We told everyone we were going to the Amalfi coast this weekend, which turns out to actually be untrue. In the Sorrentine Peninsula, whose mountains jut out to form the southern half of the Bay of Naples, there are two coasts—one faces north towards the city and the volcano, the other south and the sun. The Amalfi coast, that famous playground of European vacationers and the international wealthy, is the southern coast. The towns on that coast include Ravello, Positano (as seen in Under the Tuscan Sun and other movies, like maybe Nine which I haven’t seen as well as the cover of my Naples guide book) and, of course, Amalfi. Sorrento, namesake of the peninsula and the giant lemons that grow there, faces north.
The drive is easy and fairly short from our hotel, though we have a minor wrong turn and the traffic getting into Vico Equense, the first town along the coastal drive, is slow for a while. Apparently the University of Pizza, selling pizza a metro, which had almost as many signs along the way as Wall Drug, is totally awesome. After a traffic circle around a very new-looking fountain in the middle of that town, however, it’s as if everyone vanishes miraculously. We park in a nearly-empty lot in the center of Sorrento and walk out into streets seemingly free of pedestrians and almost free of mopeds.
We debate for a few minutes whether the first town is a local favorite, or if it’s so popular simply because it is the first town. Laziness can play a huge role in leisure, I think. Which is why we stop at the first gelato shop we see. Pictures occupy every available piece of real estate on the walls
This is a very European beach town. We peruse the shops on cobblestone streets open only to pedestrians and the odd moped. Julie buys a sweater for Aryn, because it’s colder in the shade after gelato than we figured.
“I wonder how many Italians dress their kids in a sweatshirt that says ‘Italia,’” Julie says.
I laugh and point at a sign that says, in English, “The best cappuccino in town.”
Everyone speaks English here, which takes some of the challenge out of it for me but certainly adds to the place’s convenience. It’s okay to be a tourist.
Especially because today we are practically the only tourists. We stop at a church with a Presepe, or nativity scene, and Aryn’s voice echoes among the empty pews. We step down a narrow walkway, off the map in search of adventure, and the only sound is a lawnmower and some laundry flapping in the breeze.
Ah, the smell of cut grass and laundry drying in the sun--the perfect way to start any adventure.
There’s a lot at stake when you set off on an adventure with a toddler. With adults only, the worst that can happen from a wrong turn is a little backtracking, maybe some annoyance, maybe ending up in a bad area and encountering some seedy pimp trying to push his wares on you. With a kid, you have to think about her mood—if we wander too far and don’t find something amazing, will she be able to walk back? Will she be so mad she won’t walk back and squirm while you carry her? Can you carry her the whole way? What if she gets hurt? And you have to think long and hard before venturing into any area that looks remotely sketchy. At least the pimp is more likely to leave us alone if she’s with us.
But she is as good as gold and better. The sound of mopeds whizzing by at a hundred miles an hour bother her, and she stops to squeeze her hands over her ears every time. She loves the long stairway down to Marina Grande. Her singing echoes off the walls and through the windows. A grandma looks down and grins from ear to ear.
We peer down the street, nets under the olive trees hanging over the road. A classic low door moment:
“Where is this leading?” Julie asks.
“I think the waterfront,” I answer, remembering the brown sign that usually indicates something worth seeing.
“Well, hopefully we get there soon,” she replies, likely thinking of everything I mentioned above.
I’m thinking of that too when we round a corner, then another corner beneath a shrine to Santa Maria and see a small archway, sunlight from the waves glittering off the walls. We emerge into the light, the Marina Grande gleaming in the full, sun-drenched languor of an ancient morning. Fishermen spool and mend their nets. A man saws boards outside a restaurant as his friend rolls through the narrow cobblestone blaring his car stereo. No tourists but us. Three youths kick a soccer ball in the tiny lot. Aryn wants to join them.
She runs up the steps from where we gaze at the marina, greeting an elderly couple who smile down at her. She turns and grins down at us, the magic and the beauty of the scene reflected in her exuberant smile.
We can see Naples spread like a skirt about the knees of il Vesuvio. I can almost hear the din across the bay—it’s enough to make this sunny silence something more. Not the absence of sound, but removal from it, as if from a great height. I, the hangglider, the soaring eagle, look down on a honking, teeming traffic jam, too high to hear anything but the wind and the small waves breaking on a black sand beach.
