Nizari Muslims) developed the beautiful coastline into a yacht-friendly billionaire’s paradise with some of the world’s most expensive real estate. A perch atop a Costa Smeralda cliff offers Dolce & Gabbana perfume-ad views for miles, but the best vantage point is actually enjoyed by boat. From here, you can take in the “Emerald Coast” in all its glory—12 miles of rocky shorelines that drop off to secluded white sand beaches before picking back up again to hoist homes painted in pastel colors borrowed from the sunset—or a Missoni knit (the Missoni’s compound is famously located nearby).