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.

Roman for a Day on the Island of Capri

For a brief moment today I was transported back in time to 27 A.D. and became a Roman soldier under Tiberius's rule. From high atop a craggy peak I scanned the Mediterranean Sea for approaching enemy ships. The only sound was the rustling of cypress, juniper, and olive leaves in the mountain breeze. I patrolled an overgrown dirt path on a narrow ridge overlooking a vast empire where men’s fates were decided according to the whim of all powerful Gods. For now all was well on the Roman capital island of Capri. Suddenly, through the wind, I heard a distant voice call my name. “Jeff, Jeff, where are you? I need to pee”. Snapping back to reality I pocketed my phone, turned on my heels, and headed back towards Jenna waiting patiently at the café.

Surveying the Roman empire

In planning our trip to Positano we consulted many websites, blogs, and guidebooks. We would be spending 9 days on the Amalfi coast had plenty of time to fill.  We considered the standard fare: wandering the streets, sampling the food, relaxing on the beach. One activity we had planned from the start was a visit to Capri. Departing from Positano, it would take us an hour by boat to reach the island resort. On the way we would pass crumbling Roman ruins, secluded rocky coves, and hidden underwater grottos. 

Once again our journey would begin on the Positano pier.

After another breakfast at the Hotel Buca di Bacco, this time finished off with two strong cappuccinos, we headed out in search of our guide. Following in the footsteps of American tourists before us we stopped at the first company on the pier with a sign that said “Capri”. We held out our tickets and were met with shaking heads and pointing fingers. “Your company is over there”. Sheepishly departing, we soon located the correct checkin line at L’Uomo e il Mare (The Man and the Sea). Additional companies offering similar Capri tours were lined up side by side along the pier. It was so popular, it seemed, that next door at Capri-Jet even a cat had mustered early to wait in line.

Ticket for one, please.

At 9:30 AM sharp the Donna Asunta chugged up to the dock and the crew lashed her to the pier. We boarded and sat towards the bow where instead of seats were laid large plastic mats. As the boat hurdled through the swells, the surf spraying our faces, our guide pointed out the passing landmarks. We passed the Li Galli islands, rumored to have been inhabited by the sirens from Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey. The sirens called out to passing ships luring the sailors to their deaths. Having written my English thesis on Homer’s other great work, The Iliad, I was giddy with delight at being in such proximity to the islands. I turned to Jenna and excitedly recounted the adventures of Odysseus: the sirens, the cyclops, the poppy fields, Scylla and Charybdis. I waited for a reaction but she was preoccupied with some photos on her  phone. “I wonder how they make these pastries” she said. The boat continued on.

Luckily the sirens were napping and we passed without incident

Every so often our guide would gather us on the boat deck to describe a coastal village or ruin on shore. One village was a hotspot for the best chefs in Italy. Another was a lavish resort town with 5 star hotels. An old lighthouse boasted the best sunset views on the coast. When my phone received a faint signal I opened Google Maps and the GPS displayed our coordinates: a small blue dot moving steadily towards a jagged green square, the island of Capri.

Video: Traveling up Mount Solaro on the island of Capri

Once on land we split up into groups of 6 to ease the cost of the taxi ride up the hill to Anacapri. There we could board the chairlift to Mount Solaro which offered one of the most scenic views in all of Campania. As we scanned the row of cars one enthusiastic Italian taxi driver waved us over. He opened the door to a cherry red convertible and we all climbed aboard. After weaving through the crowded squares of Capri we were soon on our way up the hill. On our right the sea stretched into the horizon where it blended with the sky at a distant point. We soon arrived in Anacapri, posed with the stylish car, and made our way to the chairlift.

Traveling in style on the island of Capri

All of my previous chairlift experiences have been in subzero temperatures with a snowboard strapped to my feet. I would wait patiently in the cold as the rumbling metal lift slowly carried me up the mountain, stopping occasionally for some poor soul whose summit dismount had not gone according to plan. The chair lift on Capri was a welcome change of pace.

“Hello, hello” the Italian lift operator bellowed practically shoving me towards the green dot where I was supposed to stand. Slowly, surely, the tiny metal chair came around the bend and scooped me up. I was soon on my way up the mountain with my feet dangling treacherously over the passing farms and villas. Up ahead I noticed Jenna had thoughtfully removed her sandals before boarding the chair. I grasped mine tightly between my toes and considered doing the same. As the lift creaked up the hill I passed over a graveyard of bright blue, orange, and red flip-flops. I reached down, removed mine, and stuffed them in my pockets.

The view from the lift was incredible.  In the distance clusters of white houses glinted like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight.  Capri has always been a resort island, even in Roman times, but from the chair I observed the hustle and bustle of any modern city. The repetitive metallic taps of a hammer traveled through the air. Dogs barked from distant apartment patios. Chickens clucked. I was startled when a nearby rooster, hidden from view by the thick foliage, screeched loudly. He greeted us warmly on our way back down the mountain too.

I had to duck and turn nimbly in my seat as the lift traveled through large tree branches and clusters of mysterious fruits. I overheard American tourists attempting to identify the species of trees below. “Are these kiwi fruits?” one woman asked. “I don’t think so,” her boyfriend replied, “figs maybe?”. I have never seen a fig tree up close but the spiky green berries we passed were definitely not figs. Without a proper tour guide the clueless Americans would have to do.

Up and up we went, the lift ascending gradually for some stretches and at impossibly steep angles for others. Welcomed gruffly at the top by more Italian lift workers we hopped from the moving chair and stumbled to a halt on the cement platform. Taking in the scenery I asked Jenna “Can you imagine what this would be like in Roman times?”. “Yeah,” she said “no chairlift. They’d have to walk.”

No walking for me!

After climbing a short staircase we found ourselves on top of Capri’s highest peak, Mount Solaro. Grasping the railing I peered over the edge where the sandstone cliffs dropped off sharply to meet the sea below. The water’s surface rippled softly by the afternoon breeze. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly into the distance and it was hard to tell where water stopped and sky began. Tourists buzzed all around, jockeying for positions from which to take the perfect photographs. I directed my gaze out to sea and tried to imagine what it would be like in ancient times. There would be no railings and no chairlift. There would be only the cliffs, the ocean, the sky and the clouds. The people would be at the mercy of mother nature and the wrath of the unpredictable Gods. 

Video: The Peak of Mount Solaro 

After taking pictures we headed to the Canzone Del Cielo bar and cafe for another cappuccino and then strolled along a cement path that followed the peak’s perimeter. At one point I noticed a dirt trail winding through the thick shrubs and grass. There were no signs prohibiting access and so grasping the opportunity I hiked for a short distance away from the tourists and towards a silent bluff. Here I imagined myself transported back to the time of Homer when men made sense of the world through epic poems passed down through generations. I imagined myself on the shores of Ithaca awaiting Odysseus’s return from the Trojan War. There, far out at sea, I imagined that I saw the white sails of his approaching ship. 

Where sea meets sky

Back at the cafe Jenna and I once again boarded the lift for our descent down the mountain. We split another cab, this one the standard white and black, and were soon deposited on the streets of Capri. We joined masses of tourists moving through the squares like schools of fish. High above we observed private apartments with open windows and laundry hanging out to dry. As we turned one corner we found ourselves surrounded on all sides by designer shops. There was Gucci, Armani, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana and Louis Vuitton. Like Homer’s sirens the shops called out to us with their shiny gold jewelry and sleek leather clothes. And just like the unfortunate sailors we were unable to resist their sweet songs.

Stepping into one store we were met with skeptical looks from the well dressed clerk. Apparently my shorts and hoodie sweatshirt did not scream life long Prada customer. While Jenna browsed the clothes racks I examined the men's shoes. I tried to play a game wherein I'd guess the price before turning over the shoe to see the tag. This quickly sputtered once I realized they were all similarly price. Shiny leather business shoe? €470. Yellow suede loafer? €470. Casual sneaker? You guessed it, €470. Either someone really rich was getting a great deal or someone like me was getting priced out. As we moved towards the front of the store, the clerk at our heels, one golden leather handbag caught Jenna's eye. We fumbled through the pockets until we found the tag: €1,550. We made a beeline for the door.

21st century siren calls

After lunch we made our way back to the harbor for our 2:30 PM departure time. Cutting through the waves we headed towards our next destination: the Blue Grotto. Until recently I had never heard of the Blue Grotto. I knew nothing of its storied history as a private swimming pool for the Roman emperor Tiberius and his top officers. Dating back to the 1st century A.D., the sea cave was a hallowed spot for the Romans. Ancient statues depicting the sea gods Poseidon and Triton were recovered from the cave in 1964. Today the grotto is privately owned and visited mainly by tourists who pay €13 per person (plus tip) to get a glimpse inside.

The grotto’s entrance is marked by a small, jagged hole in the cliff just at sea level. As boats full of tourists arrive they are surrounded like sharks by the grotto guides in their tiny wooden rowboats. A quick headcount was taken of those willing to pay the price of entry and then we carefully stepped into the rowboats in groups of three or four. “Sit, sit” says the Italian guide. “Lower, lower” he instructs. We are required to lay almost flat on the bottom of the small boat so that we can squeeze through the rocky opening. Suddenly day becomes night and our gasps of surprise are echoed throughout the cavernous space. The water shimmers with electric blue light and casts wavy reflections on the rock walls. Just when the we think the scene cannot get more surreal our Italian guide breaks out in song. His off-key melody booms throughout the cavern and soon the other guides join in like a pack of wolves howling at the moon.

After some paddling we coast to a stop and our guide says we can swim. This was unexpected. Jenna and I had assumed swimming in the blue waters would be prohibited and so were still wearing our clothes. Faced with the once-in-a-lifetime experience we both took advantage and climbed overboard with Jenna still wearing her earrings and dress. The water was cool and refreshing. I took a deep breath of air and swam under the surface. Opening my eyes I was met with a spectacular sight. Below the tiny grotto entrance, deep under water, there was a second hole in the rock. This one was ten times the size of the entrance and the main source of sunlight entering the cave. I emerged, gasped for air, and was then hoisted back into the rowboat by our guide. Once again we lay flat in the tiny wooden boat and returned to daylight.

Come on in, the water's great!

On the way back to Positano we anchored at a few choice swimming spots and dove into the warm waters. We conversed with a young couple who had shared our rowboat and learned they are also on their honeymoon. Sarah lives in Australia and is 5 years away from completing her obstetrics residency training program. Ryan is an ER doctor originally from Canada and the two met while finishing med school in Sydney. We compared our Italian adventures and told them about our plans to rent scooters the following day. Ryan insisted we’d be fine and recounted his far more death-defying experience renting a scooter in Bali. After hearing his story we felt much better about the relatively relaxed ride we had planned.

As Positano came into view our boat guide popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and we all sipped the sparkling wine from plastic cups. Wrapped in towels, we cruised to the dock and stepped off the boat. Jenna and I both stumbled with our first steps on land before regaining our balance. Cold and wet but entirely satisfied we headed back up the stone steps to our hotel. Exhausted from long day we decided to forego a fancy restaurant and opt for take out pizza instead. With the fresh pie, made to order right in front of us, we retired for the night. We’ll need all the rest we can get. 

Tomorrow we trade the boat for a scooter and tour Italy by land.

An American Foodie in Italy

Jenna inspires me with her passion for cooking. While I struggle with even the most basic dishes she improvises culinary masterpieces on a daily basis. One of the first activities we planned in Italy was a cooking class at our hotel. It was humbling to find myself in the kitchen of a professional Italian chef and to once again witness Jenna’s passion and skill. Jenna has authored today’s blog and describes her experience first hand. At the end of her story you will find a link to our video documenting the class.

* * *

I woke up this beautiful Wednesday morning excited for the cooking class I signed up for at Buca di Bacco later in the day. Admittedly, I was a little groggy from the night before, but the feeling wore off as soon as I stepped onto our terrace and into the warm sun. Today was intentionally scheduled as a relaxing beach day after yesterday’s gorgeous hike on the Path of Gods which landed us in Nocelle. We then endured what I called torture down 1,700 stairs back to Positano.

Before heading to the beach, Jeff and I ate breakfast at our hotel. As I’m trying to stick to the Italian traditions, I had a few paper-thin slices of prosciutto along with some melon and fresh mozzarella. After breakfast we headed to the rocky beach just outside our hotel. I was feeling “molto Italiano” (very Italian) on the beach in my new black and white cutout bathing suit, white lace cover-up and festive fedora. I soaked up the sun, swam in the clear Mediterranean Sea and read a book for a few hours. After enough sun to just burn the tops of my knees, I decided to book a massage at the Hotel Poseidon spa to soothe my sore legs from the torture I had endured the previous day. As I a struggled up the hilly streets of Positano, calves cramping and thighs shaking, I grew more and more thankful for the spa up the hill. I booked a 50 minute Swedish massage for Saturday morning.

Molto Italiano!

As I walked back down the hill toward my hotel I decided to stop at Collina, a Positano bakery. The cooking class brochure recommended eating only a light brunch prior to the class. But telling me not to eat in Italy is like telling our dogs Harmony and Melody to stop barking. It just ain’t happening. After scanning all of the amazing looking pastries, I decided to order uno Sfogliatella for myself e due Codina di Aragosta for Jeff. I just couldn’t resist those light, flaky golden layers of pastry.

Bellissimo!

As I continued the painful descent to my hotel, I kept thinking about how excited I was for this cooking class. Being in a professional Italian kitchen cooking alongside seasoned chefs is a dream come true for me. I may have teared up slightly just thinking about it as I walked through the town. It was either the realization of a dream come true or the pain in my legs. I sucked it up and though to myself what any girl would… “What am I going to wear?!”

As I got ready, I could feel my nerves heighten and butterflies in my stomach. Cooking is a passion of mine. I started cooking for myself and others when I moved into a house off-campus in my junior year at the University of Rhode Island. I had a full kitchen, so why not cook! Cooking was always a big part of the holidays while I was growing up in New Jersey. My mom and my aunt would always take turns cooking elaborate meals for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Thanksgiving always included a 20 pound turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potato casserole, turnips mashed with bacon fat, asparagus or broccoli with lemon vinaigrette, a variety of pies and a mountain of cookies. Christmas featured a savory spiral ham with raisin sauce, baked beans, scalloped potatoes, asparagus or broccoli and again too many desserts. There was always enough food for an army and even as I got older and the guest count lowered due to family members spending time with their own spouses and children, the amount of food did not change. The leftovers only lasted longer.

Both my mom and my aunt were my inspiration to be creative with food, and my Puerto Rican father and grandmother gave me the stomach to eat it all. I hosted my first Thanksgiving in my 20s and my mom came to visit me in Maine to help prepare the meal, an experience with her that I’ll never forget. Staying true to our tradition, we spent a few days preparing a meal that would inevitably take about 30 minutes to eat. Thanks to her, everything came out perfectly.

When I was in college, my mom taught me her recipe for classic tomato sauce with sausage and meatballs, which she learned from her late Italian mother-in-law, Mrs. Bua. To make the meatballs, we use a traditional mix of pork, veal and beef. As I furthered my cooking experience, I tweaked this recipe myself by grating in some onion into the mixture. The onion juice really helps keep the meatballs moist and adds flavor.  Once the meatballs and both sweet and hot Italian sausage are browned in olive oil, they go into a huge pot of tomato sauce over low heat for several hours. I make this meal a lot when I have dinner parties of my own and usually include a few pans of baked ziti and eggplant parmigiana as well. I do love that eggplant! To me, there is nothing like the smell of a big pot of sauce simmering on the stove all day long. Sometimes I think I was meant to be Italian. Alas, I was born with fair Irish skin and a Puerto Rican last name.

Oh yes, back to the cooking class! As I stepped into the restaurant boldly wearing white shorts which I hoped wouldn’t get covered in tomato sauce, I was greeted by Raffaele, our translator and guide around the kitchen. He handed me a bag of goodies. "Grazia. Buona sera," I said with my best Italian accent. Thankfully, one of the goodies in the bag was an apron. In addition, I was given a recipe book, a pen, a gnocchi paddle and a chef’s hat which I proudly sported. Jeff was with me and even though he didn’t participate in the class, he was able to come into the kitchen with me to document the entire afternoon.

Ready to go to work

Remember my comment to Jeff from yesterday's blog about the grocery store? Well, the same holds true for actually cooking the meal if he was able to find the groceries. I love him to death, but the man is no Bobby Flay to say the least. One weekend I was out of town and he was in the mood to make some pancakes. What he ended up with was a batter splattered kitchen, a sink full of dirty dishes, four burnt pans, zero pancakes and one helluva story for me when I returned. He conceded a bowl of cereal was a better option.

Jeff and I joined six other people in the class, which was led by the very handsome Chef Andrea Ruggerio. We were each given our own working station and a glass of Prosecco, which continued to be refilled throughout the afternoon. Don’t worry, I was still able to keep my knife steady by the end of the class! On the menu was chocolate almond cake, eggplant parmigiana (yay, my favorite!), fresh fettuccine pasta, potato gnocchi with cherry tomato, Bolognese and pesto sauces.

Chef Andrea Ruggiero and his new protégée

We started with the almond cake since that takes the longest to cook. One lady, who was also with her husband, was in charge of separating six eggs. She broke the yolk on the first one and while she thought she could just scoop the yolk out with a spoon, the chefs realized what had happened and a signaled a red alert. Aghast with horror, they immediately took action by dumping out the eggs and vigorously sterilizing the bowl. "There must not be any trace of yolk in the whites!!" they proclaimed. Trembling with fear, the girl tried again oh so carefully and succeeded. To her husband's relief, the chefs let her live.

I was in charge of beating the eggs whites (no yolk please!!) until they were creamy and fluffy like whipped cream. My first task completed. The chef mixed all the ingredients and the cakes went in the oven. Next we started on the eggplant. We were each given two long, thin eggplants to peel and slice. With each task I felt like I was on Top Chef. I wanted to be the first one done with each sliced perfectly a half inch thick. I don't know if they were perfectly sliced, but I finished first. I win! What's my prize? We salted the eggplant to release the water so they would fry up crisp.

My favorite ingredient!

While we waited for the eggplant water extraction process to do its thing, we quartered a mound of cherry tomatoes for the tomato sauce. I didn't win this particular challenge - a challenge only I knew was taking place - but those suckers are slippery! I'll also put some blame on Jeff for slowing me down a bit. With every move I took, every slice of the knife, every roll of my pasta dough Jeff was right there filming me with his camera. I now have the lead role in a new Oscar-winning documentary film, directed and produced by J.R. Marion, the Steven Spielberg of the culinary world. "Wait, take another sip of wine. No, not yet. Okay, now. Now slice the tomato slowly. CUT! Do it again, but with more feeling. ACTION! Sprinkle the cheese onto the eggplant parm. Don't do it until I'm ready though." And so on... He got all kinds of angles. The camera was in my face, over my shoulder, across the room, directly in front of what I was doing so that I actually had to look at his iPhone screen to see where I was cutting. I even had to shoot a second scene of me eating bruschetta so he could catch me doing my “happy food shimmy.” It should be a riveting film!

About three quarters of the way through the class it was time to make the pasta and the gnocchi. Something I've never done from scratch but always wanted to do. I will definitely be putting my KitchenAid pasta maker attachment and new gnocchi paddle to good use soon. As we were rolling out the pasta sheets and Chef Andrea tossed semolina flour across the long steel table, I was able to really take in the moment. This was definitely a dream come true for me and it exceeded my expectations in every way. In my mind everything was in slow motion (or maybe it was just the wine). I watched the chef toss the flour like a pair of dice across the craps table. I guided the sheets of dough through the pasta cutter as I collected the beautiful ribbons as they came out the other side. I watched the chef sprinkle confectioners’ sugar which covered the almond cakes like winter's first snowfall. I snapped out of my daze as they plated our food and led us to the dining room to taste the final product.

Courtesy of the Chef

The eight of us gathered around the table as gargantuan plates of food were placed in front of us. We were served a mound of fettuccine with Bolognese, a full personalized portion of eggplant parmigiana and what seemed like 100 pillows of gnocchi coated in pesto sauce. Our eyes lit up as we began to tackle this monster called dinner.

As we ate our food and drank our wine, we got to know the group of cooking class students a little better. There were two beautiful young ladies who met each other in New York City and became fast friends. One works for Nintendo (Yes boys, a gorgeous woman who works for Nintendo!) The other young lady just as ravishing works for a fashion merchandising company. The two friends have since moved away from each other, but still take the time to do an annual trip together. There was also a young husband and wife couple who live in Ohio. The husband is an ER resident and his wife a financial advisor. Finally, there was another couple from Hilton Head, South Carolina who have been together for 26 years. The husband used to live in New York City while starting his insurance business and was the #3 dart player in town. Yes, you heard right - #3!

After what felt like hours of eating, we had barely made a dent in our plates, except for one person – my hungry husband! He had completely polished off every ounce of food. As he took his final bite, we all gave him a round of applause for his accomplishment. Finally, we were served our dulci – a slice of chocolate almond cake paired with a scoop of vanilla gelato. Most of us managed a few bites of the sweet cake, but again Jeff acted like he hadn’t eaten in months consuming every crumb.

Sweet confections

Finally, as Jeff realized what he had just accomplished we wiped our mouths clean, drained our glasses of wine and bid adieu to our new friends. As any good wife would do, I rolled my husband out of the restaurant and back to our room to digest and rest up for our trip to Capri the next day.
About an hour later, I shamefully finished off the rest of the Sfogliatella I had bought earlier that day.

I don’t regret it.

Hotel Buca di Bacco Cooking Class Video

Walking with the Gods

Today is the big day. Out of all the activities we have planned I am most looking forward to today. We will be hiking Sentiero degli dei, the Path of the Gods. In the early days the villages along the Amalfi coast were only accessible by sea and so the cliffs were an isolated, mysterious place. Given their relative unknown and the destructive power of Mt Vesuvius it is not hard to understand why early inhabitants would believe the Gods dwelled there. The path was officially named in the 1800s by the Italian historian Giustino Fortunato. It was officially conquered by myself and Jenna in October, 2014.

The beginning of the Path of the Gods

The Path of the Gods begins in Santa Maria di Castello but can also be accessed from Praiano and Bomerano. It is divided into two parts: the "high" path and the "low" path. We hiked the latter though its name is a relative term. The path winds along towering cliffs offering a view of the sparkling blue sea below and the tiny villages that dot the coastline. While the path began in the village of Bomerano our journey truly began in Positano.

Getting to Bomerano is no small feat especially for flustered American tourists. We had gone over the general idea with Mario the day before. We'd catch the 10:00AM ferry from Positano to Amalfi and then the 12:30PM bus from Amalfi to Bomerano. The ferry pier in Positano is just across the Saggio Grande from our hotel. After another multi-cultural breakfast (Jenna's plate piled high with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and proiscuitto and mine with eggs and bacon) we walked to the pier, purchased two ferry tickets, and sat on the stone rail waiting for the boat.

Our adventure began with a ferry to Amalfi

While waiting for the ferry a shaggy little dog arrived and darted around the pier. He had no leash and apparently no owner. One by one he began to claim everything on the pier as his own. First he peed on the stone railing where we sat. Mine. Next he peed on the metal flag pole nearby. Also mine. He peed on the wooden bench near the ticket window. Just so you know, that's mine. Finally he peed in the center of the pier and then darted off into the crowds from where he came.

Our ferry finally arrived and we were soon cruising along the Amalfi coast. From the sea the coast is truly breath taking. There are houses and hotels all along the green hillsides. Most sit in clumps along the shoreline but a few enterprising structures are scattered perilously along the highest cliffs. We'd soon swap perspectives and join those on the cliffs looking down at the ferries carving paths of white froth in the sapphire sea. After the short ride we docked at the town of Amalfi and thus began our greatest test: locating the bus to Bomerano.

See you in Amalfi!

Amalfi is one of the main hubs for transportation to other seaside villages. From Amalfi it seemed that one could board a SITA bus to any town ending with the letter "I": Minori, Majori, Atrani, Maiori, Conca Dei Marini, Chiunzi, Pagani, Cava De Tirreni. We had two hours to kill in Amalfi and most of that time was spent attempting to confirm where our bus would be located. We started at the ticket counter where the Italian clerk immediately asked: "Bomerano, Path of the Gods?". Apparently we stood out from the regular commuter traffic. Instead we were the quintessential bushy-tailed American tourists out for a jaunt through the Italian hillside.

We were given two nondescript red tickets and sent out into the square where 20 or 30 equally nondescript buses were lined up. Dodging scooters, cars, and buses we attempted to locate a SITA bus employee. "Scusi, scusi" we'd say, pathetically holding out our tickets in hopes he would take mercy and point us in the right direction. Unfortunately the farther we got from Positano the gruffer the Italians became. Our first few attempts were met mostly with grunts and gestures towards the long line of buses. While waiting in one line that looked promising we met Doug and Cammy, an American couple from South Carolina, who were also planning to hike the Path of the Gods. Now with strength in numbers we split up and spread out, each of us searching for the storied bus to Bomerano that we were beginning to suspect existed only in legend.

Anyone going to Bomerano?

Doug yelled and waived us over. He had located the bus but the doors were closed and the driver was inching into traffic. It was full. Every seat was taken and even the aisle was packed. As our hearts began to sink we heard someone yell "Bomerano, Bomerano". Apparently there was a second bus also about to depart. This bus was only slightly less crowded so the four of us squeezed into the aisle towards the front. The bus was full of middle school aged kids all smirking, laughing, and playing unrecognizable Italian games on their smart phones. They were doubled up two and three to a seat and we had people bumping and jostling us the whole ride. And what a ride it was.

I have ridden subways before in Boston and DC and I know they can be bumpy and that you have to hold the rails to keep upright. This bus to Bomerano was a whole new level of bumpy. Our shaggy haired Italian bus driver was apparently in a rush because he treated each corner of the winding Amalfi coastal road like a race at Le Mans. "Honk, honk" went the bus at each curve, apparently to warn any oncoming scooters of their impending death. I quickly tossed my bag into the overhead area and held on with two hands. Even then I was thrown back and forth, left and right. At one point Cammy asked helplessly "Do you know how long the ride is?". I looked at my ticket. It said 45 minutes.

Finally, mercifully, the bus rumbled to a stop in Bomerano square. This was the Italy I was looking for. Tucked away from the busier tourist areas Bomerano is an authentic Italian village. It reminded me of rural neighborhoods back home except with donkeys in the yards instead of dogs and cats. As the path slowly transitioned from cement to gravel to dirt we began to take in the truly magnificent views.

Growing up my family's favorite vacation destination were the National Parks. I've hiked in the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Glacier, and Arches National Park. The Path of the Gods, however, was an experience entirely its own. As you walk down the narrow dirt and stone path the terraced cliffs rise up vertically on your right checkered with old grape vineyards now overgrown but still sprouting the occasional cluster. To the left is a steep drop off that spills down and down until it reaches the sparkling Mediterranean Sea stretching off into the horizon. Occasionally you pass old stone huts, now in ruins, where farmers once worked the land.

I briefly considered staying in the hills and living in an abandoned hut

We soon discovered the trail is still in use by the locals as we rounded one bend and came eye-to-eye with a donkey hauling wooden logs. "Bonjourno, ciao, ciao" said the handler who looked to be about 16 years old. A short time later we heard what sounded like someone hammering up ahead. We came around the corner to see an extremely large donkey tethered to a tree and stamping his feet in protest. It was so large that we were nervous to pass him on the trail. As we did I turned back for a few quick snaps.

We continued along the path, at times exposed on the cliff's edge, and at others winding through a fairy tale forest. We came across a number of structures that appeared to be inhabited: tile patios, gated entries, and cats napping outside. I fantasized about what it would be like to live in the hills of Amalfi foraging for food. "Foraging for food?", Jenna said, "you can't even buy groceries on your own". Touché.

We disturbed this Italian snake's siesta

One exhilarating moment came towards the end of the hike. As we walked along the trail we saw a group of hikers up ahead. They were obviously stopped in the trail for some reason and engaged in heated discussion. We approached and were quickly debriefed. A large black snake was slithering around down the trail. Two unfazed locals tossed stones at the snake which refused to move. At one point they handed Jenna a large club and gestured towards the snake. "I wouldn't do that" someone said "you don't want to aggravate it." Jenna laid down her arms.

There was a short pause while everyone evaluated the situation. "What kind of snake is it?" I asked. "I'm not sure," replied an Australian nearby, "I think it's an Italian snake". I pictured an Italian snake with tight knit sweater draped around his long neck and large designer sunglasses. "Eh-hiss-ay, eh-hiss-ay" he would emote with passion. We eventually flanked the snake, bushwhacking around the threat.

After a few hours on the trail we finally arrived in Nocelle and were met with a decision we had anticipated from the start. Take the bus or take the stairs.

Nocelle is a village embedded in the cliffs high above the Amalfi coastline. Descending to Positano requires traversing over 1,700 stone steps. For me it was a scenic walk. For Jenna it was akin to torture. Repetitive, hot, strenuous, and towards the tail end of a long day. I started to feel guilty for enjoying the scenery when it became apparent Jenna was in agony.

Finally after around step 950 we caught a glimpse of Positano. This filled us with hope. With careful, purposeful steps we finally made it to the street level where it was a short walk back to town. Like zombies we stumbled to the nearest Gelato shop to celebrate our accomplishment.

Only 1,690 steps to go

After showering and massaging some life back into our weary legs we set out for another Italian dinner. On our walks around town one particular restaurant had caught our eye. Easily missed, the single entrance opened off a narrow street corridor covered in a canopy of vines. The open air patio restaurant was surrounded by exotic cactuses, vines, and trees. The name on the menu said Al Palazzo but to us it was The Secret Garden.

We briefly considered the chef's tasting menu which included octopus salad, scallops, lobster ravioli, and traditional Italian dessert. Recalling my previous tasting experience at Hugo's in Portland, one which I enjoyed but barely survived, I opted for the standard appetizer and entrée instead. Unfortunately for Jenna the tasting menu required at least two participants. Luckily each item was also available on the menu a la carte.

While waiting for our first course, Jenna's octopus salad and my mushroom soup, we were treated to a mozzarella and prosciutto roll courtesy of the chef. It was light and creamy and a perfect preview for the food to come.

Dining at The Secret Garden

After a short delay (Jenna explained the Italians love to linger at the dinner table) our main course arrived. The plate of seared sea bass atop potato purée was placed in front of Jenna and a bowl of lobster ravioli with clams found its way to me. As we savored our first bites a white cat scurried through the indoor forest by our table and up a nearby tree. Probably on his way to the Gelateria.

Jenna and I really enjoyed our dinner at The Secret Garden but we're anticipating tomorrow's meal even more. It will be prepared by one of my favorite chefs in the world: Jenna Perez Marion. The cooking class begins at 3:30PM at our Hotel the Buca di Bacco.

Positano, Ti Amo.

Today I was floating in the warm waters of the Mediterranean, just off the pebbly beach of the Spaggio Grande, when the realization hit me that this will all be a memory soon. I realized that too many times in life I let things pass me by only to look back with nostalgia.

Positano is really starting to grow on me. It's starting to feel very familiar like an old friend I haven't seen in years. I forgot how much I like it here. So while floating in the ocean, silent with my ears just below the water level, toes pointed upwards, I tried to be in the moment. I felt the sun warm my face. I scanned the beach full of happy travelers. I decided that if I'm going to become nostalgic looking back on this trip it's going to be for good reason.

Enjoying the sun at Spaggio Grande

Our day started with pastries and fruit courtesy of our Hotel the Buca di Bacco (literally translated to Bacchus's hole or wine cellar, Bacchus being the Greek god of wine). We sipped carrot juice, slurped peaches, and ate pastries with chocolate and cheese. I globbed generous helpings of eggs and bacon onto my plate. After returning for a refill Jenna pointed out that the eggs are just there for the uncultured Americans who can't start their day without poultry and pig fat. Fine. I like eggs and bacon. Maybe I'll mix in a mozzarella ball and call it even.

We had a tiny guest for breakfast. Bzz. Bzz. First he wanted my peaches, then he wanted Jenna's carrot juice, then back to my peaches. "Vespa, vespa" (wasp, wasp) warned our Italian server while chuckling at our squeals and flails. He gestured towards the ferry staff below spraying their boats with a powerful hose and making an equally load buzzing noise. "Bzz, Bzz" he laughed, implying that that was the noise we heard and not the tiny bee. I've heard Italians can be rude, especially to American tourists, but our experience has been different. Everyone we've met so far has been very friendly.

Especially Mario who works at the front desk at our hotel. We spent 45 minutes with Mario yesterday going over all of our plans for the next week. Anyone walking into the lobby may have thought we were looking for hidden treasure. We were surrounded by maps, ferry schedules,  bus routes, brochures, and guidebooks. Mario lives in Amalfi, a short drive up the coast, and so he had some personal suggestions for things to do and see.

On Tuesday we decided we'd hike the Path of the Goods (ferry to Amalfi, bus to Bomerano, hike to Nocelle, walk back to Positano). On Wednesday we decided to sign up for a famous cooking class hosted at our hotel. When I asked Mario if it was beginner friendly he just laughed. We agreed it would be best for Jenna to do the cooking and I'll help with the eating. On Thursday we'll sail on a guided cruise to the island of Capri where we'll see the island, swim, and explore the Blue Grotto. It costs extra to take a rowboat into the Grotto but it's something we both want to see. I'm actually a little geeked about it and plan to read up on its geological formation. I asked Jenna if she was interested in the geological history of the Blue Grotto to which she replied: "semi-interested". I can work with that.

Let me live and I'll grant you a wish!
That's easy. I wish I lived in Positano.

Friday portends to be our most adventurous day by far. Taking the drunk Canadian couple's advice we have decided to rent a scooter for the day. We'll tour the coast stopping in Amalfi, Praiano, and Ravello.

Just typing the names of the towns I can hear Mario pronouncing them with such passion. We're not just going to Ravello. We're going to aya-Rrrrravelll-oh (pinch thumb and forefinger for emphasis). The simplest words and phrases are said by Italians with such passion and heart. It's like they really savor the language, bathing each word in a honey syrup. Maybe I'll attempt a similar approach when I return to Maine. Oh where do I live you ask? Why just down the street in ah-West-uh-brrrrrrruuuuck-ah (don't forget to roll the 'R' generously).

I was met with a second laugh when I asked Mario if the scooter ride would be dangerous. "It is the buses", he said, "they use all of the road". We all agreed that if we go slow, stay far to the right, watch our mirrors, pull over if needed, and be cautious of buses and curves, we'll be fine. We'll hit up all of Mario's local recommendations for lunch and dinner. Oh, and take plenty of pictures and video.

After finishing up our itinerary and thanking Mario for his help (grazia, prego) we spent some time exploring the local shops. One thing is certain: the Italians love their lemons. There are lemon printed aprons, lemon potholders, lemon candies, ceramic lemons, lemon soap, and just lemons. They are everywhere. It is lemon everything. Some stores are devoted solely to lemon-based products. It is the "Cool-as-a-Moose" theme gone lemon. We decided to do some of our Christmas shopping early. If you know us you're probably getting something with lemon. This all works great for me because as Jenna can attest I love lemon. One of my favorite dishes to cook at home is an angel hair pasta with chicken and lemon juice. Maybe I'll bring home some authentic Positano lemons for next time.

The movie set that is Positano, Italy

As we continued browsing in shop fronts and markets the road continued to go up, and up, and up. It curved back and forth as it brought us higher and higher above the Positano cliffs. We were now a part of that famous postcard shot. We joined groups of toursts with cell phones out taking snaps of the ocean and beaches down below. Even with all the scenery right in front of you it doesn't seem real. It seems like you're on a movie set. I wonder how long I'd have to stay here until it felt normal. Surely more than a week.

At the top of the hill we found a tiny restaurant with an outdoor terrace that stretched out over the cliffside. We decided we'd come back here for dinner and eat above the sparkling sea.

On the way back to our room we stopped at some clothing stores to buy shirts and hoodies with Positano plastered across the front. I'm being careful not to wear them until I get home. I don't want to be that guy who wears the band's shirt at the concert. Jenna found a cute blue and white zip up in a size more suited for Harmony and Melody. "No, no, try it," encouraged the sweet old Italian woman who ran the shop.

We both knew it was too small but Jenna humored her and we had a good laugh at the results. Tight across the middle, stopped just above the belly button, sleeves at elbow length. "No, no, I don't think so" joked the woman. We laughed and later became suspicious that she does this to all tourists. Dress them in baby clothes to get a good laugh. Fine with us. We had one too.

One table by the sea please

After the sun went down we set off for dinner. Back up those windy roads to the top of Positano to the Ristorante Capitano. We requested a seat at the railing that overlooks the sea. We were led to an isolated table with a single candle lit. If you like ambient dinners Positano is the place for you. It seems there is a dimly lit, romantic restaurant every 5 to 10 feet along the road.

We started off with a sparkling Pinot Grigio called Bianco Bianco. We shared an amazing Tuna tartare with avocado and cherry tomatoes. It was garden fresh and plated with care. For the main course I ordered steak with a side salad of arugula leaves and fresh tomatoes. It was a hard decision between that and what the menu called a "cone shaped pizza with mozzarella and ham". The food there was so good that I think I might come back for the cone shaped pizza. I am Ahab and the cone pizza is my white whale. I will be back.

Jenna had eggplant and sausage pizza. I am growing suspicious that Jenna is just here for the eggplant. She finds a way to work it into every meal. I've never been a huge eggplant fan but with the way they cook in Positano I could become a believer. I'm going to make a goal to try one eggplant dish while I'm here. I'll report back on how it goes.

Someone get this American more wine!

After dinner it was back to the room with a bottle of Limoncello. It's like drinking a lemon-flavored vodka. A very, very, very lemon-flavored vodka. It was sweet and warm and I could feel it traveling from head to toe. Be careful with this though. No one wants to get sick from lemon alcohol. Sip wisely.

We watched the Tuscany episode of one of our favorite travel shows: Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. This gets us in the mood for more Italian fun.

We fall asleep dreaming about our next adventure.

Good Morning Positano!

It's hard to believe we're finally here. 2 hours in a car, 8 hours on a plane, 1 hour on another plane, and one more hour in a car. It actually wasn't bad and we traveled with ease. The excitement of our final destination surely helped.

What a view!

It's an odd experience when you see something in photographs and then see it in real life for the first time. Positano, however, did not disappoint.

The first glimpse we got of the classic Positano postcard shot was from our hotel room. During the long drive along the Amalfi coast I kept thinking I'd see it around the next bend. Even when we arrived in Positano and began our way down the narrow streets I was looking for it around every corner. It was not until we found our room, dropped our bags, and stepped back outside that we finally saw the postcard shot.

The hillside rises up dramatically from the sea and is checkered with houses, hotels, and restaurants all jostling for space. It makes you wonder why someone would attempt to build a city on a cliff. Positano is a mysterious place with lots of history. A history I hope to explore during my next week here.

There's also the people. I was told September is a low month for tourism but the town is bubbling over with families, couples, locals, and others looking for a good time. If you took Times Square and stretched it across a cliffside and ran a one-way street zigzagging from top to bottom you'd have a close approximation. As our driver took us deeper and deeper into Positano it seemed a crazed moped rider with a death wish would come hurtling around each turn directly into our lane of traffic. 

After a long exchange in Italian between the cab driver and his boss it was determined that we couldn't actually park at the hotel and we'd have to walk the final few blocks through narrow passageways and down many stone steps. But we finally found it.

We made it!

Our room is beautiful. It has a shuttered door that opens to the ocean and I can hear the waves lapping while I write these words. It also has a bidet. If Max was here I'd dare him to use it. He'd probably do it. And enjoy it.

The streets of Positano feel like King Minos's Labyrinth or maybe like the woods of Hansel and Gretel. I need to tie a string to the hotel or drop a trail of bread crumbs so I can find my way back. 

After settling into our room we set out to find somewhere to eat. It was not difficult given the generous ratio of restaurants to pretty much everything else in Positano. We strolled along the Spiaggia Grande while the lights of Positano lit up the cliffside like a Christmas tree. At every twist and turn of the alleyways a new shop beckoned with nautical-themed sandals, linen shirts, or shiny yellow bottles of Limoncello.

For washing small dogs.

We had dinner at Chez Black, opting to stay close to the beach until we get a better lay of the land. Despite our spotty Italian skills we managed to order drinks and I had my first taste of Grappa which is an Italian brandy and filled me with warmth from head to toe. Jenna ordered Penne with eggplant and mozzarella and I had that old Italian staple spaghetti and meatballs.

After dinner we took a walk down the now darkened beach. The top of the beach started off smooth and sandy but our expectations were quickly lowered as we neared the water and the sand turned to small and then large pebbles. We'd heard there isn't much of a beach here which is fine with me. I'm here for the ocean.

On our way back two dark figures slumped again a fence yelled out to ask where we were from. It turned out to be a nice young couple from Vancouver swigging from a nearly empty bottle of red wine.

Dining along the Spiaggia Grande. 

They were finishing up a 2 week tour and passed on some tips. They told us we had to tour the Amalfi coast by scooter, not to pay more than €60 for a dress shirt, the best places to find pizza, and that only lame tourists pronounce thanks as "grazi" when it should be "grazia" (I tried to research this one on Google and still haven't found a good explanation of the distinction). We said our goodbyes and headed back to the room. Luckily, we managed to find our hotel through the twists and turns.

But I guess that's part of the adventure. Not knowing exactly where you're going or how you're going to get back.

Tomorrow will be our first productive day.