Most people will tell you that the gem of Italy’s Amalfi Coast is Positano. I disagree – first, because I like to be difficult, and second, because I genuinely think that there are far too many sandal-making boutiques, tourist restaurants, and people there wearing socks with their sandals. I prefer the city of Amalfi itself, which still has unspoiled areas. But, today’s tale is set in Positano, amidst the lush, purple vibrancy of bougainvillea and bright white and pale yellow buildings that dot the terraced city.
We had really only come for one reason; from where we were staying in Amalfi, Positano was an uncomfortably warm ferry ride filled with the crush of tourists and children who take up too much of the seat next to you. As stated before, I am not tremendously fond of Positano, a fact that I take no pains to hide from my long-suffering husband; but we had mutually agreed to return in order to eat at a wonderful restaurant that is perched at the very tippy-top of the city overlooking the harbor. The food is delicious and the view out the windows is resplendent, with twinkling blue waters and colorful houses cobbled together.
The last time we visited Positano, a friend of mine was working in a swanky villa, and had arranged transportation from said villa to this restaurant. We arrived in grand style, were seated right in front of an open window, and dined for free because I had been touted as a “famous American travel writer,” which if not wholly false, was certainly flattering and I didn’t feel at all guilty about the free meal that accompanied this fiction.
While we were not expecting the royal treatment again on this visit, I did not expect to walk to the top of this mountain in order to eat. But we had no one to arrange the transport and had no working cell phone on hand. So, we walked.
From the harbor, the climb to the top of Positano is about 45 minutes of straight incline up Roman steps. These are not modern stairs with set inclines – these are crumbling, narrow steps meant for tearing the muscles in your calves into pieces. We walked, in the bright sunlight, sweat pouring through my hair, from the tops of my arms, from my knee caps, from every inch of my body that I have never seen sweat before. Up, up, up, with no break or water, or even a cloud to pass overhead and offer a moment’s respite.
But then, we emerged down the street from the restaurant. It glittered and beckoned like a mirage, but was real and tangible, and though I looked terrifying – a dripping, sweat-covered vagabond – we arrived.
If they found our appearances distressing, they had the decency only to give us dark looks and point us toward a table near the wall. No windows for us. I told them I write for travel magazines. I told them we had walked from the harbor. It didn’t matter.
And though the food was still delicious, our special little dream place was brimming with tourists. It wasn’t special anymore, we had no window vista to enjoy, only views of tour groups and fanny packs and those terrible, zip-away pants that become shorts.
We had traveled to the top of the mountain, retuned to our own little heaven, to find it utterly ruined by our countrymen. Nothing was left but the walk down and another uncomfortably hot ferry ride back to Amalfi. Amalfi … where one can still escape to lemon groves and waterfalls in places where tourists never go.
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