Taming the Open Roads of the Amalfi Coast

On our first night in Positano, as we strolled the Spaggio Grande, we met a young Canadian couple. Slumped against a fence and slugging from a bottle of red wine they recounted their European adventures over the previous 2 weeks. They were just wrapping up their Positano stay as we were beginning ours. They imparted some valuable tips and also some suggestions for activities. "Rent a scooter" they said "it was the most fun we had." 

This was not on our itinerary. Jenna and I had assumed it would be too dangerous to ride a small motorized bicycle on roads with a concerning lack of signage and lane markings. Not to mention the Italian drivers who we had witnessed zipping in and out of traffic on our drive from Naples. "Is it dangerous?" I asked. "There’s only one main road," they replied. "It’s easy".

How hard could it be?

On the following day we decided to consult Google for other’s experiences renting scooters on the Amalfi coast. We quickly located a promising post on Fodor’s Travel website that got straight to the point:  “Scooter rental. Amalfi coast. Anyone done this?” 

As we scrolled down the page and read the replies our confidence levels began to drop:

“Rented a scooter and lived? Probably not!”

“Fun but risky. Playing tag with big buses on small roads requires lots of skills”

“I saw an Italian get wiped out on one. It wasn’t pretty”

“You’re going to see very little scenery while trying hard to not end up a casualty”

“There is no amount of money in the world that would convince me that this is a good idea”

“No, no, no - not a fun experience and perhaps a deadly one”

Farther down there was a more practical response:

“If you do rent one check that your health insurance covers you”

Just as we were about to cross the idea off our list we read the final reply by the original poster:

“By the way… we did rent a scooter for the entire 5 nights we were in Positano. It was my favorite thing we did! So much fun and got to see so much! And yes, we both lived!”

We were seated squarely on the fence but this final reply pushed us over. Despite our concerns we decided it was something we had to try. If worse came to worse we could always turn back and write off the 65 euro cost. With our decision made we headed to meet with Mario and plan our trip. Our rendezvous time would be 9:00 AM on Friday morning at the Parking Russo garage. There we would pick up our scooter and head off on our own. Buona fortuna!

Friday morning came and we set out to meet our fate. We walked silently through the streets. It was our last opportunity to turn back and spend the day on the beach. Instead we pressed on, attempting to locate Parking Russo. 

For a small town that only has one main road it was surprisingly difficult to locate. The first garage we stopped at looked promising. “No, this is Parking Centrale” we were told. Farther up the street we struck out again at “Parking Mandara”. We were 0 for 2. Finally we approached a shopkeeper sitting near a rack of brightly colored sundresses. “Parking Russo?” we asked. His brow furrowed. “Up the steps” he said, vaguely motioning back the way we had come.

This would become a theme throughout our travels in Italy. Everything was “up the steps”. The coastal towns of Positano, Amalfi, and Ravello are all built on hillsides and so it seemed that we spent most of our time walking up or down steps. The restaurant we’re looking for? Up the steps. Bathrooms? Up the steps. Museum or other tourist attraction? Up the steps, of course. We were lost so often that it became a game for us. As we’d approach a friendly shopkeeper, policeman, or local, we’d anticipate the expected response. It was almost always “up the steps”. Only if we’d come too far and had to backtrack would it be “down the steps”. Jenna began to suffer flashbacks from the traumatizing slog down the 1,700 stairs from Nocelle. We tried to avoid steps whenever possible.

Finally we located the rental company and were greeted by the attendant. “Hotel Buca di Bacco?” he asked. “Room 26?” After confirming our reservation he led us towards a large scooter with ominous scrapes and dings scarring its silver paint. “You have ridden a scooter before?” he asked. Before I could finish explaining that I had not, actually, but had some experience on dirt bikes, he cut me off. “Good, good” he said waving his hand. I wasn’t sure that he cared.

We went over the basics: where to insert the key, how to turn it on, how to brake, signal, and work the kickstand. He eyed me skeptically as I struggled with my helmet’s chin strap. Finally Jenna walked around, snapped it for me, and flashed a sarcastic thumbs up. Not the most professional start to my scooter riding career. After signing a stack of papers, written in Italian and no doubt acknowledging the absurd risk I was taking, we were off.

Filling out our life insurance forms

As we pulled out onto the winding Positano throughway I gave the throttle a quick jerk. Jenna let out a surprised yelp. “Oh my god”, she said, “let’s turn around.” We had only traveled about 15 feet and already we were considering throwing in the towel. 

From my previous motorcycle riding experiences I knew that all bikes were different and it would take me some time to learn this one’s quirks. The handlebars were extremely close together and tight towards my body giving the feeling that I was riding on a child’s tricycle. I kept stamping on Jenna’s toes as I tried so position my feet correctly on the pegs. The throttle was too sensitive at slow speeds and almost non-responsive when engaged fully. This resulted in awkward jerks when I’d start from a stop and trouble keeping up with traffic when trying to go full speed. Despite these small issues I soon got the hang of it and our fear quickly changed to giddy excitement. 

We felt an incredible sense of freedom as we zoomed down the winding roads of the Amalfi coast. At each bend in the road the vast sea would come into view sparkling white and blue in the early morning sunlight. The steep hillsides zoomed past in a pattern of shaded greens. We passed through small towns with fancy hotels, outdoor cafes, and expensive wineries. As my comfort level on the bike increased we began to pick up speed and I felt Jenna’s grasp tighten around my waist. At one point I glanced back to see her holding on with one arm while snapping selfies and making faces into the camera. You know you’re American when….

Keep your eyes on the road!

We soon discovered that road markings in Italy are just a suggestion. The only real limitation is the width of the asphalt. The other Italian drivers must have thought it charming to see us Americans staying dutifully within our lane. At the slightest reduction in traffic speed a cavalcade of scooters would buzz around us and quickly duck back into traffic before an upcoming bend. It seemed they were playing a game of chicken, daring any oncoming traffic to make the first move towards safety. They dodged oncoming buses by the narrowest of margins and refused to wait for any stopped traffic. Eventually I tried my hand at a few questionable passes but always at low speeds and usually following in the wake of a trailblazing scooter ahead. 

After 17 kilometers we reached the town of Amalfi and searched for parking. Puttering down a number of side streets and alleyways we found ourselves at a paid lot. I pulled into parking spot 9 and killed the engine. Jenna dismounted first and I followed, swinging my leg carelessly over the seat, accidentally karate kicking her in the arm. That being the only injury sustained thus far I counted the trip a success. Then it was time to wrestle with the kickstand which required the entire weight of the bike to be rotated backward to flip the kickstand 180 degrees into place. We unbuckled our helmets, stashed them in the built-in luggage container, and approached the automated parking machine. 

I can barely work one of these things when it’s in English and I soon became hopelessly adrift in an unending repetition of button mashing. The machine said to press 1 for English but refused to acknowledge our attempt. Finally it accepted our euro coins and spat out a printed receipt. Despite the lack of any visible receipts affixed to any other bikes in the lot we decided to stick ours on the seat. Surely this due diligence would stand up in a court of law. 

Press 1 for English... maybe.

We had about 2 hours to kill in Amalfi before our parking was up so we decided to explore the streets. Mario had given us a large fold-up map that resembled a page from a “Where’s Waldo” book. I could barely see the actual street names through all the numbers and symbols indicating restaurants, churches, museums, and galleries. We had marked a few items on the map but decided to begin by exploring the maze of narrow streets and markets. 

We soon found ourselves deep in the heart of Amalfi away from the tourist shops and surrounded by local apartments. It reminded me of suburban environments back home. We passed workers chipping cement and painting wooden doors and blinds. We squeezed by a young mother stepping from her apartment into a narrow alleyway with a baby in one hand and a stroller in the other. As we passed under a balcony we heard the gruff booming bark of a large dog. We looked up to see his head just peaking over the concrete railing. “Who’s a good dog, who’s a good dog” we asked stupidly before realizing his owner was standing nearby.

Our brows sweating and feet aching we passed a sign for an attraction we had on our list: the Museum della Carta. Oh boy! The Museum of Paper! Mario had highlighted this one for us and said it was a famous attraction in Amalfi. I was skeptical. It seemed to combine two things that were equally boring on their own into one impossibly boring thing. Despite our reservations we decided to press on and see what the fuss was about. Once again lost and in need of directions we were told it was three hundred meters ahead. After walking for a few minutes, the sun growing hotter, Jenna asked “Didn’t she say three hundred meters?”. “Yeah,” I said “I think that’s about 3 football fields." "Oh", said Jenna, “if I knew it was that far I wouldn’t have gone." Foiled again by the metric system.

Does anyone know where we can find the Paper Museum?

We arrived at the museum and perused some tiny bound journals and quill pens. We declined the paid tour and, after using the bathrooms, were soon on our way. Our final stop was the Amalfi square, the Piazza del Duomo, where we climbed the stone steps of a large cathedral dedicated to St. Andrew whose remains lay in the crypt nearby. Outside the cathedral doors we were approached by an Italian camera crew who asked Jenna for an interview. Apparently she fit their demographic of young American tourist. “How do you like Amalfi so far?” they asked. “What are your favorite Italian foods?” Eggplant of course! Jenna’s close-up complete, we made our way back to the parking lot and on to the city of Ravello which was another 6 kilometers up the road.

An American foodie in Italy

We planned to follow two of Mario’s recommendations in Ravello: lunch at the Villa Maria hotel and sightseeing at Villa Rufolo just off the main square. We parked the scooter, fought the kickstand, and approached a local policewoman to ask for directions. We didn’t see any steps nearby so we figured we were in the clear. However, to our dismay she motioned to an extremely narrow stone staircase tucked behind the corner of a bench. “Up the steps” she said “and through the square”. We marched onwards in search of eggplant and spaghetti carbonara. 

Quite the sales pitch.

The main square in Ravello was my favorite Italian square so far. It was a massive space with outdoor cafes on all sides. Towards the back wide stone steps led to a massive cathedral and towards the front a metal railing blocked off a picturesque view of a rolling green hillside dotted with small villas. A wedding was just finishing and we quickly moved to allow the bride and groom choice spots from which to take their wedding snaps. After lingering in the square we entered Villa Rufolo, a compound of structures that belonged to the wealthy Rufolo family in the 13th century. The villa paths offered stunning views of surrounding cliffs and of the Mediterranean sea. 

I wonder what the rent is here

After enjoying a quick lunch at the Villa Maria we headed back to our scooter where we once again battled the kickstand. Having parked awkwardly next to a tree it was difficult to get into the correct position from which to push the bike forward to roll the kickstand into place. I dragged the bike into the street and onto flat ground but it was still no use. Struggling pathetically, the bike tires locked into place and refusing to budge, I was unable to get the stand to go up. 

Just as we considered giving up and staying in Ravello a small Italian woman walked to a parked scooter nearby and gracefully engaged her bike's kickstand. We pointed to our own unmoving bike and asked for help. Stepping around she gave the stand a nudge and together we heaved the bike forward, the stand locking into place. Jenna looked at me sideways and I just shrugged. I was doing fine driving the bike but getting it going was a different story.

On the ride back to Positano my confidence on the bike grew and I attempted some passing maneuvers. Over the course of a few miles I leapfrogged a whole row of cars and finally the bus in front that was to blame. We leaned into turns and waved to the locals. The best part of the ride was our descent into Positano. The narrow streets wove round and round like the threads of a screw. We stopped to fill up with gas and then returned our bike to Parking Russo. We had conquered our fears and lived to tell the tale. I had to agree with the person whose forum post we had originally consulted. 

It was my favorite thing we did.