Jules Heartly | September 2025

It Wasn’t What I Expected

Many nights ago, Andrea Bocelli’s voice floated through my living room like honey through moonlight, painting scenes of Portofino’s harbor in golden hues. A PBS performance of “I Found My Love in Portofino” planted a seed of wanderlust in my chest. I immediately made a mental note to make sure to travel across the ocean to this romantic place in Italy.

The Italian Riviera had beckoned, and I answered a few weeks later, weaving plans to visit Cinque Terre, that string of coastal pearls nestled in Liguria’s embrace, with Portofino shimmering just an hour away like the crown jewel I’d come to claim.

Reality, however, arrived wearing gray clouds like a shroud. The week I’d imagined bathed in Mediterranean sunshine instead wept relentlessly from storm-heavy skies. Even the locals shook their heads in bewilderment—nature, it seemed, had forgotten her own script.

From my base in Rapallo, I prepared to chase those five hillside villages of Cinque Terre—Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, Riomaggiore—each one a different colored bead on Italy’s coastal rosary. But Portofino remained my true north star, the destination that had originally lit this journey’s fuse.

When the morning drizzle loosened its grip just enough, I seized the moment like a lifeline, grabbed my umbrella, and headed for the bus station. Sometimes the universe conspires in small kindnesses: the #707 bus proved both cheaper and more scenic than the train, threading through mountain curves that revealed the coast like slowly unwrapping a precious gift.

At the bus stop, serendipity wore the face of David, an American refugee from San Francisco’s golden cage. His eyes held the particular brightness of someone who’d just bought more than property—he’d purchased permission to live his own life.

“Three of my closest friends died right after retirement,” he confided, his words carrying the weight of borrowed time. “It was more than a wake-up call—it was life grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me awake. I realized I was saving my dreams like vintage wine, waiting for the perfect moment that might never come.” He jumped in the bus jubilant, sharing briefly his story with me.

I had recently had a health setback and listening to him was an invitation to look at the big picture and and focus on staying healthy and catching up with my own dreams.

His story followed me onto the bus like a traveling companion, whispering reminders about the fragility of tomorrows and the courage required to seize today’s.

The bus carved its way through serpentine roads, each turn revealing another postcard vista, until finally—there it was. Portofino spread before us like an artist’s fever dream: buildings painted in sherbet colors clustering around a harbor so blue it seemed to hold pieces of captured sky.

All of us bus passengers , descended from it with different expectations about the town. Some Critics I overheard dismissing Portofino as having “nothing to do.” They missed the point entirely. Sometimes the most profound experiences happen in the spaces between activities, in the quiet moments when you simply exist within beauty.

I claimed a waterfront table, letting the Mediterranean work its ancient magic—the rhythmic lullaby of boats against their moorings, seagulls composing their raucous symphony overhead, and even pooping on some of the admirable yatchs. Conversations flowing in half a dozen languages like music from different rooms of the same house.

Beside me sat a man who might have stepped from a European film—manicured, refined, wearing blue pants and a white shirt with sleeves half way rolled up. His gray eyes shuttling between the harbor’s theater and his laptop’s glow. His fingers danced across keys with the intensity of someone writing poetry or love letters.

“Salut,” he said, raising his wine glass like a flag of friendship.

“Salut,” I replied, my prosecco bubbles catching the filtered sunlight.

“Not a bad office,” I ventured, gesturing toward the living postcard surrounding us.

His laughter erupted like champagne from a shaken bottle. “You could call it work—it’s certainly challenging enough. I’m actually crafting messages on a dating app.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of us: here in this temple to romance, he was digital-dating by proxy.

“This one person is stealing my heart,” he continued, his voice softening like butter in warm sun. “I’ve cycled through countless conversations—some hunting for quick connections, others for open arrangements. Most fizzled out like matches in wind. But Marie…” He paused, savoring her name like wine on his tongue.

“Marie?”

“Not her real name—I call her that after a movie character who discovered, at fifty-something, that she’d been married to a narcissist. She found the courage to break free from that golden cage of codependency.”

We raised our glasses to fictional Marie and real courage.

As we talked, Portofino’s magic worked its way into our conversation like salt air into fabric. Distant cypress trees swayed like graceful dancers, the pastel houses clung to hillsides like colorful barnacles, and somewhere in that postcard perfection, I felt my own romantic yearnings stir like awakening flowers. I also did long for a romantic love relationship.

“So you came to Portofino… alone… with a dating app?” The question escaped wrapped in gentle laughter.

“I’ve always wanted to be here,” he said, his honesty as clear as the harbor water. “Maybe not alone, but here I am—sharing this moment across digital distances with someone who might, someday, share it in person.”

“Is it difficult, finding what you’re searching for?”

He set down his wine, weighing my question like precious metal. “What I’m searching for has evolved, particularly since meeting Marie. She’s walking her own healing path, discovering self-love and self-respect like buried treasures in the ruins of her past marriage.”

His words fell into the space between us like stones into still water, creating ripples of recognition.

“I used to believe I needed someone to fill the empty spaces inside me—to cure my loneliness like medicine cures fever. I wanted another person to pour love into me until I overflowed.” He paused, watching a yacht rock gently in its slip. “But Marie is teaching me something revolutionary: self-love isn’t selfish preparation—it’s the foundation upon which everything else is built.”

The late afternoon light was painting Portofino in shades of amber and gold, and something in that transformation seemed to illuminate his words from within.

There was a long pause.  The harmony of nature settled in.  We quietly looked inward for a moment.

“It’s become clear as these harbor waters,” he continued. “Learning to love yourself is like developing immunity against toxic relationships. It’s the difference between wanting a partner and needing one. Want is choice; need is desperation wearing love’s mask.“

“So being here alone, comfortable in your own company—this is your celebration of self-love?”

His laughter this time was pure joy, bubbling up from some deep spring of contentment. “Better than that! This is me throwing a party for the person I’ve finally learned to appreciate—myself. I’d enjoy sharing this with the right partner, but I don’t require it anymore. I’ve learned to distinguish between desire and woefulness. “

We ordered another round, and he insisted on buying mine—a toast to new friendships and newfound wisdom.

“To self-love and self-respect!” our glasses sang as they met.

As the sun began its daily death scene, painting the sky in brushstrokes of fire and passion, I realized I’d found something in Portofino I hadn’t been seeking. Not the romantic love I’d imagined when listening to Bocelli’s serenades, but something more fundamental—the recognition that all love, the lasting kind, must begin with the person staring back from the mirror.

The harbor lights began their nightly dance on the water’s surface, and somewhere in that shimmering reflection, I saw the truth David had planted and my tablemate had watered: we cannot pour from empty cups, cannot love others well until we’ve learned to love the one person we can never escape—ourselves.

As the sun was almost set, the sky transformed into a canvas of fiery oranges, pinks, and purples. The fading light accentuated Portofino’s elegance and allure. It’s a moment of pure magic, where time seemed to stand still, allowing me to savor the beauty of this coastal gem and the inner happiness of having memorized the steps to get to the romantic love relationship I had been longing for.

Cheers to self-love and self-respect! And to whatever beautiful chapter comes next, written by hands that have learned to hold themselves gently first.

As David had wisely urged—it was time to hurry up and live, not because death was chasing, but because life was calling, and I’d finally learned to answer in my own voice.

Travel has a unique way of transforming us, offering not just scenic vistas but also opportunities for introspection and growth. And my trip to Portofino had proved just that.

ONE (© Jules Heartly 2025 )

In this moment

Just now,I had a brief encounter with someone who  may be the love of my life….

The woman behind the words, 

The one with passion, with a loud laughter, 

and a heart open to love the world and get love back.

The one with a ready-to-go hug,

The one hiding behind the anxious face,

The serious responsible expression,

The unforgiven look.

Yes, Me! 

And regardless of our short meeting, I can tell ….  She and I are one.

(Poem part of the upcoming anthology Walking the World Backwards by Jules Heartly.

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