TRAVELING IN STYLE : The Perfection of Portofino : The tiny village appears today as it has for centuries, its facade unchanged, a stage upon which romantics reach for the stars.

Not surprisingly, Portofino reaches a romantic high at sunset, when crowds make their exit and the water takes on the shade of pale-blue lace, and the espresso machine wheezes at La Stella and couples stop for an aperitif at La Gritta (the Harry’s Bar of Portofino) or for dinner at Al Navicello with its splendid view of the harbor.

As the sun swings low, clouds filled with fire bathe the horizon. Starry-eyed visitors, young and old, study the scenes: the darkening sky, the harbor--and Portofino’s smoky-colored hills.

Some memories linger well into the autumn of one’s life, bittersweet recollections of youth, when each twist in the road gave promise of unknown adventure and excitement. I recall my first visit and an evening spent at La Gritta, sipping Campari and soda while candles flickered and a mandolin whispered the melody of a love song whose lyrics spelled out desire, along with life’s search fo fulfillment.

Portofino, on the Italian Riviera, 22 miles southeast of Genoa, is that sort of place--a stage upon which romantics reach for the stars (as well as one another) in tender moments that frequently die with the dawn but remain forever serene in the recesses of one’s mind.

It was more than half a century ago that the 700 or so residents of Portofino stoped the clock. Since then, nobody’s bothered to rewind it. Portofino appears today as it has for centuries, its facade unchanged, although small cubbyholes where fishermen once stored their boats are stuffed with smart apparel from the fashion salons of Europe, and in other caves the propretors pour spirits for visitors.

Tourists began arriving in Portofino in the late ‘20s. But it wasn’t until 1935 that locals eleced to establish their village as a national monument. As such, not a shutter can be repainted or a cobblestone replaced without the permission of the Town Council. Buildings, lemon-colored and rose and shades of peach, rise along the little crescent that is Portofino. It is special. Like Positano, which is far to the south, it is a drug. All who have been to Portofino want to return, whether they have visited once or a dozen times. I can think of no other spot on earth quite like it. It rises on a peninsula on the Gulf of Tigullio, breathtakingly beautiful. Experienced, it becomes a habit that is hard to break once the drug is ingested. Because Portofino is a national monument, new construction is forbidden. The result of all this has been a stampede of tourists who spend long hours at sidewalk cafes or sneak a few rays in the warm Ligurian sun.

In the old days 7 p.. was the witching hour. At precisely that moment shops were shuttered and hte great crowds up from Genoa would melt away, and once again Portofino would become an unhurried place of timelessness and tranquility.

Although crowds stay later, Portofino has lost none of its appeal. Guests still steal onto the terrace of the Grand Hotel Splendido, whose register is graced with the names of Laurence Olivier, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Aristotle Onassis, Clark Gable, Greace Kelly, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall as well as dozens of other celebrities (royalty and political figures as well as film stars).

Moments of the old life remain. Fishermen still mend nets in the cobbled piazza, and along narrow alleyways shopkeepers set out boxes filled with strawberries and peaches and apples. I recall the iceman, Pippo, who began his rounds early in the morning while Genio, the street sweeper, performed his assignment ambitiously, fastidious in his pursuit to rid the cobbled streets of refuse.

Portofino draws artists and writers as well as the rich. The artists set up their easels, sketching small boats and magnificent yachts and ancient buildings that dip to the harbor, framed by hillsides smoky with olive trees. In Portofino, lovers stroll through the piazza or sit quietly on benches, gazing out to sea. Winston Churchill arrived frequently to record these scenes with brush and canvas.

Rex Harrison carried on such a torrid love affair with Portofino that he returned to occupy a villa of his own--not far from the Grand Hotel Splendido. Hemingway was in the vanguard of early visitors, as were the British. Others followed. Finally, Portofino became the chic place for a holiday. Paticularly if one happened to be rich.

Because of the law prohibiting new buildings, the village’s character remains unflawed. Old fishermen continue to stroll the streets of the thimble-size, hairpin-shaped bay while white-haired women stare after them from green-shuttered windows framed by yellow and rust-colored buildings, so ancient that one occasionally sags under its own weight.

Well, that’s not altogether true--that Portofino is unflawed. Because of the crowds, a few old fishermen have forsaken the sea in favor of the prosperity that comes with selling post cards and mememtos that recall for visitors precious moments spent under Portofino’s spell.

With dawn the umbrellas go up at little sidewalk cafes. In the summer, especialy, the piazza comes alive with a rush. On the hillside, restored castles and villas are occupied by affluent Italian families. Expensive yachts crowd the harbor. And sooner or later everyone stops off at La Gritta, Portofino’s famous watering hole, a floating bar that has attracted princes and princesses, famous writers and artists.

I recall when customers at La Gritta would toss tidbits to a French poodle named Suzie Wong while fat cats stole among the tables. Suzie disappeared years ago, but La Gritta remains a fine place to catch up on the latest gossip in Portofino.

With foresight, Portofino banned cars from its magnificent watefront. On weekends the twisting road from the autostrada is a gridlock of automobiles as motorists inch toward the village’s hidden parking area. Only early in the morning is the ban lifted, to permit trucks to enter Portofino loaded with provisions for the shops, restaurants and residents.

The pace slows in winter. But in spring, sleek yachts tie up, and wealthy Italians and other Europeans arrive to open their villas. There is snob appeal. But mainly Portofino is romantic, and those infatuated with the village are grateful that it was spared the rapacious hands of the developer. To destroy a single building would have been tragic. It is this mood of age that infects everyone with the peace and sense of well being of Portofino.

Having reisted the developer is the miracle of Portofino, a town without a single disco. Not even a movie theater. Cypress and palm trees rise beside ancient buildings where laundry flutters from balconies. Villas on the hillside are occupied by the wealthy and the titled who have splendid views of the harbor. Others check in at the Grand Hotel Splendido, which is perched near the villas and has lost none of its appeal.

In the village, windows of the Hotel Nazionale, which is less fashionable but immensely popular, open onto the square, and there is a veiw of the harbor as well as one of the hills. There’s the added plus o the hotel being within walking distance of Restorante Il Pitosforo, Puny’s, Hostaria da O’Batti and Trattorial al Navicello.

How could one possibly surrender thoughts of romance in such a setting? A flower girl makes her way through these restaurants, her basket heaped with gardenias. Espresso machiens hiss. Footsteps echo through cobbled alleys. A strolling guitarist appears in a doorway. And the young sip Perrier and Campari beneath colorful umbrellas, believing with all the innocence of youth that the magic moment will remain eternal. And they are right, of course-- providing it is filed away in the memory for a replay. Another day. Years hence, perhaps.

In the evening, while the clock in a nearby church tower strikes the hour, diners surrender to tables heaped with local crayfish, seafood salads, swordfish, scampi soaked in a lemon sauce, lasagna al pesto , chestnut lasagna, seafood risotto--these and dozens of other pastas and seafood offerings.

Still, dining is but one of Portofino’s lures. The sun worshiper could never be disappointed, even though one must motor to the beach at Paraggi. Others elect to visit Portofino in October. And there are those who prefer springtime, before the crowds. Few places on earth are more desirable in any season. Portofino seduces the wealthy as it does the not-so-wealthy. Rex Harrison never was able to shake off the spell. Bogart fit the scene like a frame from “Casablanace.” Frank Sinatra’s “Love in Portofino” remains the theme song in every bistro along the waterfront.

Crowds drive over from Santa Margherita and Rapallo. Not just Genoa. Others do pilgraimages from every corner of the world. They arrive by cruise ship, yacht, helicopter and limousine.

But mostly, Portofino is renowned for its yachts. Sailing is a disease in Portofino. No one is immune. No one. They sail in regattas or just for the hell of it. Of a breezy summer afternoon the horizon blossoms with the spinnakers of dozens of vessels. Yachts owned by the Pirellis and film celebrities.

Could I choose my niche in Portofino, I would take an apartment on the Piazza. I would study the sunset from Mariuccia’s. Or perhaps from a table at La Gritta. I would dine at Ristorante Il Pitosforo on the waterfront, or Hostaria da O’Batti. And I would linger as the moon and the lamps of the little fishing vessels cast their light onto the Mediterranean.

And then as the hour grew late and the restaurants and bars were shuttered, I would stroll along the waterfront--alone, save for a stray cat perhaps or a fisherman putting out to sea. At any hour, Portofino soothes the soul.