The Scenic, Cultural and Culinary Joys of the Amalfi Coast

Our car spiraled up the Amalfi coast, while my husband, two teenagers and I murmured in awe at the dizzying heights.

With every curve of the road, we glimpsed the bright blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea, pastel-colored homes clustered on cliffs, and glittering beaches that stretched for miles.

A honk from behind jolted me back to gridlock as buses, trucks and motor scooters converged without colliding. Manic drivers swerved around us, accelerating so fast their left rear tires appeared not to hit the ground, whirling over precipices.

We arrived at our rental villa before sunset and parked our Range Rover in an adjacent lot. Christie and Matt raced to the five-story building where window boxes of red hibiscus embroidered each level.

The teens bounded up narrow, twisting stairs, nearly knocking over a sturdily built man in his mid-fifties with dark hair graying around the temples. The gentleman introduced himself as Giocondo, the manager of the villa.

His easy, self-confident manner could be felt in his handshake. With a sweeping bow, Giocondo welcomed Dan and me to Furore and offered to walk us to our top-floor villa.

He asked where we were from and, upon hearing New York, said he had lived in Brooklyn for ten years.

“I had many girlfriends in those days,” he said with a melodic accent and wistful smile.

Inhale Life as You’d Inhale Your Espresso

On the fifth floor, Giocondo led us to a sunlit room made brighter with orange terracotta floor tiles. Paintings on the walls complemented the tiles with accents of red, coral, and yellow.

I felt his energy in this swirl of color and was curious to learn more about him. But, within seconds, his conversation resonated like a well-rehearsed sales pitch.

“My good visitors, I am pleased to present the comforts of your Furore vacation home. Consider yourselves family, as I share how to make the perfect cup of espresso.” He emphasized the pleasure of this moment by touching his index finger to his cheek and twisting it.

His appliance looked outdated and rusty, but after he measured two tablespoons of finely ground espresso beans into the pot with one cup of water, I heard it percolating.

A minute later, he poured the brew into a cup and inhaled its bold aroma with closed eyes. I craved a taste but waited, not wanting to spoil his joy.

Giocondo handed me a measuring spoon. “Now it’s your turn to make a cup, Dorothy.”

Eager to flaunt my pseudo-barista skills, I twirled the spoon between my fingers and slid the ground espresso beans with water into the antiquated machine. Christie nodded her support while the appliance hummed.

Just as I poured a steaming cup for Giocondo, my husband asked him for directions to the best beach.

Choose a Beach and Make the Experience Memorable

“The best one?” The manager fell pensive; then his lips curled with amusement. “Just choose one and make it memorable.” He seemed to inhale life as he inhaled his espresso with his entire being.

I took a long sip and smiled to myself. His words expressed what I’ve always believed.

After breakfast at a rooftop café, we drove 10.6 miles from Amalfi to Positano. In the late 19th century, the only way to go was by sea or donkey path. Despite heavy traffic and tricky hairpin turns, I was grateful for the Range Rover’s All-Wheel Drive.

As we meandered down the coast, we stumbled on a beach of gleaming sand surrounded by stacks of whitewashed cliffside homes. Its peaceful views of sailboats and distant mountains lured me in, along with the rhythmic surge of waves.

Although the beach was found along a secluded bay, I was surprised we were the only ones here in midsummer.

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Scurry Like Sand Crabs

Soon after we rented lounge chairs and bright orange umbrellas, dark clouds burst into a steady rain. Christie and I laughed as we danced between the drops and scurried around the beach like sand crabs.

Dan and Matt body surfed across clear breaking waves a few feet away. We’d found our private piece of heaven.

Late afternoon, we drove on the congested road leading back to Amalfi. We inched along the serpentine path winding past striking views with every bend in the road.

From cliff-hugging homes shaded by lemon trees to green terraced vineyards and the mosaic dome of Santa Maria Assunta Church, the patterns of colors and shapes were kaleidoscopic.

Ninety minutes later, we arrived in Amalfi. An overpacked dockside parking lot made us miss an express ferry to Capri for dinner. If only we’d arrived 15 minutes earlier.

The July humidity added a fieriness to our bickering as we stood by the cashier’s booth, drawing attention to ourselves.

A strapping motorcyclist in his mid-20s roared over and suggested we try Al Geranio ristorante in Furore for the seafood and one of the best views of the Amalfi coast. He said he was traveling in that direction and motioned with his chin to follow him.

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An Invitation to Ride

“Would you like a ride on my motorcycle?” he asked, gesturing to our 16-year-old daughter to hop on.

Christie’s eyes brightened at the prospect. She tied back her long blonde hair with a blue scrunchie and smiled at her sun-bronzed reflection in the rearview mirror.

I cringed to think of our naive teen on the back of a motorcycle clinging to this muscular, leather-vested young man.

Dan’s facial muscles tightened as he said, “She’ll be riding with us, thank you.”

The four of us climbed into our car and followed the cycling Casanova. As our Land Cruiser careened around a curve ten miles later, the cyclist’s pace slackened. He pointed to Al Geranio with his left hand and revved the engine with his right.

In response, Christie pulled the scrunchie from her ponytail and flung it to her admirer as we passed. He caught it, kissed the blue band, and yelled, “Ciao, bella!”

A hand-painted tile of pink and purple geraniums graced the front door of Al Geranio.

Once we crossed the threshold, staff greeted us with open arms like we were long-lost family. We were seated by a window above rocky crags and views sweeping across sapphire waters.

A swinging kitchen door was our passage to a fresh culinary experience. Our waiter whooshed through the swinging door, trailing spicy wafts of fried scampi, steamed peppers, and tomato-basil sauce. He offered us small herring-like fish with pieces of pita.

We each scooped a bit of seafood onto the warm bread. The first bite burst with savory notes.

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Bedazzled from Box Seats

In the same instant, fireworks emblazed the sky and dazzled us. Starbursts of red and yellow crisscrossed the darkness, illuminating a distant peak. Skyrockets aimed above the heavens exploded into cobalt waterfalls.

“It feels like a Disney moment,” said Christie, as she and Matt stared wide-eyed at the shimmering effects.

The sky show faded into blackness, as our table brightened with plates of bruschetta, rigatoni Bolognese, pasta puttanesca, two chicken dishes garnished with olives, mushrooms, and green peppers and a jug of red wine.

“Mangia bene,” the waiters said in unison and disappeared into the kitchen, letting us enjoy our feast undisturbed.

I clinked Dan’s wine glass with my own, feeling grateful to share new flavors, experiences, and unforgettable times with my family.

A Place Where Time Had Stopped for Centuries

The next day at dawn, a rooster’s call stirred us to move on and find something out of the ordinary.

We rushed down the highway to Pompeii, where in 79 AD the surge of lava and hot, toxic gases from Mount Vesuvius snuffed out the lives of 2000 villagers.

We paid homage in silence while observing people of all shapes and sizes preserved in dramatic positions during their final moments.

It struck me that hustling to get here had been pointless. This is where time had stood still for centuries.

One moment, these villagers worked hard at their trades, celebrated family and friends with food and fine wine, and gathered at the Colosseum to cheer on gladiators fighting wild animals or each other.

Then, without warning, Vesuvius erupted. I gazed around the rubble and lava-casted bodies, bowing my head in prayer for those who had perished.

I wandered from the ruins of one room to another, and heard voices from this long-lost community through their graffiti:

“Methe of Atella, slave of Cominia, loves Chrestus. May Venus Pompeiana smile favorably on their hearts and let them always live in harmony.”

“The man I am having dinner with is a barbarian.”

“Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.”

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Long Live the Spirit, Creativity and Vitality of Those Lost

These ancient voices faded in the din, as tour guides spoke in a half dozen tongues to gathering visitors. All the while, I could feel Mount Vesuvius’s menacing presence on the horizon.

Christie picked a bunch of red poppies between the stones. They added a bright touch of color to the site, exuding a sense of resilience. She shaped them into a small wreath and laid it on top of the rubble.

I smiled as I patted her on the shoulder. We owed it to those lost to carry on their spirit, creativity and zeal for life.

I grabbed Dan’s arm as he linked up with Christie and Matt. We were tired and dusty, and strolled to the parking lot where vendors peddled gelato, limonata, and Peroni lager.

Spotting the frozen snack, the kids broke free, running and tousling each other on the way to the gelato stand. Dan bought each of them a cup of salted caramel, while he and I downed two limonadas in seconds.

Ah, it felt good to be alive!

If You Go

Hike the Sentiero degli Dei (Path of the Gods) for stunning views of the Amalfi coast, medieval farm ruins, and – as legend states – the same path the gods walked to rescue Ulysses from the sirens. The trail is about 7km (4.34 miles) long, and is 630m (2065 ft) above sea level. Don’t forget water, insect spray, and sunscreen for this moderately intense trek.

Visit Villa dei Misteri (Villa of the Mysteries), one of the most complete structures spared by Mount Vesuvius’s eruption: a restored 90-room villa where visitors can view one of the largest and eye-catching paintings from the ancient world, the Dionysiac frieze, believed to depict the initiation of a bride into a Greco-Roman mystery cult.

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Author’s Bio: Dorothy Maillet is a writer and adventurer from Irvington, NY. Her travels have taken her across Europe, Asia, Africa, and North America. She has been a freelance feature writer for Gannett Newspapers, and her stories have appeared in the anthology, A Pink Suitcase: 22 Tales of Women’s Travel, Pembrokeshire Life (Wales), BootsnAll Travel, Westchester Life, and Go World Travel Magazine.

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