To lift or not to lift? Lately, that is the hotly debated question among my 50-something friends. I am not immune to the allure of the ultimate cosmetic overhaul: a taut jawline and a neck that doesn’t slouch more than my teenage daughter. But where I live, in Los Angeles, it’s more of a rhetorical question. New York is the city that never sleeps. Here, we don’t age. For clarity, I decide to ponder whether or not to get plastic surgery in a place that’s centuries old—and seek wisdom from ancient philosophers instead of from my facialist.
“What brings you to Rhodes?” asks my taxi driver as we scale the mountains of this ancient Greek island, inhabited since the Stone Age. It’s just an hour-long flight over the turquoise Aegean Sea from Athens. I hesitate, then blurt: “I’m here to figure out how I want to age.” He nods, as if every tourist who visits Greece in mid-August is on an existential journey. I arrive at Amoh, a luxurious new resort just outside the village of Lindos and learn that the property includes a landmark Hellenistic quarry that supplied stone to the nearby Acropolis. I suddenly don’t feel so old. The hotel is all angles in gorgeous natural stone that throws dramatic shadows throughout the day. Ah, the perfect backdrop to my deep thoughts. (And selfies of my profile.)