Isola Pescatori, the island of the fishermen, was meant to be a brief stop. We sought out a quiet restaurant on a remote alley, away from the tourist boat crowds. The waiter took us up flights of chairs and seated us in a window overlooking the rooftops.

The pasta was fresh and regional, accompanied by homemade bread and local wine. Afterwards, the creamiest tiramisu with hints of coffee and freshly made mascarpone ended the meal on a high note. We lingered. We admired. We left with new friends. The cook waved and the waiter smiled.

Down a side street, I happened upon the fishermen’s chapel. The frescoes, weathered and aging, were somehow more beautiful in their decay. Soft music played amidst the glow of candles. I paused to give thanks to God and felt humbled to be in this ancient sanctuary, offering my prayers as had been done for countless generations.

A short walk down a narrow street and we found ourselves on the shore. We sat on a bench and watched the school children play tag. The boats wandered by. People held hands and took photos, but mostly we all sat and silently listened to the lullaby of lapping water against the pier.

Eventually, we had to leave. A boat carried us back to the mainland. But in my memories, I will remember this place…Isola Pescatori….where time, just for a moment, stood still.

Late in the afternoon, we got a text from the travel office. The agent was able to get us reservations on the scenic train. An uphill day took a turn…I am going to Switzerland for my birthday. The islands have worked their magic and now we are looking toward the mountains.